#he knows how to ski so its not too far fetched

[murdlygirly]

Haven't drawn in actual ages, but I was determined to do anything else than homework today, so I drew our favorite inspector.

Ramblings under the cut <3

Alrighty, first things first, I headcanon Irratino with freckles so hard. Nothing at all backs the headcanon up, just vibes, and according to Irratino's standards, that's enough ✨

The vibes also told me to give him tattoos. And I stole the one of his logo from this post @snozzlefrog made lmao. For the one on his other shoulder, I tried to base it on the Aquarius constellation. The idea behind it is that his freckles coincidently laid in that pattern, and Irratino, being the astrology-obsessed guy he is, took it as non-coincidental and got it tattooed because it's awesome.

Also, star earrings! They're so canon. I first saw Jessie @foxglove-woods do it here, and recently @lilythelitten and @lunar-inkclipse, too, so it's basically fact now /hj

Ah, and "Irratino wears glasses" gang, rise up! Lily is pioneering us through 🫡

Lastly, I simply could not have gone about drawing Irratino without drawing his cartoon counterpart, designed by @berrypass-de-murdler. I am a huge fan of the world they created, and the amount of effort that goes into the cartoon murdleverse is so admirable.

This community is incredible!! I seriously wouldn't have been able to draw him without all the work others have done already. I just absorb everything you all create.

[sinsolstice]

★ 彡 ACROSS FOR COMFORT. ✧ MIGUEL O'HARA

oneshot ❥ when he feels that the weight of the world is crushing him, miguel can only think of one person he can go to and unravel his biggest fears. he'd go to you even though you are far away from across the multiverse.

❥ tropes: star-crossed pining, hurt/comfort ❥ pairing: spiderman 2099 + afab reader ❥ extras: divider creds: cafekitsune. ❥ wc: 2,148

Miguel knew that he divided the Spider Society the moment he let everyone know that they would not stop until Miles Morales was brought back to him. 

Anger coursed through his veins when the young Spider-Man managed to slip through his fingers and escape from the Society again. He’s been defeated by a sixteen year old boy, who only had a year experience as a vigilante, who didn’t know much about the big sacrifices all Spider-Heroes had to make. And yet, he managed to draw everyone out of headquarters so that he can escape where no one can find him. 

But Miguel will make sure that Miles is found, even if he has to take drastic measures in order to protect the Multiverse. 

The boy wasn’t supposed to be Spider-Man, and yet Miles managed to outsmart him single-handedly. Outsmarted himself, Spider-Man 2099. Who has been protecting the multiverse for years with more experiences compared to the young hero. Who has never seen how fragile the universe is. Who made one mistake that caused the ruins of other people’s lives, wiping their existences off the arachnid humanoid poly multiverse (yes, that name does sound a little far-fetched, but he will always refer to the multiverse as that). Miles Morales reminds him of himself, and Miguel hates it. The one who thought that he can have the best of both worlds; saving lives and having the people close to them alive.  

I thought we were supposed to be the good guys? 

We are, he told Gwen. They still protect the multiverse, saving people’s lives. He was keeping the universe together. And yet, he couldn’t get her words out of his head that echoed in the back of his mind. Miguel knows that the weight of his words and actions have divided the Society, but what was he supposed to do when he tried to explain the situation to Miles calmly and it didn’t work out? And the possibility of another multiverse wiping off its existence can happen again? 

Miles Morales reminds him of himself, believing that Spider-Man can have everything in his life. The reality of it is that they can’t. No matter how hard he tried and the consequences led to severe destruction because of him—it was selfish of Miguel to think he could have it all. 

Miguel sneers when a couple of the Spider-Heroes give their updates that they couldn’t find Miles Morales in the universe they’re assigned to. His fangs bare under his mask, the tone of his voice edge command and hint of desperation as he commands the heroes to continue their search on the young vigilante. The multiverse is large and he knew that Miles could be anywhere. But the boy wouldn’t be able to hide and escape away from him for too long. Miguel knows that—he’ll make sure to find Miles Morales and confinement will have to be done. 

Setting up coordinates to a certain dimension, he strode into the wormhole and reappeared at the end of the time tunnel. The rain has stopped and he’s greeted to a new environment. It was pitch black, quiet and the full moon brightens up the dark canvas of the skies. Feeling the serenity in the air, calmness begins to settle in him, something that he hasn’t felt in a long time. He scouted the multiverse, taking notes of which universes he visited so that he could look for Miles. Earth-223 is no different; his mission is still to catch the young boy. But a thought crosses his mind when he comes to this universe, and his heart starts to race a little faster. 

Miguel hasn’t visited Earth-223 in a while and his stomach curls as he overlooks a part of the city. He glances down at his gizmo and as he suspected, there are no energy levels of anomalies on Earth-223. He has a job to do—to protect the multiverse—but at that moment, his mind is drawn to one thing that he’s been hoping to do since his arrival. 

He moves and swings swiftly from one place to another, going to a place that he had in mind. With one last jump, Miguel lands on top of a roof building perfectly, landing on his feet and rising up to stand. He overlooks a particular street apartment that he’s been looking for. His eyes look down at the street and observe the citizens that walk past by. Miguel knows that he shouldn’t be doing this but a part of him couldn’t help himself to go along with the plan. To find someone from this universe that he knows well. 

And within his view, there you were. Walking down the streets of where your apartment complex is. Seeing how late it is at night, you must have just got off work, ready to return back to your home. He watches as you approach the apartment’s main entrance, taking out your keys and watching you enter the building. 

Miguel lets out a breath that he didn’t realise that he was holding back. You live on the fifth floor of the building and he contemplates on if he should do what he’s been wanting to do with you. In the apartment, he has a hunch that you’re walking up the stairs to your flat. It should take less than five minutes at least and his mind races as he debates on whether he should take the leap or not.  

“Lyla,” Miguel speaks up. “Call them.” 

“A-are... are you sure you want to do that?” Lyla questions. You should be on the way up to your place, maybe walking down the corridor as you prepare to get your keys out to get inside. He knows your routine like the back of his hand. 

“Just do it,” his voice firms. “Call them.” 

Lyla doesn’t argue and she tells him that she’s connecting his earpiece  to your phone number. Through the window of your apartment complex, he can see that the front door unlocks and opens. You step in, put down your bag and take off your coat to hang it up. Miguel sees that you stop midway and your hands pat down to your side pockets. He knows that his call is ringing on your phone because a smile appeared on your face despite how tired your day must have been. “Hey,” 

“Hey,” Miguel responds back. He notices you move around in your apartment, going to the kitchen. Your voice speaks to him on your end of the line, asking about what he has been up to with that calm and cheerful tone of yours. He keeps it brief about his day because he would rather hear about yours, than to remember the crisis he is currently facing. The mask on him disappears away as Miguel listens to you. His free hand rubs against the pad of his fingers together, sometimes running through his dark brown hair. His eyes never leave your sight as he sees you walking around in your kitchen, listening to you talk his ear off that he welcomes deeply. 

“When are you ever going to stop calling me that?” Miguel half jokes. The corner of his mouth curves up into a half smile. Though his words come across displeasure, his heart races at the nickname you made.  Please never stop calling me that. “Miguelito? Really?”

“Well, you never complain.” You tease back. There’s a moment of pause before he hears you speak up again. “Hey, I can tell something is bothering you. You okay?”

Miguel realises that he can never escape from your skepticalism, no matter how hard he tries to hide it. You’re the only civilian who knows about his identity and what he does, even if he isn’t the Spider-Man from your Earth. He knows better than to let anyone in but when it comes to you, he couldn’t stay away. Drawn to you like a moth to flame. Maybe in truth, the reason he is on your Earth is not to find Miles Morales. But rather, to look for you.

“I don’t know if what I did was the right thing to do.” Miguel’s voice wavers. 

Quietness settles between the two of you, and he allows himself to lower his guard down as his voice guides him. “I know that I have to be the one to do it. But I just… don’t know where I am going with this. I thought I knew what it takes to carry this burden.” 

Miguel sighs, the weight of his thoughts and words prior tightens in his chest. He finds it a struggle to downright say that he wants to express at times. He stayed silent and exhaled out slowly, his chest deflated. Miguel’s eyes clock on your figure by the window and though he could only see a side profile of you, he catches a small glimpse of you quietly as well. Not long after, you speak up. “I’m really sorry that you’re having a rough time.” 

“I feel that I did this to myself. Always so… rigid.” A solemn expression etched on his face. 

“True but you have gone through a lot.” 

“There’s this new kid who isn’t like the rest. Different. Which worries me.” Miguel begins. “I told him about the predicament of the future of all Spider-Man—that we will all lose someone close to us. And, Miles wouldn’t accept that.” 

“I see.” You say. “Who is he predicted to lose?” 

“His father, a Captain.” Miguel says. “Miles is trying to change the future and I can’t let that happen.” His voice sterns for a brief moment. “Or else he’s making the same mistake as I did. Have the same guilt that I carry.” 

 The invisible weight he feels in his mind and chest lightens somehow when he tells you what’s going on. You’re quiet when he’s done talking and there’s a moment of pause lingering between you two. 

“I don’t really know much about the effects of messing up timelines,” you say. “But from an outsider’s perspective, it seems that Miles would go against the predicted fates because he would rather give all he’s got than do nothing. Even if he’d get hurt by messing up the timeline, I think Miles would be even more hurt and guilt-ridden if he didn’t give it a try for himself to save someone.” 

Miguel stays quiet. There is something in your words that reaches him, anchoring him to see things differently. You’ve always been good at putting things into a different perspective. 

“I know you care for the kid, Miggy.” You continue. “Even though you have an odd way of demonstrating that.” 

He could imagine the corner of your mouth curving up into a smile as you chuckle softly at your end of the line. And he does the same; cracking a smile on his face for once since the mess of the Spider Society everything happened. Miguel allows himself to venture with the idea of a peaceful life with you; a life where he would return home to you on his good and bad days, and you would be the one he is excited to come home to. He wants to be comforted by you. To hold you in his arms, hiding his face in the crook of your neck. 

He wishes he could just be with you. To him, you are his world. But he knows that you’re only a tiny fraction of this multiverse he swore to protect, even if it means keeping his distance away from you. 

“Miguel? Are you still there?” Your voice speaks through the earpiece. 

He cleared his throat, breaking away his thoughts of a life he knew that he couldn’t really have. “Yeah, I’m here.” 

“Thought I lost you for a moment, there,” you say. Miguel sees you moving around in your living room and settles to sit in the middle of your sofa. You cross your legs in a lotus position and he couldn’t help but watch you, feeling himself strained to stop the smile from forming. But he couldn’t help it, not when you look so carefree and safe. 

“Anyways, are you free to swing by? I made an extra batch of food to share.” You said. “Feel like I cooked a bit too much this time.”

“Not this time I’m afraid.” Miguel says. “Work’s getting intense.” 

“That’s a shame,” you tell him. “Well, I don’t know where you are but that doesn’t mean you can’t escape from me telling you off. And to remind you to look after yourself.” He sees you stuff a spoonful of food into your mouth. He gives you a moment to eat but still manages to talk to him. “Or else who am I going to ramble someone’s ear off but yours?” 

You are what he is protecting, and he’ll do anything to make sure the world you’re in is safe. 

more links to my works and posts.

[sea-salted-wolverine]

Story time from fish camp: content warning for the god damn dog

So, yeah, fish camp, forget connecting with nature, nature's connecting with you at high-speed impact via fish gut. Yes, the damn dog deserves every ounce of derision, buckle up, here we go.

Let's preface this by saying the dog does not go to fish camp. He stays at home. We are all aware of this issue. No one was surprised by this chain of events. Well, maybe the dog was surprised because he has half brain cell bouncing around in his useless skull but no one else was surprised.

So Adak is a gorgeous dog. He is a specimen of his breed. He goes out in public on a leash and strangers walk up and ask about his stud. We are talking kennel club level specifications.

He is also the most cringe fail fucked up canine who ever lived. You see pugs that can't breathe because their faces are too squashed and their legs don't work but their supposed to look like that because some eugenicists thought it would be fun to pose new and exciting questions about ethics. Those fuckups are intentional.

Adak is a retriever. He was intended to be a duck dog. He is meant to sit quietly next to you while you shoot a duck and then go get it for you. That's the entire purpose of his breed. He came from a litter of pups that do this competitively, and his owner used to train dogs to elite levels of competition. He now no longer does this for reasons we will get into in a moment, but suffice to say this dog started with higher expectations. He's not a Labrador he's a Chesapeake, a breed known for their intelligence but somewhere along the line something went fucking wrong.

The dog cannot retrieve. He doesn't know how. Its not instinctual and he refuses to learn. We have tried. People can't teach him, dogs can't teach him. He won't fetch a stick, or a dog toy or a training bumper or anything else you throw for him.

The dog is gunshy. He panics at the sound of a shot. Sometimes he forgets he's gunshy and there's a solid thirty seconds between the shot and when he decides to lose his shit.

The dog cannot sit quietly. If he is not the center of attention he makes sounds I have not heard from any other organic creature. Is is a squeaky hinge, a far off engine, something stuck in the garbage disposal? No, it's the dog, steadily getting louder because no one has looked at him in the last 2 minutes.

So yeah, arguably the worst possible example of a retriever. He's pretty, he's friendly, he's a good dog and a wonderful pet, just never expect him to do anything useful. Currently his primary function is vacuuming up toddler meals from underneath a highchair so he's happy.

But there's another peculiarity about this damn dog.

He has an engine fetish. A fixation, an obsession, whatever you care to call it. This animal's one true goal in life is to meld his skull to an engine plate and crack off all of his teeth on a spinning flywheel. Yes, some of this is learned behavior because he knows that when an engine starts up his people are off to go do things, fun things, and if he makes himself annoying enough he'll get to go with us. But that only accounts for about a third of how fucking bonkers this dog gets around internal combustion.

Fire up a snowmachine? His head is between the skis and he's doing his best to get inside the cowling. He has chiped his teeth trying to chew on a moving dirt bike tire. He has been run over multiple times, by multiple different machines. There is nothing you can do to dissuade this dog from hauling ass after a four wheeler. His mania is limited to small engines because if he was this stupid around cars he would have been roadkill years ago.

He's been to vets, he's been to experts. He has a wonderful doggy life with plenty of stimulus and affection and exercise and socialization. There's just something wrong with him.

So this is the animal we brought to fish camp. He's having the time of his life because he's surrounded by strangers who would love to pet him and stinky fish smells. Our camp has plenty of people so someone always has his leash to walk him around and he doesn't need to stay in his kennel. There are lots of other families here and a good number of them have wheelers for hauling people and nets and fish up and down the beach, but as long as he has a firm hand on his collar he is at least smart enough not to chase strangers wheelers. He can behave. He just loses his damn mind when it's a machine he recognizes.

We have a four wheeler with us, Adak is insufferable and loudly announcing to the entire beach that he's being cruelly oppressed because he's not allowed to eat the engine, or make love to the engine, or have some long and tender yearning romance with the engine, I don't know what goes through that dogs head, all I know is that passersby are looking at me like I'm skining this animal alive because that's what it sounds like.

We also have a boat, a mid size inflatable with an outboard. Our group has six families and it does make sense to show up with everything but the kitchen sink. Harvest from the beach is perfectly fine but dipnetting from a boat is fun.

There is no way the dog is going on the boat. There are too many people, too many moving parts, some of those parts being live flailing fish, and the dog is not going on the boat. Everyone knows this, including the dog. Yes, he's got a thing about boats too.

So what happens is this.

I've got the dog leash. I've already been out on the boat and now I'm taking a break and getting a rest while someone else has a go. The four wheeler is at the head of the beach, after being used to launch the boat. I'm braced against the dog for when the wheeler starts up again and he inevitably lunges for it.

People are loading into the boat at the waterline. While the dog and I are up on the gravel of the beach, they are down in the indescribable glacial river mud, slick as soap and thick as cement.

My sister inlaw comes down the beach, phone for photo taking purposes in one hand, coffee cup in the other, toddler strapped to her chest. She hands me her coffee cup, to better situate her dozing baby.

I take a hand off the leash and accept the cup.

My beloved husband pull starts the engine.

On the boat.

In the water.

I am suddenly 15 feet further down the beach than I was, skidding through the mud, heels digging a trail behind me. It is worth mentioning at this point that I out weigh the dog by a slim margin of about 30lbs. I let go of the leash. I'm not going in that fucking river.

The dog is going in the river. At speed. He's gonna be the first dog to eat a running propeller. In a river.

(Some dogs are smart enough to be current savvy and not endanger themselves swimming in rough waters. Based on the information you know about this dog, what do you think the odds are that Adak is smart enough for that?)

Despite everything, this animal is a beloved family pet and we do not want to see him swept out to Hawaii or his face made into mincemeat. So now there are 2 adult men in chestwaders wrestling this suicidally stupid dog out of the water and away from the running engine. Oh wait, they were in the process of launching the boat into a stiff current. Now they have to pull the dog and the boat back up into the nightmarish morass of glacial mud, were I'm trying not to lose my boots in the calf deep mud so I can grab him again. Someone is shrieking to kill the engine, which is the most sensible course of action so off course no listens.

Thirty seconds ago my dad saw me telling Adak to stay out of the mud. He blinked and missed the initial drama so now he looks back down the beach to see me and my inlaws mudwrestling that same animal out of the water. He is a master of the "not my circus, not my monkeys" mentality, but he's thrilled to see the show. My sister inlaw came to take pictures and record the moment and she's doing just that, with glee and a sleeping baby.

I have the damn dog. I am back on solid footing. I am only mostly covered in mud. I have not dropped or spilled the coffee.

(Most amazing part of this story tbh,thrashed. The coffee never hit the ground, it was one of those nice insulated to-go cups but still)

The boat and it's fishermen are pulling away. I have given up on the leash and have the dog in an armbar around the belly with a fistful of scruff. He doesn't care. He wants so badly on that damn boat that he's fully committed his weight to his hind paws. If I let go of him right now he would biff it on the concrete pad of the boat launch before launching right back into the water. The four wheeler starts up. I do not outweigh the dog by alot but I now have lifted him bodily into the air with all feet off the ground while he squeals and thrashes.

The sound coming out of this animal is what I imagine a whale overdosing on cocaine would sound like. A weasel in a blender. A clowncar demolition derby. A millennia of tortured souls cursed to damnation possessing a kazoo played by a maniac elephant.

People are staring.

Theres a lot of profanity coming out of me. I feel it's pretty justified.

2 and a half minutes later, the boat is gone. The four wheeler is gone. Adak and his stupid doggy brain have calmed down and quit thrashing. He looks up at me with a completely empty skull and a the canine personification of 😄

I'm gonna skin him for mittens

[scary-senpai]

Idk. I went back to working on Collateral Damage after writing it almost killed me. The fic is about Garou at the dojo/takes place pre-canon and for the sake of my sanity I locked the draft in a box for over a year. I am going to put this draft out in the aether and then gnaw on furniture or something.

Content consideration: All the angst; T for Trashmouth, death of parents, literally everyone is made out of red flags, pervasive ennui I guess. Sadness. Abuse of commas and metaphor? Too much Charanko for that literally nobody asked for, and yet. Gratuitous creative license vis-a-vis the way the sunlight falls onto the dojo during the scene in which Bang and Garou meet and making some far-fetched assumptions about what that might mean. I don’t actually know how sunlight works. I don’t actually know how anything works. Writing this fic has probably given me an aneurysm but I don’t think it’s contagious. As far as I know all my betas are still alive, just busy. I kind of edited this but mostly I screamed into the void

“You need to tell me shit like this, you know.”

Garou squinting into his phone, turning the camera to a makeshift mirror. Fresh from the shower, his damp hair hangs tangled across his face. Ashen, waxen, and hollow-eyed, Garou tugs at his gi, running a hand over crumpled fabric that will not smooth for him.

Charanko looks down, hopelessly lost in the room they share. Yet again, they are the last students to leave the dorms. Their classmates are already long gone, warming up, stretching, waiting patiently for class to start.

Garou doesn’t seem to care. He can get away with being late.

“Have you seen my fucking face?” Garou continues. “I look like shit.”

Charanko only knows what not to do—refrain from offering any sort of consolation, or encouragement, or words of concern. He cannot say anything that implies Garou might be weak, because Garou is not weak—in fact, Garou's strength is all he has.

“It's like I got hit by a goddamn bus or something,” Garou says. “All week. Can't sleep. Can't...” The words catch in his throat. “Can't anything,” he says at last, running his fingers through his hair, tugging as they snag on the tangles.

Charanko keeps his breathing cool and even. But before he even opens his mouth, Garou silences him.

All it takes is a single, menacing glance to sever this attempted concern. Charanko's comments fall to the floor, unspoken, mingling with all the dust and the dirty laundry, and everything else condemned to hiding in plain sight. All the while, Garou’s eyes burn with a faraway flame—a spark as easily kindled as it is extinguished.

————-

It’s dawn, but the light is elsewhere. This morning, Garou and Charanko walk together in the darkness, just as they have been doing every morning, since they began sharing the same room.

Somewhere above them, the unseen sun has already started its regular, ritual creep along the eastern side of the mountain. Day is breaking somewhere, or so they’ve been led to believe—Bang's campus, nestled on the western precipice, is both sheltered and obscured by the summit, and the stony cliffs that cast the dojo in their shadow.

In the distance, they can hear their classmates begin their drills. The sounds ring out from the dojo and echo through the harsh and hollow scenery—students laboring beneath blood-red rays that have yet to reach them, waiting for a light they cannot see. 

Outside, the darkness is languidly lifting. Charanko watches the sky above fade from jet-black nothing to solemn hues of funereal blue—a sorry palette of bruises, ash, and incense smoke that colors as much as it reveals.

The world, like Garou, is in bad shape today: dark, harsh, and unforgiving, with harsh contours whittled by cold. The spring storms have culled all the petals from their boughs, and the surrounding trees shiver their miserable little branches, their limbs cutting reticulate fissures through gray and sodden skies. 

“I can't take much more of this,” Garou says.

It’s unclear to whom Garou is speaking, if anyone at all. But he’s stopped walking, and he leans his weight into a fallen branch until it snaps, loud enough to make a point.

“You know, my dad would have been 36 today.”

Garou is unforthcoming with details, but from time to time, he lets things slip. Now that they’ve been spending more time together, Charanko is more attentive to these clues, these little hints spring up like new growth from dead ground:

My father wanted me to finish school.

He never once came to a tournament.

He never once saw me fight.

It’s not all his fault, I guess, but fuck—

Garou raises his eyes to the roiling sky, dark clouds backlit by strained light. He stopped walking a long time ago. Maybe he’s waiting for Charanko to catch up, maybe he’s lost in thought. It’s certainly a scene.

Spring in the mountains is mercurial and distant; there’s always more bad weather ahead. Last night's storm spared them, but there’s always more, there’s always something.

Garou grips the cellphone in his hand. Five fingers grip the scratched and battered plastic, five fingers white and rigid, impossibly cold.

“I just want my dead mom to call me once in awhile,” Garou says, staring intently at his feet, at the broken pieces beneath them. “Is that too much to ask?”

Charanko is, as always, lost for words. What to make of this strange boy—this visibly exhausted child, who has dragged himself out of bed, into the showers, and now to class—and for what, exactly? To strike down Charanko's concerns with one breath and then sputter out confessions in the next?

He settles for a murmur and a silent nod. I heard you, Garou. I’m here.

But Charanko, of course, says none of this aloud; Garou is tasked with breaking his own silence.

“I know, I know,” Garou sighs, almost sounding like himself. “No phones in class.”

Garou slowly lifts his head to reveal his features, the wide smile that cuts across his face like an open wound.

“Get the fuck inside, Charanko. It’s gonna rain any minute.”

Already Garou’s laughing, back to normal, or whatever he can pass for it.

[phoenixislost]

Just read the drabble....youre INSANE 😭 really goes to show how so many things can go wrong with *that* scene. Idk if i should indulge you further....but what if either shenhe, hu tao, or chongyun is the one who dealt the final blow?

Apologies for the wait, anon! Had to gather some spoons for this. c:

... Let's find out what would happen, together.

-

When he reaches them, Shenhe and Hu Tao have the demon on the ground, with their polearms pointed at her neck. But he sees how dark tendrils sneak from behind – how they are about to –

Before Xiao can do anything, he hears the rush of footsteps behind him. In a flash of white and blue, like a flurry of snow – Chongyun flings himself into the fold. Xiao panics, reaches out to stop him. But it is too late. He watches as the young exorcist cuts through the tendrils and bathes the area in an icy chill. His claymore pierces down – and then it is over. The demon is no more, and from her chest bursts forth all of the stolen dreams and tainted souls.

At first, it looks as though everything will be okay. The rain comes to a stop. From outside the forest, the light of clear skies trickles in. A peace settles over the land.

But then – Chongyun collapses.

---

Xiao is the one to take charge of the fallen exorcist. He is so young, so small in Xiao’s arms, as he carries him to Jueyun Karst. Shenhe travels with him while Hu Tao is gone to fetch Zhongli. She is dreadfully silent at Xiao’s side. Though her face betrays nothing, he can feel the despair and the worry that rolls off of her.

When Chongyun shifts in his hold, furrows his brows and lets out a pained sound – Xiao can see how Shenhe flinches. Short of perhaps just hugging her, which he cannot do, Xiao is uncertain how to comfort her. That does not stop him from trying, though. “He is a strong boy,” Xiao says cautiously. “And his energy is still potent. I think he will fare well, once we have roused him.”

Shenhe lets out a stuttered breath, and it is the first time that Xiao has heard emotion come from this woman. “It’s just – he’s so young,” she says. Aching, like a sore, “He shouldn’t be so burdened – if it had been me, it would have been no different – ”

But Xiao will not entertain that thinking. He shakes his head, and he says to her, “We could easily say the same thing about me. I have been riddled by karmic debt far longer than I have not; for most of my life.” He readjusts his hold on Chongyun, draws him closer to his chest. “If I had dealt the blow – it is something I am already used to.” He thinks he sees Shenhe about to argue – no doubt to point out the obvious swell of his belly and the implications it holds. Xiao shakes his head again and he says, “But that is not what happened. You did not deal the blow, nor did I. Chongyun did, and we will have to live with that.”

He knows, of course, that that is far easier said than done – adrenaline fuels him now; but it will not stave off his own guilt forever.

---

The consensus is that it is not as bad as it could be. But it is not good, either. Chongyun still does not rouse, even hours after he has been brought to Mount Aocang to be cared for by Cloud Retainer. When Zhongli arrives with Hu Tao, his analysis returns a grim result.

“His yang energy is becoming more volatile. The karma is exacerbating its effects on him,” his Lord says. “It will not kill him – but he will be forever burdened. This is no longer going to be a nuisance for him. It will be a genuine handicap.”

Shenhe gazes at Zhongli, and she asks carefully, “Will he at least be able to return to the harbor? To his family, his friends?” She sits at Chongyun’s side, and her hands hover over him. “His friend circle is small – but they mean the world to him. I can’t imagine him without their company.”

Zhongli hums in thought and brings a hand to his chin. With a sigh, he admits, “I am unsure. Right now – definitely not; but perhaps with time he might be safe to return to them.”

It is Xiao who decides to take Chongyun under his wing. When the matter of housing and caring for the exorcist arises, a thought occurs to him. His daughter hiccups gently in his belly, and then stretches out lazily. With a hand at his middle, Xiao says to the group, “My baby seems to have inherited some of Aether’s special qualities – she has helped purify some of my karmic debt during this pregnancy. If she could do this for me, when I have been plagued with this for millennia, then maybe – ”

His Lord catches on, and he nods. “Yes, you might be right,” he says to Xiao. “It would not hurt to try. The Wangshu Inn has not suffered from your presence before, and is even used to dealing with whatever fallout occasionally arises from the karma.” With a gentle hand on his shoulder, Zhongli asks, “Are you sure you are up to this, though? You are thirty weeks gone; and this is not a simple task.”

Xiao places his own hand over his Lord’s, and he nods with confidence. “Yes, I can think of no one better suited for this than myself.” Then, he looks to the boy who lays so motionless before them. “I want nothing more than for him to lead a life as unburdened as possible.”

---

A few days pass before Chongyun finally stirs. In that time, Xiao has a separate bed brought into his room, and he dresses it himself with soft linens. He keeps his censer and his vajra handy – though he thinks they will not be needed. From the harbor, Shenhe brings some of Chongyun’s spare clothes, as well as some of his favorite books and trinkets. Xiao takes care to place them around the room; uses them to create a space of familiarity and comfort.

When the exorcist finally wakes, it is late into the night and Xiao is just about to lay down for bed. Chongyun groans in pain as the world opens itself up to him. Quickly, Xiao is at his side and steadying him from tipping out of the bed.

“Easy,” Xiao cautions. “Slow movements – you have been asleep for a few days. Give your legs a moment to catch up.”

Chongyun swallows, but his voice still cracks when he asks, “Where am I? Why am I in so much pain?”

The words pierce Xiao in the heart. He takes a deep breath in and then lets it blow out slowly through his nose. “You have slain a demon,” he says carefully. “You have accumulated karmic debt for it.” After another breath, he tells him, “You are here with me to recuperate. I am hoping your karma can be lessened by my daughter’s presence, like mine has been.”

He is given nothing but silence in reply. Chongyun is still awake – Xiao can see that his eyes are still open and trained on his face. But he looks stricken, and Xiao lets out a shaky sigh at the realization. He is scared, he thinks, of course he is scared. With gentle care, he wraps Chongyun in his arms. The exorcist trembles in his hold, and his arms latch onto Xiao. “You will be okay,” Xiao tells him. In his ear, he whispers, “I promise you, you will be okay.”

---

The changes are subtle, at first. While he was quite a mild boy before, now Chongyun has a bit of a temper. His patience wears thin and is easily disrupted. Xiao notices it first when they sit on the balcony that first day. They have just had lunch, and now they are quietly threading some beads onto thread. It is a simple craft, and really – it is only meant to keep the exorcist calm and still, so that Xiao can sit near and allow his daughter to do… whatever it is that she does.

But a bead slips from Chongyun’s grasp more than once, and the frustration builds in him with sharp intensity. Finally, after it slips from his hand a fourth time, the exorcist growls and throws the entire craft to the ground. The beads scatter everywhere and roll across the wooden planks. Xiao sighs, and he tries to bring a hand to Chongyun’s shoulder – but he is slapped away harshly.

He realizes what he has done a split second later, and already he is apologizing to Xiao and groveling for his forgiveness. Xiao is stunned at first, but he recovers quickly. Without a second thought, he shakes his head and says to Chongyun, “It is nothing. Now we know that you need space when you grow angry. This is a learning process for both of us.”

Chongyun looks skeptical, but he nods and accepts Xiao’s words anyway. They gather the scattered beads again together, and when they think he is calm enough – Xiao encourages Chongyun to try again.

His sensitivity to heat and other sensations grows more intense. Though Fall is just around the corner, the heat of Summer has returned to its peak for now. It is sweltering and oppressive, and it keeps both of them indoors for much of the day. But Xiao has some chores to do, some laundry to attend to. He is reluctant to bring Chongyun with him, but the boy simply shrugs off the concern as though it is undue.

Now, they sit outside as the sun beats down in unforgiving rays. While Xiao scrubs at their linens, Chongyun sits under the shade of a nearby tree. Xiao had made him keep some cold iced tea with him, and he can see the exorcist sipping at it idly. There is only a little left to do, before he can finally place their laundry on the clothesline. The time moves like honey, sluggish in its flow. Just as Xiao is standing to take the newly-washed linens to the line to dry, he realizes that Chongyun has slumped over onto the ground.

He drops the linens, does not care that they fall to the dirt – and he rushes to the boy. Not-so-gently, Xiao tries to rouse him. Chongyun startles awake, and he looks blearily at Xiao. “You need to tell me when you feel unwell,” he says frantically. “I cannot know what you are feeling if you do not tell me.”

Chongyun only nods smally. When he makes no other effort to speak or move, Xiao sighs. He gathers the boy into his arms, and he carries him inside. As he lays him down in his bed a short while later, Xiao says, “We will need to keep you out of the heat from now on.”

But the worst of it – the worst of it is the nightmares. Xiao had thought that the pain would be what Chongyun would voice complaints for – but when prodded, he says that he only feels mild tingles now and then. It is a relief, and Xiao dares let himself believe that his daughter is already doing some magic.

The truth unveils itself at night. Chongyun’s pain is greater than he lets on – but it is not physical. In his sleep, he is restless and haunted. Xiao finds himself having sleepless nights, as he spends that time comforting the boy under his care. One night – Chongyun wails in agony, and his body writhes through it. At a complete loss for what to do, Xiao climbs in the bed and wraps his arms around the boy. He holds him to his chest until the cries subside. When he is this close, Xiao can smell the bitterness of fear that wafts from the boy’s dream.

And then a thought occurs to him.

He has not done this for millennia, and he knows that there are some consequences to bear – but Xiao thinks it might be worth the sacrifice. Before he can think twice or regret the choice – he devours the horrid nightmare that plagues Chongyun’s mind. The thing tastes acrid, and it bloats his belly uncomfortably. But he sees how the boy’s face softens, how his trembling ceases. It is worth it, Xiao reasons, to see him at peace.

---

After a few weeks, things begin to even out. Zhongli is proud to tell them that this seems to be working. “I think you will be able to return home very soon,” his Lord tells Chongyun. “Your karma is lessening at a good pace, and your yang energy is evening itself out – Or, well, as even as it can be for you.”

Chongyun smiles, and it is a bright and precious thing – Xiao has not seen one so unfiltered from the boy before. “Thank you, Mr. Zhongli. You and Adeptus Xiao have been so patient with me.”

Zhongli chuckles, and he pats the boy’s head. “Think nothing of it. You are Liyue’s hero. It would shame us to leave you unaccounted for. It was no small thing, the sacrifice that you made.”

Xiao nods, and he brings a hand to his belly when he feels his daughter stretch out. “Yes,” Xiao nods in agreement. He takes Chongyun’s hand gently, and he presses it down where his daughter is stirring. “I cannot thank you enough. My daughter is safe, and she will not have to live in fear of the shadows, because of you.”

It seems that the boy is at a loss for words – but that is okay. The warm look in his eyes and the pink dust on his cheeks is answer enough.

He is not quite the same, when Xiao and Zhongli return Chongyun to the harbor. The boy is still saddled with karma that might never leave him; he is more prone to anger and night terrors, needs to be wary of the heat – But he is still Chongyun, still the sweet boy that they all love; and that will have to be enough.

When Xingqiu and Xiangling see them approach the city gate, they both bolt to meet halfway. They envelop Chongyun in their arms and bury him in affection. Xingqiu kisses at his cheeks and his temples, and he chokes as he says, “I missed you so much.”

At their feet, Xiao recognizes Marchosius – Guoba – as he joins in. He hugs their legs and buries his face into them affectionately. Chongyun laughs, bright and clear and happy. “I missed you too,” he says gently. “I am glad to be back.”

[badgerwrites]

The Collie

On the day of the full moon, the badger left his den. He laboriously made his way up a grassy hill, and waited for his old friend the collie.

The moon travelled through the skies, the sun dawned from its slumber; but still she did not come. The badger sighed and walked home to his den.

The next day a small, angular canine head peeked from the entrance of his den: her pink tongue lolled out her mouth, her ribs heaved with her fast breathing, and her lively eyes twitched nervously.

"I am so sorry," she called, "the jackal was on the prowl today and I had to herd the sheep back the pen. I lost sense of time, and I could not come to our meeting!"

The bader smiled and gently bumped his nose to hers. 

"It's all right, I know you are busy. Go back to your sheep, I will see you come the next full moon."

Relief washed over the lithe dog's features. She licked his head and in a moment ran off, back to her farm and her work and her new life.

Then came the next full moon. The badger once again crawled atop the hill, and again the night passed with no trace of the shepherd.

Again he returned to his den, and again she was at his door the next morning.

"I am so very sorry," she cried out, "the sheepman lost his way and we were trapped in a deserted valley; I had to help him find his way. I lost sense of time, and could not come to our meeting!"

The badger nodded and touched his nose to hers.

"It's all right, I know you are busy. Go back to your sheep, and I will see you come next full moon."

The full moon came once more, and once more the collie did not show up but appeared, panting, at the badger's door the following morning.

"I am so sorry," she whimpered, trembling with shame; "there was a terrible storm and I had to stay and comfort our lambs, for they are mighty scared of thunder and howling winds. I lost sense of time, and could not come to our meeting!"

The badger hummed. "I forgive you, dear shepherd. Go back to your sheep, and I will see you come next full moon."

This time however the collie did not look happy with the badger's quick forgiveness.

"Why are you not angry?" She asked in disbelief. 

"I forget about you all the time and never come to visit! Why do you not reproach me?"

Her friend simply smiled.

"Come in my den. I need to tell you a story. I promise I shan't keep you from your sheep too long."

The collie awkwardly crawled through the narrow tunnels until they reached the spacious room of her friend's little underground house. He prepared some tea in a wide mug and set in on the table, and she lapped at it while he sat opposite her at the cozy wooden table.

"There was once a small, angry little creature," he begun, "who'd grown up being jeered by young wolves and trampled by his mother. There was once a small, confused creature who'd never been taught how to keep pace with a herd or live among its members."

The collie tilted her small head, the soft tip of her fluffy ears perking up with attention.

"The creature oft fell behind. The sheepmen did not care if it got lost, or if it wounded itself trying to cross a perilous pass alone, or whether it got along with the rest of the sheep. No, the sheepman cared not for the creature, but a young puppy did."

The striped creature took a sip of his own mug and grinned impishly.

"I remember her teeth, gently lifting me by the scruff when a river was too deep to pass; I remember she let me grab her tail when she guided me through narrow mountain passes. I remember seeing her running down the hills, like a white comet hurtling from a green sky, to come fetch me when the herd had left me far behind. I remember the warmth of your fur, when the sheep wouldn't cuddle up to me during cold winter nights."

The collie's ears lay flat against her skull, and she was looking deep into the mug. Her old friend said gently: "I remember when you stayed with me as my mother died, too. For that, for everything, I will always be grateful. For that, for all of it, I will always love you."

He made his way around the table, and gave her a hug.

"I know you are busy, and that we now live far apart. I know it is not easy, and I forgive you for making mistakes, as you helped me all those years ago. I know your heart is true, even if you miss our meetings."

"Go back to your sheep now, and I will see you come next full moon."

[spicychickencows]

this story goes to places I did not expect it to go but hey, such is storytelling, am I right?

-

Gawain was the first to spot the abnormality in the movement of the water. As they rode along the coast between Listeneise and Kernow. It was Gawain who had grown up the ships around her father’s kingdom of Skye who knew the way the water should flow. Who spotted the pause, the unnatural way in which the waves avoided a small stretch of the coast.

Percival was the first to dismount. He tied his horse to a branch and looked down at the sea. It was a steep drop, though not too far, it could prove a challenge to get back up. He smiled. ‘You think it’s worth taking a look?’

Dismounting her own horse Gawain put a hand up to shield her eyes. ‘I can’t tell what it is from here. Magic of some kind though. Certainly.’

The oldest of their company was Bohort, known as Bors, the only among them to have taken on a squire. Dinadan was the smallest of the lot, only a boy really. He has his own, small, horse; which he tied to the same branch as Percival’s.

Bors called to him, ‘Dinadan, tell us what you see boy.’

Dinandan struggled down the slope a way to get a better look. ‘A lady, sirs, there is a lady in the water.’

‘Percival shall be no use to us then,’ laughed Bors, he made a mocking cross gesture across his chest. ‘We’re coming to join you.’

Gawain fetched a rope from her saddle bags and tied it to create something to climb more easily on their return. She used it to steady her own descent and to be certain it was attached securely.

The air closer to the sea water was salt filled and crashed with mist. It stank of the smell of rotting seaweed. There were shells and driftwood littered across the thin line of sand between land and sea. In the very distance the last few standing spires of Ker-Ys could be seen above the waves. The city itself having sunk below the water some ten years hence.

Percival took his sword from his back. ‘I shall watch for passers-by, be they helpful or less so.’

Bors said, ‘You do that.’

As they approached the lady the air grew warmer. ‘Look,’ said Gawain, pointing to the rocks around the lady, at the ring which the water was avoiding, ‘what does that look like to you.’

Bors shook his head. ‘I haven’t seen such since Constantine’s day. He had armies of black drakes, they would tear apart the skies with lightning breath and burning rage. How long do you suppose it has been here?’

The drake could only just be made out. Its head, the end of its tail, and indistinct shapes which may have once been the rest of its body. But curled beneath its belly, as though lay next to a protective friend or lover, was a lady. She was pale of skin, with fire red hair. She was adorned in a nought but a thin blue dress turned translucent; soaked through by the water. She appeared to be asleep.

‘Should we wake her?’ Bors said.

‘Who could she be?’

‘Mark will want to know.’

‘And Pellam. Who are we closer to.’

‘We passed the dancing ladies a few hours back,’ Dinadan offered, ‘we must be well into Kernow’s land by now.

‘We shall take her to King Mark and the Lady Iseult.’ Bors sighed. ‘You wake her.’

Gawain removed her sword from her belt and passed it to Dinadan. She knelt down next to the lady and touched gently on her shoulder.

Two strikingly blue eyes opened and stared up at Gawain with a small amount of fear that grew as the lady spotted those around her. In armour, and carrying swords. ‘It cannot still be true.’

‘What cannot be true?’ said Gawain.

‘You cannot be here to kill me.’

Gawain smiled. ‘We are not. I believe you have been sleeping my lady. Do you perhaps have a name?’

She sat. The dress clinging to every part of her. Every curve of her body was visible through the soaking fabric. Her hair was soaking wet as well. She wiped some water from her mouth. ‘I believe my name is Modron. Good fellows, what may I call you.’

Each of the three introduced themselves. Then Bors pointed over his shoulder and added, ‘The strapping young lad in the distance is Ser Percival. He is one of our company as well.’

Modron repeated the names aloud to herself. She stood slowly and began removing her dress.

‘My Lady,’ said Bors, ‘please.’

Modron looked taken aback. ‘It is much too wet to continue wearing. One of you will lend me a cloak?’

‘I shall,’ said Gawain, ‘from my pack. It is likely to be the best fit.’

Returning to the road Modron dried herself with a slip of cloth offered to her by Dinadan from his pack before dressing in a tunic of Gawain’s. It was blazoned with the flag of Skye. She tied a belt around her waist, in a knot as it was went for too wide a frame, and tied a length of string in her hair to keep it from falling in her face.

‘I am pleased to be discovered by such chivalrous persons as yourselves,’ said Modron, ‘may I ask where you are headed.’

‘We go to Kernow,’ said Bors, ‘you’ll ride with Percival.’

Percival was the largest of the company and as such his horse was the most prepared for the extra weight, some of his pack was divided among the rest to avoid straining the creature too heavily. Modron put her arms, tight, around Percival’s waist and they rode on towards Kernow.

Guards allow them through to the main gates. A butler directs them to rooms which have been put aside for them but notes that only three rooms have been prepared as they were not expecting a second lady to be among the arriving party. Gawain explains the situation, in its barest bones, and informs them that Modron will stay in her room for the night, she also asks that some clothes be brought up for Modron as she is without her own.

Some small amount of fuss is also made that the Duke, Gorlois, and his wife Igraine are staying at the castle at this time alongside their baby daughter who remains, these few days after her birth, unnamed.

When night falls Modron, adorned in a plain night dress supplied for her by the housekeepers, steps silently about the castle. The servants pay her now mind. Modron finds the rooms of King Mark and his Lady Wife Iseult. She finds them in separate beds. Modron lays down next to Mark and whispers in his ear, ‘Poor stallion, poor poor puppy.’ She touches him, running her hand down until she finds his cock hard in her hand.

Mark startles he turns to face the stranger in his bed.

Before he can shout she has a finger over his mouth. ‘Lay back,’ she whispers, ‘lay back and be silent.’ Modron moves herself on top of Mark and helps him to enter her. She sighs softly as she lowers herself. When he finishes she thanks him and leaves as quickly as she arrived.

As she walks the halls Modron’s belly grows with the child now inside her. It births much too small but Modron bites through the umbilical cord and nurses the baby on her breast as she continues through the castle. The baby grows in fits and starts, it tries to cry but it cannot. No fairy is capable no matter how hard they wish it so.

Until finally Modron comes across the room set up for the Duke, Gorlois, and his wife Igraine. She opens the door slowly and finds the cot in which sleeps the Duke’s child. Swaps the child for her own. She holds the nameless baby and strokes it’s hair softly with her long fingers.

Modron finds the bed in which Gorlois and Igraine are sleeping. She kneels by the side of the bed. ‘Name the girl Morgan,’ she whispers to Igraine, ‘name my daughter Morgan, and I shall name yours Guenevak and years from now they shall meet again.’ She holds the baby’s arms and makes it wave goodbye to its mother.

Outside the castle Modron stands with the baby in her arms and laughs mirthlessly. ‘It is done,’ she says to the wind and to the moon, ‘take me back.’

The arms that wrap around her are strong and covered in the markings of the forest. She feels warm breath on her neck. ��Yes,’ says Cernnunos, his antlers cast a shadow, ‘I shall take you.’ He does.

🥳 🥳 Visual Writing Prompt #400 🥳 🥳

[bluexiao]

#you and i, god or not. 

—he was the god you hated, and you’re the human he liked 

CHARACTERS. Zhongli; gn! Reader 

THEMES. kind of friends to lovers and enemies to lovers when you squint. crack mostly. 

WARNINGS. mention of rex lapis’ “death”; mention of blade as a metaphor

WORD COUNT. 1.9k words

NOTES. Pretty sure this had been rotting in my drafts for several months, idek when i finished it 

Liyue, the City of Contracts. Yet, it is also the city of business, the city of the Adepti, and the city rich in lore. 

One would find it difficult to search for a local to not believe in any of the Adepti—most especially Rex Lapis, the lord of Geo and the land. Anyone and everyone knew they were true, thus rare is it for someone to claim the opposite without doubt with it. 

Faith, however, is a far different word. 

There are people who choose not to have faith in the divinity because they didn’t care or because they have had bad experiences with the topic, which is far more often than not. 

You? You were the former—you simply didn’t care. 

Difficult may it be to comprehend that someone who lives in Liyue has no such trust and faith towards its god, it was true, and you’ve come to find that there are also others like you, especially in the present time. 

People, apparently, move on. 

Generations and generations have passed since the so-called Archon War, where all gods fought and the Seven emerged victoriously. It had also been a while since the lord who was called from the skies had fallen to his death, causing great pain to those who have deeply been devoted to the divine. 

You’ve seen it all, actually. You were passing by at that time and you found the whole scene quite… empty, dull. You supposed it was how deaths are, naturally. You weren’t attached to the god, but seeing the clouds above the others’ heads, utterly confused and shocked at what was happening, you recognized the feeling of silence and unease inside your chest. 

It was the last time, but you prayed for his soul. 

“I still don’t care, but doesn’t mean I’m cold-hearted,” you say to your friend, the very one who had been snickering as she placed down a bowl of snacks in front of you, ones that she promised to fetch as you sat comfortably in the middle of her office, “Hu Tao, stop looking at me like that.” 

“Like what?” 

“Like I just gained favor towards a certain god that I claimed I didn’t care about. Seriously, stop.” 

“Not yet,” The plum-eyed girl giggles on her fist, still with that sly look, “Alright, alright, but-“

“Shh! Don’t wanna hear anything!” you abruptly stood up and you heard your friend laugh opposite you as you went marching towards the door, saying, “Anyway, I got to go, my job’s calling me.” 

“Your job’s always calling you,” Hu Tao muses as she stands to follow you out, “And my offer still stands-”

“Bye, Tao!” you cut her off, knowing she was about to say about the funeral service bonus she had been singing to you about ever since you told her you’d become an Adventurer. 

“Oh? A new worker?” you inquired rather loudly that the person whom you had set your eyes upon looked up and met them, and for some reason, your heart skipped a beat and made you turn away. 

Something tells you the man was bad news. And apparently, Hu Tao thinks the same. 

“That’s Mr. Zhongli, my new consultant! But I highly doubt you two would be friends,” she says to you specifically, only to pat your shoulders and disappear away. 

That girl—you don’t know if you should be asking yourself why she’s your friend or if you truly found her company entertaining. And maybe the answer was yes to both. 

“I apologize for that,” you say once you had gotten close to the man, once again meeting his eyes. They were sharp, golden, and almost like they had been curved in the perfect way possible for the shape of his face—it suits him, you think, but that’s not what you should think about anyway, “I’m Y/n, a friend of Hu Tao’s.” 

Again, were you? 

He greets you with a gentle smile, one that wasn’t too stiff and was not too friendly as well—the average, just lukewarm enough, “It is a pleasure to be of your acquaintance, Y/n.” 

The way he said your name made you almost gasp for air—odd, dangerous. 

Just who exactly is this man? 

“You remind me of someone, Mr. Zhongli.” 

“Is that so?” he responded as you both made your way back to the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor. You were by the market when you found the man almost getting scolded for not bringing his Mora after purchasing some flowers that he explained were for work, it was a good thing you had just been given your paycheck for that was what you lent him for his endeavor. 

“Yes, but I don’t quite point out who,” 

“Manager Hu also voiced the same thing,” he says, almost so sudden that you were not prepared for the next words, “she said that she reminded me of the Statue of the Seven, where the lord of Geo is-”

You made a noise that interrupted him—“Pft,”—and you would have been keeping your facade if you were not so off-guard. 

“Rex Lapis?” you sputtered, wanting to laugh so hard, “Didn’t know Hu Tao’s a fan,” 

“Fan?”

You nodded, “Well, can’t blame that. All she did was question me about the Adepti that I never bothered to ask her,” you then paused to look him in the eye, “pardon me, but I’m not much of a fan, actually. I don’t really care much about gods and goddesses… if they even exist.” 

You muttered the last few words, but you were sure he might have caught them nonetheless. 

“I see,” he says, quite different and contrary to the reactions of others whom you also told the same, “you seem to be a person who ‘doesn’t beat around the bush,’ as others would call it. I find that rather commendable.” 

You felt your face heat up from his praise and underneath his gaze. He’s genuine, and he’s far from any other you’ve ever met. You felt at ease and your steps towards the parlor seemed to have become lighter. 

Months later, it was no surprise that you and ZHONGLI had begun dating—well, it was only Hu Tao who was expecting such an outcome. 

“I thought you said we two wouldn’t be friends?” 

“Are you two not more than friends, then?” 

He was sweet—too much that you wanted to propose to him and keep him to yourself, but that would be quite improper. He makes you feel the butterflies that you didn’t know you’d ever feel towards a certain someone. 

“I have something I have to say to you.” 

When he said those words, the same butterflies seemed to have vanished, especially with the next set of sentences he voices out—the truth to his identity. 

You used to like his voice—used to. Not now when he was telling the stories of the god who had abandoned you when you prayed for him before, and now he’s saying that ”I am Rex Lapis”?

The world around you spins, and you were thankful that at the very least, he had opted on having you two seated during the conversation, and that you were far away from anyone else. He probably intended that, because he knew that this secret is not meant for everyone and that you needed the fresh, crisp air of the evening breeze, to calm down your nerves. 

Which proved to be unsuccessful, apparently. 

“I… Could I… Can you give me some time to think about… this? Whatever this is, I-” you looked him in the eyes, and even if you had hatred towards the god that he claims to be, this man—Zhongli, you still liked him. It wasn’t love, not yet, but you were fairly sure that you liked him enough to think about this. 

“Of course,” he says, “take as much time as you want.” 

You couldn’t see it with your eyes in the worry of your weakness to meet them, but a flash of fear laces his face. He wanted to know why you had been so against the gods—a god like him, and as much as he wanted to keep the truth to himself and to keep you for himself, this needed to be done. With your hatred towards the gods, being in a relationship with a god like him would break you the moment he reveals it halfway. 

It would’ve been so much better if he wasn’t a god. 

But if he wasn’t, would he have met you? 

You lied. You’re a liar—a good one at that. 

It was not a matter of care—your nonexistent faith towards the gods. It was merely the aftermath of what you had sworn to yourself the day you started to believe that they did not care about you. 

Or your family. 

Mingyun Village was once filled with people, striving with the mines and living peacefully on their own. Your family was amongst them, even filled with praises, songs, and faith towards the lord of Geo who—from what you remembered they used to say—“let us stay here.” Funny, it was, for you also thought that way as well. 

Not until they came—the monsters. 

You prayed and prayed, probably for the last time until recently, but no help came, even after you all were stuck inside your house, frightened to death that the monsters would come bursting your door and-

Either way, at least you all were safe. 

Your family retained their faith, even so far as thanking the gods that you all were still alive. 

You, however, were changed.

“The god I used to believe in abandoned me—abandoned us when we were in deep need of him,” you never had the courage to, but you forced yourself to face him—he at the very least deserves it, the explanation, “only to have him in front of me years later. When I don’t really want him anymore.” 

It was like a blade had pierced him right in his heart—of course, he could have been used to threats such as that during the Archon War, but this is a testament that words… words really do pierce you deeply, especially when it is said by someone whom you cherish. 

“But the way I see you,” 

This catches his attention once again as he tries to meet your eyes, only to realize that you were already staring far away as if you were trying to distance yourself from your words. 

From him. 

“The way I see you are different from the god I knew and have always known. So…” you paused and contemplated, heaving out a sigh, prompting a small smile on your face to appear despite everything else. 

“I’d be glad to give this a chance,” you finally meet his gaze once again, and face to face, you say, “you and I. God or not. Just… as you and I… what do you say?”

You may have been a good liar, but you could never lie in front of this man. 

His shoulders ease down and it was his turn to smile, the entirety of his being calming down suddenly. 

“Then you and I, it shall. As long as you permit.”

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[dovechim]

blessed be the fruit 01 (m)

➾ 3.6k, taehyung x reader, future OT7

➾ loosely based off The Handmaid’s Tale. In the New World Order that is Gilead, your life depends on your ability to bring a new one into existence. 

➾ warnings: unprotected sex, mentions of infertility, pregnancy, mentions of dubcon

➾ a/n: I had serious hesitation and doubts about this. but after a three month break and looking at it from a distance, I still want to go ahead with this AU because I want to draw attention to the themes of reclaiming agency & identity whilst under oppression. So I hope that you could get the message I’m trying to convey rather than focus on the noncon indubitably present in this AU. 

I'm saying this to clearly outline my intentions, for I do not condone rape or non-consensual sex whatsoever. 

that being said, I have plans to turn this into an ot7 series fic, but here is a little starter just to kind of test the waters a little :-) if you’re here, I've already warned you about what you’re signing up for, so please skip this if uncomfortable and refrain from sharing any malicious thoughts with me.

Crimson is the colour that denotes life. But these days, only the rare few have the privilege to don that colour; the deep red hue of the cloak that is meant to simultaneously draw attention to, and also hide your figure.

Handmaids are to be seen and not heard. They are to speak only when spoken to. The white wings that adorn either side of your head keep your gaze lowered reverently at all times. Meek and subdued, but always watching, waiting.

The supermarket is quiet and orderly as you stroll through the aisles with your partner close by your side. You have never seen more than a glimpse of her face, neither have you heard more than a few words of her voice other than the greetings you exchange when you meet every morning.

Even the task of grocery shopping, which you used to enjoy before the rise of Gilead, has become nothing but a sham. There is no decision to be made. Your purchases are entirely dependent on the coupons given to you by the Wife of your Household. Today, it’s the usual rice and vegetables, with one or two oranges thrown in as a request from the Cook.

“Under His Eye,” you murmur as you pass the other Handmaids and their partners, all doing their shopping with their partners.

You can’t see it with your head lowered, but there are armed guards stationed throughout the grocery store with guns cocked and menacing stares. The Eyes are always watching and listening, and you begin to feel suffocated.

“I believe I have everything I need,” you speak in a lowered voice, turning slightly to your partner, thinking of how to best hurry her along without making it too obvious. “Is there anything else you lack?”

“I too, am done, OfJeon,” your partner replies back, and you have to physically stop yourself from flinching.

Even though it is the proper way to address another Handmaid, you avoid using the names bestowed upon you by their Household’s Commanders. You try your best to not associate yourself with that name, for fear that you might come to forget your own in due time, but it gets more and more difficult as the days go by.

‘Of’ denoting possession, and ‘Jeon’ for your Commander’s last name. Put together, they form your identity, the identity that Gilead has carved out for you as an object.

The moment you forget your real name is the moment you lose yourself.

“Let us depart, OfPark,” you say with tightly clenched lips, grateful for the white wings that hide your bitter expression as you turn toward the exit of the grocery store.

Your basket is heavy with groceries, and the wind whips up your red cloak the moment you step outside. You glance up for a moment to see the gray skies, feel the wind on your cheeks before you dip your head down again, cautious of exposing your face for more than a second.

Here, to blend in is to survive.

“Have you made all the necessary preparation, OfJeon?” Your partner asks as she links her arm through yours, and you begin the slow march home.

You drag your feet slightly, hoping to prolong the walk. Aside from the brief half hour of grocery shopping every day, you hardly get a chance to be outside. To remember what the real world feels like, even though it is changing so quickly every day. You’re too busy trying to memorise the way the wind feels against your cloak that you are caught slightly offguard by OfPark’s question.

“Preparation?” Your voice comes out slightly unsure.

“For the Ceremony, of course,” comes her reply, and you can’t stop yourself from inhaling sharply.

Is it already that time of the month? How could you have lost track?

A lump forms in your throat as you attempt to calm yourself. “Yes, OfPark. Everything is ready.”

You are lying through your teeth, but the thing is, interactions are kept to such a bare minimum that no one knows you well enough to know that you are lying. If today is the day of the Ceremony, it means a visit to the doctor’s this afternoon. Your breath speeds up at the thought of it, palms becoming sweaty.

OfPark comes to a stop outside of your house, and unlinks her arm from yours.

“Blessed be the fruit,” she says by way of farewell.

“May the Lord open,” the automatic response falls from your lips without much thinking.

Then the gates open, and you enter the house quietly, setting your basket on the kitchen counter. You can hear footsteps coming from the main hallway as soon as you take your white bonnet off.

“You’re back, I was just about to send a guard to fetch you.” In her royal blue dress that tapers at her waist and falls nearly to her ankles, the Wife of the Household is always neatly pressed and well put together. Kim Yeri fixes you with an annoyed glare as she brushes her silky blonde hair behind her ear. You haven’t known her by that name in a long while, because like any other woman, she is only to be addressed by her title in society.

“Did you forget your appointment?” She demands, crossing her arms. She has never been outrightly mean to you, yet her manner is far from friendly. But its totally understandable, of course. Which woman would be content knowing her husband was required by law to fuck a baby into someone else?

“No, Madam. The line at the supermarket was-“

“Get in the car. We’re already late.” Yeri is not interested in your excuse as she cuts you off, turning to grab her purse, and her dress flows gracefully behind her slim figure as she walks to the door.

You barely have time to put your bonnet back on, fixing it so that it is presentable once more before following her outside. Yeri is already in the back seat of the black SUV car, and you climb in beside her. You catch a glimpse of Driver Jung’s eyes in the mirror, but quickly glance away before Yeri can catch you.

Drivers aren’t allowed to have Handmaids of their own. Instead, they live to serve the Household of their Commanders. As the car pulls smoothly out of the front gate, you begin to wonder who Driver Jung was before Gilead. If he had loved ones that he lost. If he too, was slowly starting to forget the person he was back then.

The blacked-out windows of the car don’t allow you to see anything outside. It is a tense journey made in complete silence as you can feel Yeri’s annoyance slowly mounting into a barely withheld fury. It is the same every month. You try to sympathise with her, to put yourself in her shoes as someone who has to accompany the woman her beloved husband is to have sex with to a fertility check-up.

When the car stops, Driver Jung rushes out of his seat to open the door for Yeri first, then he crosses to your side and opens your door. You thank him with a shy nod, careful to keep your eyes fixed on the ground as you follow Yeri into the clinic.

The waiting room has about one or two other Wife-Handmaid pairs.  As you walk in, you catch the eye of one of the Handmaids who is heavily pregnant. Her swollen belly protrudes from her red cloak, and her hands look so small in comparison as she strokes her bump reverently. The Wife sits beside her, a look of pride on her face as if she were the one pregnant.

It is such a rare sight to see a pregnant Handmaid these days. Even though the Handmaids were specially selected because of their fertility, your lack of a baby bump is bearing down on you. Each Handmaid is given three chances at each assignment. Three chances to conceive before they are moved to the next Commander. Three assignments in total before she is sent to the Wastelands.

Lining the walls are portraits of Commanders dressed in black, and their Wives dressed in blue, holding little bundles wrapped in white. The couples are all smiling with joy and pride in their eyes.

The Handmaids are nowhere to be seen in the happy families of three.

You don’t know if you should envy or pity the heavily pregnant Handmaid.

Thankfully, due to Yeri’s- or should you say your Commander’s- high status, you are bumped to the front of the line. The receptionist tells you to enter the doctor’s room, but Yeri waves you on with disinterest.

“I can wait outside here, can’t I? She won’t dare try anything,” she says this last part with cold frown, settling herself down on one of the waiting chairs.

“Of course, Mrs Jeon,” the receptionist says with a pleasant smile, then turns to show you into the doctor’s office.

You read the name on the door before you are shuffled into the white, sterile room.

Dr Kim Taehyung.

Two female assistants help you to take off your red cloak and dress you in the standard white gown. You sit on the chair, legs spread wide into the stirrups. The assistants lower a privacy curtain that conceals your face, leaving your lower half anonymous as you hear the door open, then the doctor’s footsteps.

You don’t even get to see his face before you feel his touch on your knees. Dr Kim Taehyung clears his throat before he moves to the side, dipping his gloved hands into a small dish of what you can only assume to be lubrication. The white privacy curtain is nothing but a thin sheet, so you can still make out his figure as he bustles about. You can even see the slope of his nose as he turns his side profile to you for a second.

It’s not until he speaks that you are jolted out of your thoughts by how deep his voice is. “How are you today?”

“I’m good,” you answer hesitantly, unconsciously crinkling your medical gown in your fist. No one has ever asked how you’re doing.

“That’s great, now let’s have a look, shall we?” You can hear the smile in his voice, and you feel your body relax a little.

He seems to be kind enough, this Dr Kim Taehyung. Much different from the doctor you had on your first visit. Dr Kim Taehyung has his bedside manner down pat, and even though you can’t see his face, he makes you feel a little bit less tense. His voice soothes you as he talks, saying random things about the weather as he spreads your legs.

Dr Kim Taehyung positions himself in between your thighs, and you feel his gloved hands dangerously close to the apex of them. “So, it says here on your chart that tonight is Ceremony night for you.”

“Yes,” you swallow hard at the reminder. “It is.”

“And how are the Jeons treating you? Everything okay at home?” You can feel him spread your lips with his fingers, starting to poke and prod around as you close your eyes.

“Yes. They treat me very well,” you answer.

He must have caught the monotony of your voice, because his fingers pause.

“You know, you can talk to me. If there’s anything you need.” His concerned voice is like a beacon of light, but your eyes dart around the room cautiously.

You think about the millions of things that you could tell him. How unfair it is to be reduced to a walking womb, and yet, how desperate you are, knowing that this is your third month at the Jeon’s household, and if it doesn’t work…

You swallow all of these thoughts with your fists clenched. You can never let your guard down. He might be one of the Eyes, pretending to be kind so that you might let slip a blasphemous comment about your Commander. There’s no way you’ll incriminate yourself like that, so you just keep your mouth shut. After a while, he goes back to examining you.

“… Alright then,” Dr Kim Taehyung says in a resigned tone. “Let me just check you over and make sure everything is good for tonight. This might feel a little uncomfortable, but just relax for me alright?”

You can’t help but tense up, ironically, at his instruction. But then you feel the warmth of one of his ungloved hands on your thigh, and as he bids you to relax again, he slides his fingers into you, and you can feel his fingers, thick and solid. Your thighs twitch, coming into contact with his hips that are in between them, and he lets out a gentle laugh.

“It’s okay… just a little more.”

Then, he withdraws his fingers slowly, and you let out a breath of relief. It didn’t feel bad, definitely not like the first visit where you felt violated. Dr Kim Taehyung’s gentle and respectful manner is… almost pleasant. You’ve long forgotten what it’s like to be treated like a human being, and not just an object.

“Looks like everything’s in shape, you’re due to ovulate these few days,” he declares, taking off his rubber gloves and tossing them in the bin. “Not that it matters, anyway. Jeon’s probably sterile. Hell, all of the Commanders are sterile.”

You freeze at the sound of that blasphemous curse word. But more importantly, you have to make sure you heard correctly.

“Wh-what do you mean?” You watch his shadow behind the sheet as he ticks a few things on your chart.

In this society, ‘sterile’ is a forbidden word. There is no such thing as a sterile man. There are only women who are fruitful, and women who are barren. But you know better than to subscribe to such damning ideology.

“Darling. I’ve seen so many top Commanders’ Handmaids in this room. In and out, month after month they come back and their Wives ask me why they aren’t pregnant yet.” He places a hand on your knee again, and that human contact makes you realise how much you crave the warmth of another person.

At the same time, his words awaken the hollow desperation in your chest. If… if Jeon is really sterile, that means no matter how many times you try, you won’t get pregnant. If all the Commanders are really sterile, then no matter how many assignments you get…

“It’s your third month here, isn’t it?” His kind voice accompanies the gentle stroke of his thumb on your knee.

Before you can answer, he steps away from you, walking to the door and double checking that it’s locked. Then, he’s between your legs again, and this time, his ungloved hands are caressing the top of your thighs. You can feel his hips pressing against you insistently.

“I can help you,” he says in a low whisper. “It’s your last chance.”

Your mind is in a fog. It’s hard to think clearly when you are craving his touch on your body, and the way in which he wraps your legs around his waist so delicately has you wanting to give in. Let this be a form of rebellion. An act of reclaiming your body and your agency, giving it to a man who treats you like a human being, and more importantly, deciding who you give it to. So that when Jeon performs the Ceremony with you tonight, no one but you will have the secret pleasure of knowing that someone else was here before him.

And if you do get pregnant, you will have the last laugh as you watch Jeon raise a baby that isn’t even his to begin with.

How’s that for rebelling? It’s no longer just about getting pregnant.

“I’ve helped many other Handmaids before,” Dr Kim Taehyung continues furtively. “They were all on their third Assignments. I saved them from the Wastelands.”

You don’t need any more convincing. You reach out and pull the thin privacy sheet aside, finally revealing Dr Kim Taehyung’s face. He looks taken aback at your bold actions.

“Do it, Doctor,” you fix your eyes on him with determination. “Get me pregnant.”

Dr Kim Taehyung looks as if he wasn’t expecting you to say yes to him, and delight slowly spreads across his face. But he can’t help himself from bringing one of his hands to your face, brushing your cheek and admiring your silent, resilient beauty.

“U-um, okay. He-here goes,” he fumbles with his dress pants, and the confidence from minutes ago is nowhere to be found. It occurs to you that he might have been fibbing about helping the other Handmaids before you, but it doesn’t matter. It’s no longer just about getting pregnant, anyway.

Thanks to the lubrication, he slides in easily. You catch a glimpse of him before he does, and a second later you feel his girth acutely. During the Ceremony, the lights are always turned off, so you never have a chance to see what Jeon’s dick looks like. If you were to compare, it feels around the same as Dr Kim’s. Except this time, you are doing this of your own accord.

The squeaking of the chair against the floor is deafeningly loud as he begins to thrust earnestly, and the thrill that you could be caught at any moment makes you feel more alive than you’ve ever been since the rise of Gilead. You can feel him at your cervix as he grips your thighs, and you make sure to wrap them around him tightly.

In an unprecedented move, Dr Kim reaches down to brush his thumb against your clit, and your walls clench around him in response. He swears under his breath as he shifts his position to rest his elbows on either side of you so that he can increase the strength behind his thrusts.

“Sh-shit, you feel so good,” he groans as he sneaks his hand in between your bodies once more to pinch your clit. No one has cared about your pleasure like this in a long while, and you feel your body responding to his ministrations, your orgasm rapidly approaching.

“Ha-harder, Doctor,” you feel his cheek press against your breast. “Cum inside me.”

You swear you can feel him twitch inside you, as he bites his lip hard. You have a hard time holding back your derisive laughter as Dr Kim Taehyung gets more turned on than ever. So this is his kink? This is the perfect job for him. Seeing Handmaids who are more often than not desperate to get pregnant, no matter by whom.

You feel a modicum of power back in the palm of your hand, which is more than you’ve felt in ages. The feeling of having power over someone else as you watch the pleasure take over Dr Kim Taehyung’s expression is addictive. The man is losing himself in between your legs, his fingers digging into the flesh of your thigh. Meanwhile you are the one watching him rut pathetically, straining to reach his end.

“Cum inside me, Doctor,” you say again, squeezing your walls around him and relishing his groan. “I’ll make you cum inside me.”

“Pl-please, call me Taehyung,” he pleads, raising himself up on his elbows to beg for a kiss.

You oblige, watching his desperation slowly take over his entire being. His lips are soft as he kisses you like a man starved, and you wonder who was the last person he kissed like this. Does he kiss all of the Handmaids he impregnates?

The next words you say are perfectly calculated. “Taehyung, I want your baby.”

There’s no reaction other than his hands clenching into tight fists, and his breathing getting harsher and harsher as his cock slams deep into you, and you clench around him one more time, only to feel him fill you up with his cum. The seed that you need to get pregnant and save your own life.

He doesn’t stop thrusting. His cock is still twitching inside you, and you can still feel the cum threaten to leak out. Dr Kim Taehyung lets out a long sigh of contentment as he expertly tilts the chair so that your hips are slightly raised.

When he’s satisfied, he slowly pulls out, eyes glued to the mess in between your legs. Only a little bit of cum is dripping out, and he reaches for a tissue to clean it up. The way he’s looking at you, a little bit too fondly, makes you realise that this is getting a bit too personal for your liking.

“Blessed be the fruit,” you remind him, and the phrase is like magic. You are all reminded of your roles in this society, and the forbidden act which you have both committed.

Dr Kim Taehyung seems to sober up when he hears this, as he tucks himself back into his pants and attempts to straighten his doctor’s coat.

“May the Lord open. You should… um. Stay here for the next ten to fifteen minutes. The nurses will be in to help you get dressed shortly,” he clears his throat as he lets the privacy curtain fall back into place. “And um… good luck.”

He leaves the room hurriedly, and you close your eyes, squeezing your thighs together and feeling the warmth that his cum leaves behind, feeling like your body is finally yours again.

You don’t know how much time has passed before the nurses come in and help you get dressed, and when you walk out of the room, Yeri makes a pointed remark about how long she had to wait. You follow her without a word to the car, waiting as Driver Jung opens the door for her, then you.

All the while, a secret smile upon your lips as you feel the cum from earlier drip down your inner thigh.

[cuttoothed]

Day 8 of @jonmartinweek for the “AU” prompt.

This week has been such a delight to write for, and it’s the most productive and inspired I’ve been in a long time. I've really enjoyed all the great content coming out of this week. Thanks to the organizers for this wonderful event!

CW here for depiction of depression, though the term itself isn’t used. Depression symptoms are also shown to spontaneously improve over time, though it is stated that this is not a complete or permanent recovery.

*

There is a land with many gods. Gods of war and of peace; of harm and healing; of storms and snows. Gods of life and death; gods of hearth and home. The smallest village has its own small god; the cities have thousands, all clamoring for attention.

There is a valley with a kind and gentle god. He makes sure that the rains fall in spring, and in summer that the sun shines on the fields of growing crops. In winter he tempers the cold winds, gentles the frosts to spare the valley worst of the chill. The people love their god, and trust that he will always care for them.

Until one spring, the rains do not fall, and the clouds do not part to let the sunshine through. A freezing fog rolls in, blanketing the little village and the lands around it; the fields remain frozen, and those few plants that sprout from the frost-bitten earth rot in the clinging damp. The people despair, because their god has never let them down before. Have they done something wrong? Angered him somehow? They will have enough stores to survive one year without harvest, perhaps two; if their god’s kindness does not return by then, they will have to abandon the valley that has been their home for centuries.

The most senior leaders from the village go to speak with the god, in his shrine on the hillside. The god is distressed at their plight, but he tells them he cannot help; his soul is mourning, and he does not know why. He has tried to call on the sun, on the soft rains, but his heart is too sorrowful, and all that comes is fog.

The people of the valley try everything they can think of, to restore their god’s happiness. They bring him gifts, recite stories and songs; they throw a carnival in the foggy village square, with costumes and games and music. They offer to search for anything that will make him happy, if he will only tell them. But the god cannot tell them, and nothing brings him joy, and the fog remains.

*

One day, a scholar comes to the village. Jonathan Sims is from the city, from one of the temples of knowledge, where they have heard about this valley and its inconsolable god. He walks through the cold, mist-shrouded streets, and up to the hillside where the god’s shrine is.

The shrine is a cottage, small and quaint, with lights in its windows and smoke curling from its chimney; it isn’t like any shrine Jon has seen before. He hesitates before knocking on the door, unsure if this could truly be the home of a god. The person who opens the door looks like a man, with a kind face, and rough, home-spun clothing; he is quite unlike the gods of the city, who are sharp and polished and alien. But one look at his eyes tells Jon that this is the god: they are ageless and endless, swirling like silver-gray fog.

“I’m sorry,” says the god, “I’m not really in the mood for visitors at the moment.”

“Please,” Jon says, before he can shut the door. “I’ve brought jasmine tea—I heard you enjoy it?”

The god hesitates a moment, then says:

“All right, you can come in—but just for tea.”

The inside of the cottage is what Jon would have expected from its outside, cozy and cluttered, with a fire crackling in the hearth. The god fetches saucers and cups and brews a pot of the fragrant jasmine tea, and there are little cakes with dried fruit and honey, which the god tells him were a gift from the village.

“I’m not much of a baker myself,” he admits, pouring the tea. Then he asks: “What’s your name?”

“Jonathan Sims—Jon. What, uh, what should I call you?”

“I don’t have a name,” says the god. “The people around here just call me “the god”, and I’ve never thought to ask them for one.”

“You could always choose one for yourself.” The god gives him a curious look, as if that’s not something that had ever occurred to him.

“I suppose that I could,” he says. He takes a sip of his tea. “This is very nice, thank you.”

Jon has never had tea with a god before. The god asks him about the city and his work for the Temple of Beholding, and Jon finds himself talking freely; this god is very easy to talk to. His face is open and kind, and he listens attentively as Jon talks about the city, its people and its gods, about the work of the Temple to gather knowledge, to understand their world.

“Why did the Temple send you to me?” the god asks at last.

“We heard of what happened in the valley—of the fog,” says Jon, and sees guilt flash across the god’s face, the silver-gray of his eyes darkening. “I came to see.”

“Not to try to cheer me, then?” the god asks. There’s a bitter note in his voice.

“No, not to cheer you. Just to speak. To understand.”

“I’m glad you aren’t wasting your time, then,” says the god. “My people have done all they can to lift my sorrow. And I have tried, every way I know how, to send this fog away, to clear the skies, but I cannot—”

He shakes his head in frustration, lines of worry and grief etched across his features. Jon has the sudden impulse to reach out and comfort him; but this is a god, and besides, they’ve scarcely even met.

“I’m sorry that you carry such a burden,” he says. The god looks at him, and his mist-colored eyes are grieved.

“My sorrow isn’t important, only that it causes me to fail my people.” He turns away, his expression pained. “I’m sorry—I shouldn’t bother you with my troubles. It’s probably best that you leave.”

Jon wants to protest, but he thinks it’s probably not a good idea to refuse a god’s request. He sets down his teacup and puts on his coat, and at the door he pauses.

“May I come back tomorrow?” he asks. The god considers, and then nods.

“I would like that,” he says, with a faint hint of a smile.

It’s quite a lovely smile, Jon can’t help noticing.

*

In the village, Jon asks about the god. The god has always been there, he learns. The god has always cared for them, has always ensured their harvests are bountiful and their winters are mild. The people of the valley don’t understand why their god is so unhappy now, but they hope it doesn’t linger too long. They need him to be the joyful, attentive god he has always been; they depend upon it.

The next day, he walks back up to the cottage on the hillside; the door opens to his knock, and the god smiles in greeting. They drink tea by the fire, and Jon asks about the valley—about how it is, when the fog isn’t here. The god talks about the farms and the orchards, the beauty of this place in both summer and winter; he talks about the lives of the people, their joys and their trials, how they rely on him for their wellbeing.

“That sounds like a great responsibility,” says Jon.

“They need me to care for them,” the god says simply. “So that is what I do.”

They talk into the evening, and the god insists Jon stay for supper; a rich stew of root vegetables and herbs. The god smiles shyly when Jon compliments the meal.

“I’m a better cook than a baker,” he says.

It’s coming into night when Jon leaves, and the god gives him an oil lamp to light his way to the village. His fingers brush against Jon’s as he hands him the lamp, and there is a jolt of electric sensation; a reminder that he is still talking to a god.

“Walk safely,” says the god.

“May I come back tomorrow?” Jon asks, and the god smiles, his eyes shining silver-gray.

“I look forward to it.”

*

Jon comes back the next day, and the next day, and the next. Sometimes he and the god talk; sometimes, when the god’s sorrow is too deep for conversation, Jon makes tea and they sit together quietly. Some days they walk in the hills, where the fog coils around the god’s feet like a cat. Jon brings the god the books he’s carried with him from the city, and the god—eventually, shyly—reads Jon a poem that he’s written. Jon is no aficionado, but the soft sincerity of the god’s voice makes something warm curl in his chest.

Their fingers brush over tea cups and the spines of books, each touch sending that little electric thrill through Jon’s nerves, and a warmth that has nothing to do with divinity. He knows it’s foolish—utterly ridiculous—to harbor such feelings for a god. But the god is kind and caring and clever; he sometimes makes terrible jokes, and when they walk, he insists on stopping to greet every shaggy brown cow they see.

The god is also sad, a bone deep, aching sorrow whose roots are unfathomable. He tries to explain it to Jon: he has always felt such sorrow, from time to time, as if all the joys of life were far away, seen from behind glass. But it has never lasted for so long, and it has never before prevented him from fulfilling his duties; he has always been able to push it aside, to do what he must.

That, Jon thinks, is part of the problem; his god is too kind, too devoted, too willing to sacrifice himself for his people.

His god, and when did Jon start to think of him that way? Not in worship, but in growing affection?

*

More than anything, the god loves to hear of Jon’s travels. He has journeyed far and wide in service to the Temple, and the god listens raptly as he describes distant places he has been, sights he’s seen, people he’s met.

“I’ve never traveled anywhere,” the god admits. “It sounds quite wonderful.”

“It can be,” says Jon. “Though it’s best when you have somewhere to return to.”

*

One morning in midsummer, the fog curls denser than ever, and Jon can scarcely find his way to the cottage through the murk. He hurries as fast as he can, worried that something might be astray. He worries more when the god does not open the door to Jon’s knock; Jon wonders for a moment if he might not be home, but they had agreed to walk and visit the cows today. His god would not forget.

He hesitates, then lets himself in.

He finds the god curled by the fire, sitting on the floor with a heavy blanket around his shoulders. His face is drawn and tear streaked, and as Jon approaches another shuddering sob tears itself from his throat, fresh tears flowing from his silver-gray eyes.

“Oh—” Jon drops to his knees on the hearthstone, his hands flying up as if to touch the god’s face, but instead hovering helplessly above his shoulders; they have never touched, but for those accidental brushes. Does he have the right?

“Jon…” the god says, his voice rough and choked. “I’m so sorry, you shouldn’t have to see me this way.”

“Don’t say that,” says Jon, distraught. “Are you well?”

“I’m fine,” says the god, even as another sob shakes his shoulders. “I’m—there’s nothing wrong, not really. I’m just being...selfish. Absorbed in my own foolish melancholy when my people—“

“Forget your people!” Jon snaps, more sharply than he intends, and he sees his god flinch. “Just for a moment, think of yourself. I beg you.”

“My people—this place—they are me,” says the god. “If not for them, what would I even be?”

“You would be dear to me,” Jon says, hoarsely, and the god’s fog-colored eyes go wide, startled. The truth, then, and this time Jon does press a hand to his god’s soft cheek. The touch sends that familiar, tingling thrill through his palm, the feeling that Jon has learned to love.

“Oh,” the god whispers, and his hand comes up to cover Jon’s on his cheek. He leans into Jon’s touch, smiling even as the tears continue to flow.

*

There comes a day, in autumn, that dawns with sunshine and blue skies.

Jon wakes with his god curled beside him in the warm nest of their bed, and watches the light shining in through the window with wonder. It isn’t precisely a surprise: the fog has been lessening these past few weeks, the clouds growing less gray, but still he had not dared to hope that the sun might return—to the sky, and to his god’s heart.

After a time, the god wakes as well—slowly, as he always does—and his tousled head turns towards Jon. His eyes blink open, and their color is the clear blue of summer skies.

“G’morning,” he says sleepily, and Jon’s heart swells with love for him.

“Good morning,” he says. “The sun is out.”

*

The people of the valley rejoice with the return of the sun. This year’s harvest is lost, but they can begin to plan for next spring’s planting. The leaders of the village go to the shrine to give thanks to their god, but the strange scholar from the city answers the door and refuses to let them inside.

“He’s busy,” the scholar says, and shoos them away.

*

“You know that the fog may return, in time?” The god’s fingers twine gently with Jon’s. “I love you more than breath, but love cannot guard against such inborn sorrow. It comes when it wills, regardless of life’s joys.”

“Let it come,” says Jon. “I have loved you in the fog, and I will again. You own my heart, however heavy yours might be.”

He lifts his god’s hand and kisses his fingertips, feeling the buzz of bright sensation against his lips.

“My dear,” his god murmurs. “My heart.”

*

It isn’t long before Jon receives the letter that he knew would come; the fog has lifted and there’s no more to be learned, he is to return to the Temple at once.

He reads the letter once, then burns it.

*

“We should go somewhere,” Jon says, one evening. His god smiles, fingers stroking through Jon’s hair, leaving little trails of electric sensation behind.

“That’s a pleasant fancy,” he says. “I would love to travel with you, see those wonderful places you’ve told me about.”

“Why shouldn’t you?” Jon urges. “Just for a time?”

“I-I couldn’t,” the god stutters. “My people—“

“Your people would carry on without you,” says Jon. “You have given everything that you are to this place and its people for so long; you’ve suffered through pain and sorrow in silence, until you could conceal it no more. You have thought of nothing for yourself, love, and so I must think of it for you.”

His god is staring at him now, his blue eyes wide and wet with tears. Jon grasps both of his hands, feeling the little sparks of divinity dancing across his skin.

“Come away with me,” he pleads. “Be selfish, for a little while.”

“Jon…” His god breathes his name like a prayer, and Jon wonders at the fortune that brought him here. His god smiles, bright and glorious.

“Yes,” he says.

*

They lock up the cottage before they leave, an empty shrine, but only for a time. The spring sun is shining, and in the valley below they can see people working in the fields, planting for their next harvest. The god gives a worried sigh, and Jon takes his hand.

“Your people are well,” he says, gently. “And we won’t be too long away.”

“I know,” says his god, and squeezes his hand. Then he smiles, wry and mischievous. “I had a thought; since we’ll be out in the world, I should choose a name. I expect most people won’t take kindly to calling me god.”

“That may be wise,” Jon agrees, laughing. “Have you thought of the name you might want?”

“Well…” his god says. “I was fond of the protagonist in that novel of yours—The Life and Adventures of Martin Blackwood?”

“Martin Blackwood, eh?” Jon says, considering. His god—Martin now, perhaps—tilts his head quizzically, his blue eyes shining.

“What do you think?” he asks, and Jon smiles.

“I think it suits you.”

[shvdwscng]

"for  once,  not  of  us  has  an  answer."  the  younger  lord  of  day  had  always  a  bit  of  an  inquisitive  mind  to  explore  the  rest  of  prythian,  outside  of  the  solar  courts  he'd  not  seen  much,  not  even  the  seasons  that  left  him  entirely  too  curious  -  for  more  reasons  than  one.  this  place,  was  unlike  anything,  he  was  certain  anyone  of  them  had  seen.  while  the  day  court  was  well  known  for  their  pegasus,  the  blinding  sun  that  could  not  be  compared  to  another  court,  but  this  place,  with  its  ferocious  creatures  -  dragons,  it  seemed  as  if  they  were  in  another  realm  entirely.  "it's  entirely  possible  we  might  not  even  be  on  prythian."  it  was  far  fetched,  but  given  all  they'd  seen  in  the  capital,  it  would  not  be  so  unheard  of.  an  entity  had  trapped  them,  drained  their  magic,  and  now  somehow  they  end  up  here?

the  other's  theory,  even  in  jest,  had  declan  chuckling.  his  coffee-colored  hues  looking  to  the  seas,  that  looked  like  a  normal  ocean,  but  yet  somehow  still  different  as  the  sky  above  them.  "while  i  don't  fit  the  bill  of  a  loser,  i  would  say  that  i'm  tempted  to  try,  just  to  see  my  home."  while  declan  was  keen  on  exploring  this  court,  with  its  beasts,  and  its  strange  skies.  dusky,  but  not  the  sort  of  intensity  the  day  court  was  used  to  seeing,  or  the  rest  of  the  solar  courts.  after  being  in  the  capital  for  a  month,  or  more,  he'd  lost  track  of  the  time,  he  was  now  genuinely  eager  to  go  home,  see  his  nieces  and  nephews.  "although,  i'm  not  certain  about  dipping  into  this  water..."  a  brow  rose  as  he  faced  the  spymaster.  "I  see  you're  as  eager  to  be  home  as  I  am.  after  the  time  we've  been  trapped  in  the  capital,  and  here,  for  gods  know  how  long,  I  don't  think  anyone  of  us  will  be  leaving  our  respective  courts  anytime  soon,  once  we  return."

location: the grassy area before it turns into the sandy beach for: shvdwscng | @shvdwscng character: soro ven

"where is home, do you think?" he asked, as he toed his shoes off and took a step forward so he was standing in the sand. "It's a far cry from home, wherever we are..." he commented, the lute tucked under one arm. he had found that there was a beach, and he had been drawn to what was now the edge of the world. he never thought that he'd want to be so near the water, but somewhere out there, home called him. in the last couple of days, he had found himself talking to people he never would have spoken to before, as he overlooked who came from what court and instead looked for who knew where home was.

"wouldn't it be funny if home was just out of sight and if we tried, we could swim there? we could draw sticks and cast the loser in the water and tell them to swim towards the direction of home ... once we figure out where that is."

[kaijurakunsobs]

Seeds

remember guys! you can ask me to tag them on future updates

Summary: The idea of a soulmate is well known, they will come to you one day, either as a lover or a friend. A single bond made of invisible thread is what will let you feel their emotions, joys and worries, to experience their pain and for them to feel yours.

But beware, for not all blessed unions are meant to be, if you were to hate and push them away, a slow death shall consume them and a garden will bloom within their chest, the flowers will fight and push to feel the sun from the outside, a poetic dead of a broken lover. A beautiful dead for your hollow existence.

You know that your mother was never a good person, or so you have been told.

Miranda meet her when she came from the city to the village, four months pregnant and with the false story of being “sick”, her sickness? She decided to cheat on her rich husband and she wanted to have you away from prying eyes and possibly abandon you here. Your birth giver was upfront about how "Having a bastard could ruin my lifestyle!", Mother Miranda smiled sweetly and had Alcina give your mother refugee and help during the birth, the Lady agreed and housed the woman.

On the night of your birth, Alcina held you in her arms, begging Miranda to let her keep you, but she denied. You were hers and hers alone.

As for your mother? Only Miranda knows what happened to her, but you suspect, that her body is buried somewhere in the forest, alone and forgotten, you couldn’t care any less.

Miranda was the one to raise you, to love you, the one who would be there when you were sick, to kiss your tears away when nightmares woke you up. She was the one to break your body apart and scream in our face how much of a failure you were, just like Alcina or Donna or those pesky lycans running amok outside, but within your failure, she saw minimal success, you were quick to learn how to care for her experiments, which were the signs of cadou rejection and how to treat it, at least, you could be useful until she placed you in the mansion the villagers were building for you.

You have seen so many people been brought to the lab, so many lives being taken for a selfish reason, that you grew numb, there was no anger or pain, you felt no grief when the test subjects saw you and begged for help, you did nothing for there was nothing inside you.

You are surprised when Miranda begins to show interest in a kid, you know he was brought here years ago and somehow had managed to survive the horrors your mother put him through. Interest grew into an obsession and then into pride, hope, you will forever remember how hard Miranda screamed when her golden child came out a failure too, cursing at the skies and asking why? He had been so close to being her perfect little boy and he turned out to be yet another fuck up.

But she doesn’t throw him away, her favoritism shows when she moved him from the medical area into a room in her private chambers, never allowing you to go close to him, slapping you and kicking up a storm whenever she saw you too close to his door, even if you were passing by. But you never resent him, you can’t hate him or her, all you can do is nod and go away.

But curiosity is something hard to get rid of, and so you waited for days almost a month until Mother left to meet up with Alcina, using the moment to sneak into his room. A beautiful room, compared to yours, he had a big bed with a canopy, the thick curtains prevent you from seeing him, it feels like a fairy tale when you part the curtain to peer inside.

Truly like a fairy tale...a beautiful boy lays there, his golden hair is going gray, probably out of stress. He has a couple of scars on his face and some new ones on his arms. You feel like reaching inside and kiss him to break the spell, but it feels...wrong, like if you could tarnish him even further by touching him, like if your mother would appear and toss you aside for laying one of your dirty hands on his skin. No matter how bad you wish to be his Knight and save him, the terror you feel over defying Mother Miranda’s orders makes you stay still.

And then, it happened.

It began as an agonizing stab in your chest, it made you trip backwards painfully slamming your head against the wall, gasping for air when the pain as a needle began to pierce through you slowly making its way to your heart, a pitiful sob left your mouth, rendering you useless while your body overcomes the initial discomfort. It takes all of your willpower to get straight and look up at the ceiling through your tears, the light it's blinding and it leaves you dizzy, almost ready to empty your stomach.

Karl Heisenberg, age eleven, lays on his luxurious-looking bed, his entire body shakes painfully, breaking through his mouth, and the fever that's racking his body is the only thing keeping him from noticing that, his soulmate is standing a couple of steps away from his bed.

But how do you even know this?

Because Miranda told you about the concept of someone blindingly loving you for all eternity, who would be your other half and the missing piece to your broken existence, Dimitrescu once said that those stories were silly little fantasies, that love should be won over and one should prove to be the right person for someone else and not just have it “hand it over”.

You used to dream of the day you would feel the connection between yourself and another person, of being able to experience their joy when their eyes fell on you. But this is far from what you wanted, what you always wished for! All you can feel is pain, radiating from so many places in your body, rendering you useless, overwhelmed with anger, grief, sorrow for “yourself”.

Everything quickly piles up, so consumed by what Karl is feeling that you don’t hear the tray that falls and the porcelain plates that shatter, you vaguely register the sting of Miranda slapping you and the distant sound of her screams.

She drags you out of the room and into the cold world outside her home, across the heartless forest and you wonder...if you might end up like your mother, buried under some tree to be forgotten. But Miranda keeps walking until she throws you at the feet of Lady Dimitrescu, speaking to the tall woman and leaving you under her care, forever.

When you were younger, you used to fear the Lady. She was imposing and so strong, a self-made matriarch, but she's so careful when helping you up and guiding you through her beautiful home, her hands are so kind when she helps you to undress and sit in the tub filled with warm water, racking her fingers through your messy hair...so this is what a mother truly is like?

She only leaves you alone when she goes to fetch anything you could wear, looking displeased when she hands you a maid's uniform "We must send for the seamstress, I cannot have you wearing those shabby clothes" that, for some reason gets you to smile.

Later, her movements are soft as she runs a brush through your hair, the fire makes the wood crack and explode, filling the room with a nice warmth, something you never lacked off but that never truly permeated your body.

"Y/N, care to explain why mother Miranda was so angry, earlier?" you hear the concern in her voice, a bit of worry hidden in a stern tone.

Alcina can see you shrink a bit, as if ashamed of what you had done “I saw the kid mother keeps in her chambers” it comes out like a whisper, scared of Miranda appearing at that moment to slap you again “I think he’s my soul mate, Alcina!”

Lady Dimitrescu chuckles lightly and smiles when you turn around to look at her ”Your soul mate, some dirty man-thing? Oh my sweet girl I hope it isn’t real and you were just revolted by the sight of a man!”

“But I felt his pain and his emotions...it was scary, but maybe he will love me!”

“Just because you can feel what he feels, doesn’t mean everything will be alright. That’s why those romances are so volatile, darling! There’s no real reason for them to work beyond being stubborn and tell yourself that it will work out” the lady is classy and gracious in her movements as she poured herself another glass of wine “That the other person at the end of your bond will fall to their knees the moment they see you, but in reality, they might resent your sole existence and end up killing you!”

“Killing me?” that comes as a surprise, you have never heard of this.

“Yes...a cruel and unjust dead” Alcina brings you to her lap letting one of her hands spread over your small chest with a sorrowful look on her face “Your lungs will get infested with flowers, a bouquet of throe will bloom within your body, each day the garden will grow and fight to see the sun beyond your mouth and it will rob you of all air and kill you in no time”

She sees you wonder about it, a million questions that you wish to ask, everything falling apart when her curious daughters come into the room, moved by the rumors some maids had shared about their mother adopting another child. All too eager to know their new sister.

After that day, the topic is never brought up.

You grow and learn everything under Alcina’s guidance, the woman is hellbent on making a lady out of you. She teaches you how to read and write, about math and how to sing, applauding when you show her the gift the cadou in your stomach gave you, Midas' touch.

Her daughters and your self-appointed sisters, all laugh and joke around you, treat you like if you were another human when you are no different from their mother, another failed creation, a remainder that Miranda was cursed to not have what she wants. But the love of your little family drowns those thoughts, leaving the happiness of your existence in a nice home and the ever-presence of pain and resentment in the back of your head.

As you grow you notice, each cut and wound that leaves a scar on your skin turns to gold when made by you, but looks as pale lines when made by Heisenberg. You can’t help but laugh when the idea of being a piece of pottery repaired via kintsugi pops in your head, and for a moment you ask yourself if Heisenberg also has golden scars to match yours?

You cry the day when you finally leave the castle, trying hard to convey your love for your mother and sisters with hugs and kisses, in low whispers, promises of coming over as much as you can. The Lady kisses your forehead and sends you off with some final words of advice.

"Never lower your head and always do your best, remember you have us and we would never let you fall"

You are eighteen when you become the miracle worker of the village, crafting medicines with alchemy, signing at the church when the congregation asks you to, turning anything into gold with your touch, smiling with grace, and claiming to have been blessed with a precious gift by Mother Miranda to help the poor and keep the village off absolute agony. In the end, everything tastes like vile and ash, the forced smiles and the sweet tone of your voice make you gang behind the long veil that covers your face.

The days when you sing at the church, are the only ones when you can feel all his hatred directed at you, each painful stab making your eyes tear, yet you keep on making the people happy with hymns crafted before you were even born. If you could let him feel how similar your anger for Miranda is, perhaps the pain in your chest would dissipate, but you can't because you are hollow.

Among the villagers you are Lady Y/N L/N, the golden touch child, you are adored and blindly loved, Miranda smiles radiantly whenever she hears nothing but good words from her cattle, how much they dote on you, ready to serve without a thought, the eagerness to work under you. You may have been a failed vessel but you are a success as a flycatcher, bringing the sheep down to the slaughterhouse to be sent to the other Lords.

On meeting day, the pain and emotions that you feel seem to amplify the closer you are to Heisenberg.

As you sit beside your adoptive mother, your smaller hand in hers, while Mother Miranda speaks and praises each one of her children, lingering a bit too much on her golden child. The pressure in your chest grows, it feels like when you submerge in the tub as if your lungs were being crushed under an invisible force, ready to cough and gasp for air.

Across from you, he sits, posture closed and annoyed beyond belief when Miranda asks him to stay a bit longer after the meeting is done, you feel relief when Lady Dimitrescu gets up, opting to ignore Heisenberg in favor of bringing you back to the castle for your scheduled visit.

You two aren't even halfway through your journey back when you notice you are missing something, a small gift for today's reunion, a bag of fine jasmine tea.

"Mother, I need to get back. It seems I misplaced something, you go ahead!"

There's no time for Alcina to respond before you volt back to the church, the soft lace of your veil beautifully flying behind your hurried steps, slowly dropping your speed the closer you get to the entrance of the building, from it you can see Miranda, she as shed her mask off and is touching Heisenberg's face the way you have seen brides or wives touch their husbands' faces.

A pulse of repugnance and despise make you stumble back, pressing your back against the outer wall, it feels like the first time you met him, it's blinding and leaves you disoriented for a second, a hand flies up to your mouth when a wave of nausea hits you. He's not only pissed, he feels filthy and is suppressing a murderous intent behind a mask of indifference.

The sensation grows and grows until it's crushing you. One look up and you see him standing before you, a hand caging you between him and pillar.

"What are you doing here, freak? The tall bitch sent you to spy on me? tell her to fuck off" this isn't the first time you hear his voice, but it feels like it, even if his words are filled with malice, they taste like bitter wine for you.

"NO!...I mean...no, Lord Heisenberg. I came back because I lost something, a small bag"

"So you are afraid the dog stole from you, are you calling me a thief?" your mouth opens to explain to him once more, but the burly man only growls and steps away "Think whatever you want, I can't care any less for whatever the scum thinks of me"

Later, in the solitude of your home, you will call yourself an idiot, asking yourself why you reached for his empty hand when he turned around ready to leave, why you didn't revealed who you were, why you didn't cried when the man slammed your body against the wall.

"DON'T YOU DARE TO TOUCH ME, BITCH!" Heisenberg's tobacco infused breath hits your face, the painful stab of hatred felt like if your body were being torn apart "I CAN'T STAND PEOPLE LIKE YOU, YOU MAKE SICK!"

This time, when he turns around to leave, you don't reach out, you stay there, gasping for hair and coughing like if you were drowning, a slick sensation in your throat makes you gag and cough harder than before, both of your hands are cupped over your mouth, scared at the idea of throwing up.

Thank God you don't.

The moment passes and your body calms down, but your eyes grow wide when you see what made you gag.

A single yellow carnation petal covered in spit rests between your hands.

-----

Yelow Carnation: rejection and disdain

tag list: @happygalaxymilkshake @mightybeeb @kittyb2000

[doodlingadventures]

BOTW2 Theory time!

I may have had a moment of galaxy brain (hours before the nintendo direct and I don’t remember typing it xD) over on twitter and I want to elaborate on the theory I have now that we could see the teaser!

Ok so, after seeing the trailer, I still don’t think it’s gonna be the whole time on the past, but I still think we’re gonna be mind-traveling back in time in some sections, using the memories sistem from the first game. Only, instead of experiencing it as a cinematic, you play through it as the “original character”. If you’ve ever played memories sections on a video game, or the first games of the Assassin’s Creed saga, you know how that goes: you’ve got a clear objective and a few things you cannot do because the character didn’t do them. Obviously Breath of the Wild stands out for the freedom it gives you in completing most tasks, so I think the limitations on this case would just be “don’t die” or “don’t fall from the sky” xDD

I think this because the trailer very pointedly differentiates the Link from the skies from the Link on the ground (or No-Ponytail link and normal Link) using the green garb and the champions garb.

If you check the trailer, you’ll notice that Sky Link always wears green and ground Link wears blue, even if skies Link’s boots sometimes change, both maintaining the “cursed arm” (have you noticed how we never see their face after the cave scene is over?). Maybe it’s because to do the sky stuff you need that special garb, but if you look at the tapestry from the original game

You’ll see that the ancient hero wears blue, white AND green (also the glowy yellow hand). This is why I think present Link is seeing the memories of the ancient hero trought the sky trials (to give them a name). In this case he is not proving himself, like he was during the Sheikah shrines, he is gaining the knowledge/power neccessary to seal Ganon once more. Obviously we’re playing through it, but by videogame logic, that’s how it was originally done because it’s the original character doing it, so we’re learning of it. Maybe we’ll even unlock cinematic memories as the trial is completed or in another way, seeing as that’s how the original also told us part of its story.

I also think green cloth Link is the ancient hero because of how Ganondorf looks.

No, not the dried bacon skin! xD I mean their clothes! They’re both that one shoulder free plus skirt style

You can see sky Link’s brown cloth under the green part. It’s more or less the same style of garb, with the difference of Ganon’s being longer, and more decorated with gold and stuff (which makes sense if Ganon the Gerudo King in this game too, nothing shows your status like jewels).

This detail would technically make sense if they’re from the same era, and, especially, if they’re from the same society/group of people.... <  <

Which takes me to my next part of my theory! And pure speculation territory xD

Ok, the green glow, the cursed arm, the ghost arm. What the hell is this (aside from the obvious substitute of the Sheikah slate) and why is it there?

There are small glimpses of it during the trailer, that the sky constructs seem to work with the same energy of the arm/seal of Ganon

(which, again, sheikah slate 2.0) but, why did it exist, why is just an arm what seals Ganon, and why does the depiction of the ancient hero show him with a glowy yellow hand? Is it their actual arm but with runes, or is it like a prosthetic?

Ok, so, my theory is that it is actually a sort of magic prosthetic. What if the ancient hero lost his arm for a specific reason, and the people that used this green magic (The Zonai maybe) not only gave him a new arm so that he could have two arms again, but for the explicit purpose of stopping and sealing Ganon. Something that seems it’s what’s going to happen to present time Link, the malice takes away his arm, and he gets it replaced by the seal arm.

Maybe, like with present Link, the reason Ancient hero lost his arm too was because of Ganon, but just not in a lost battle or something.

We’ve already seen on the first BOTW that each race and group of people, while living on the same period, they wear different and characteristic styles of clothing. Think the difference between the Hylians and Sheikah, the first wear a more medieval-european style of clothing (mostly) and the second it’s lightly inspired by traditional japanese (and the ninja theme). And when you look at the Gerudo, the Rito or the Zora (what little clothing they wear xD), again, it’s completely different from one another. So it’s not too wild to assume that maybe if Ancient hero and mummy Ganon have a similar clothing style, they were part of a same group. Which is curious because we know this Ganon is Gerudo, he wears gerudo symbols on jewels and clothing, and ancient hero was almost certainly Hylian, given what we know of him.

This could be because just like in Ocarina of Time Ganon feigns loyalty to the royal family of Hyrule to later seize power. OR, maybe it’s because (bear with me, I’m just having fun here xDD) ancient hero was part of Ganon’s army?

On the first trailer we could see a mural that shows someone marching on a horse, with long hair and the gerudo symbol on his back, followed by what looks like soldiers.

So it’s probably Ganon with his army traveling or conquering or other stuff. And maybe, Ancient hero was part of that army. What if, just like in the present Ganon’s malice takes away Link’s arm, Ganon took away Ancient hero’s arm?

Why tho? Well, maybe in his endless thirst for power, Ganon did something that collided with ancient hero’s morals, and he stood up to him?

(Sorry I’m using this one, but I don’t know how to better portray this idea. Also it’s much more juicy and dramatic if Link and Ganon were once friends xDD Just swap bravery for courage. Yes JKRO sucks for what she has said and done)

What if, at that moment, the triforce of courage showed on ancient hero’s hand (it has shown both in his right and left hand in diffferent games, so why not the right hand in this occassion), and Ganon, recognizing the threat, chopped off the ofending arm and left him for dead, prompting all the events that would lead to the sealing of the calamity?

Just a thought xDD

What do you think? Too far fetched? Maybe a bit of possibility? Will Zelda be allowed to DO STUFF INSTEAD OF HAVING TO EB RESCUED AGAIN??? Let’s see what Nintendo gives us, I can’t wait for 2022 to arrive!

[let-the-dream-begin]

In My Daughter’s Eyes Chapter 27: Vortex

Chapter 26

Read on AO3

Vortex: a mass of swirling water that draws everything to it

——

In late August, with September right around the corner, Claire and Faith were about to experience their first hurricane. Claire had experienced all levels of terrifying weather with Uncle Lamb out in the field, including floods, sandstorms, mudslides, and nearly every other manner of natural disasters. Hurricanes, however, had eluded them. They’d only gone to South America one time, and they’d merely seen some heavy rainfall.

Claire had been keeping her eye on the news, seeing how hurricane Matthew was affecting other areas along the east coast. She shuddered to think of them even losing power, let alone anything actually disastrous happening. All news and weather outlets were assuring that by the time it hit the island, it would have lost most of its power, so the storm wouldn’t be devastating, but it would do damage nonetheless.

Claire was doing another scan of the weather channel (which Faith did not appreciate) before work when her phone rang. Jamie.

“Sassenach?”

“This is she.”

“Good morning, lass. Sleep well?”

“I did, is everything alright?”

“Aye, fine. Just wanted to check in. The storm is gonna hit tomorrow; wanted to make sure ye were prepared.”

“Prepared enough,” Claire said, throwing a bar and a yogurt into her purse. “I’ve gotten the bread and milk, as they say. Stocked up.”

“Aye, that’s good. Are ye prepared for losing power?”

“Flashlights are ready with spare batteries and all. Portable charger for the iPad.”

“What about fer you?”

“Oh, I have to be at the hospital before it starts and then stay. It runs on a generator so I’ll be good with a regular charger.”

“Wait, what d’ye mean, stay?”

“Well, I’m considered an emergency worker so I can’t take off. I’m going to have to sleep there if the roads are flooded or blocked with trees.” Claire zippered her purse as she flitted back into the living room, then started pulling on her shoes.

“Ye could be there for days, Sassenach.”

“I know.”

“What about Faith?”

The little girl in question barreled into her as if on cue, waiting for her goodbye. “One second, Jamie. Yes, time for goodbye hugs.” Claire crouched down and gave her daughter a squeeze and a kiss. “Be good for Mrs. Lickett. Yes? Okay, bye-bye.”

With one final kiss and a farewell to Mrs. Lickett, Claire was out the door. “Sorry, what were we talking about?”

“What’re ye gonna do wi’ Faith while ye’re at the hospital?”

“Oh,” Claire said, opening her car and sliding into the driver’s seat. “I’m dropping her off at the Abernathy’s with a few provisions before work tomorrow. After I’ve taped all the windows, of course,” she added wryly.

“She’ll be alright?”

Claire sighed as she started the car. “She’s going to have to be.”

Her voice wavered, and she cursed herself.

“She’s never spent the night away from home. Will she no’ get upset?”

“I don’t really have much of a choice.” She was not defensive or angry, but resigned, sad. She didn’t want to leave Faith at someone else’s house, but she could not very well ask Gail to live with her toddler and child in her small apartment for an indeterminable amount of time. The fact that they’d opened their home to Faith was kind enough. She couldn’t very well ask it of Mrs. Lickett, either. Her children were older, but she still shouldn’t be away from them for that long during a potentially dangerous storm.

Jamie was silent on the other end, and as Claire turned onto the main road, something clenched in her throat. He couldn’t be upset with her, could he? He couldn’t be judging her decision, condemning her for planning to dump her child off during a natural disaster? Logic told her that of course he wouldn’t, but she was so god damned insecure about it all herself that she could not be calmed.

“You still there?”

“Aye,” he answered quickly. “Sorry, I was thinking.”

Claire swallowed. “What about?”

He paused again. “Tell me to shut my gab at any point going forward,” he began uncertainly.

Claire’s brow furrowed. “Ehm, alright…”

“What if…what if I stayed wi’ her. In her own home.”

Claire was gobsmacked. Her mouth actually dropped open in surprise.

“Please tell me no if ye’re truly no’ comfortable, Claire. I mean it. I ken it may be too soon, and I understand. I just thought to offer — ”

“Jamie,” Claire cut him off. “It’s okay…I…” She blinked away tears. “Would you really be alright doing that?”

“Aye,” he said quickly, perhaps a bit too quickly. “Anything I can do to make it easier fer her. It’s gonna be scary.”

Claire swallowed thickly. “She’s heard thunderstorms before.”

“I’m sure. But this willna be like anything she’s ever experienced. And Gail is lovely, truly, she’s a blessing fer ye both, but she’s…she’s no’ you.”

“And she’s not you,” Claire said, finishing for him what he likely was thinking but would never say.

“Claire, I’d never presume —”

“Well I would,” Claire said. “There’s no denying you have the experience that Gail lacks, Jamie. And Faith trusts you. And I trust you.”

He was silent, likely processing what she said. Claire turned into the employee parking lot.

“Besides,” Claire said with a chipper tone that was only slightly forced. “It’ll be good for her to have you all to herself. You’ve never been alone with her before.”

She heard him chuckle. “Aye. Ye think she’ll like that?”

Claire put her car in park, and her heart swelled, warming her from the inside out. “I really think she will.”

——

Jamie arrived the following morning with a duffle bag and a backpack. The sky was already gray, the air thick with the oncoming storm, the wind picking up. He’d half expected the skies to open up on his way there.

The door opened, and his heart cracked. Claire’s sweet, lovely “hello” included a smile, but he could see that frantic look in her eye. She was close to tears. He greeted her gently and then addressed the bouncing, squealing thing below them.

“Ah, yes, hello, wean.” He cupped her head gently to stop her bouncing. “I’m happy to see you, too, lass. Can ye fetch ballerina Minnie Mouse? I’d like to see her if ye dinna mind.”

Like a shot, she was off, eager to please Jamie, and Jamie pulled Claire into his arms. She clung to him tightly, breathing deeply into his neck.

“It’s times like these,” she began shakily, “that I believe Frank was right.”

His brow furrowed. “Whatever d’ye mean?”

“That I should’ve given it up, that I still should.” She sniffled. “I don’t know if I can leave her for several days during…during what they’re saying it’s going to be…”

“It’s alright, Sassenach.” He kissed the top of her head, and then Faith emerged from her room, waving the stuffed animal above her head. “Ah, thank ye, lass. What about…” He wracked his brain, trying to remember any of the dozens of toys she’d shown him. “Daisy Duck? Can I see her?”

She was off again, and Claire laughed wetly against him.

“Listen to me, Claire Beauchamp.” Jamie pulled far enough away so that he could tilt her chin up and look her in the eye. “Ye’re a doctor because it is what God put ye on this Earth to do. Ye’re a damn fine one, from what I gather. Ye’re going to help lots of people in the next few days, people that might have been much worse of wi’out ye.”

“What about the baby that He gave me?” Claire said hoarsely. “The baby with…so much that she needs from me…”

“It’s not just you,” Jamie said, with the most careful combination of firmness and gentleness he can muster. “No’ anymore.”

Claire rested her forehead against his, breathing deeply. “It’ll be alright,” he assured her, Faith puttering back in with the next toy. He praised her quietly, tucking Daisy under his arm with Minnie. “I will do everything in my power to see that she’s alright these next few days.”

“I know,” Claire said, then pressed her lips to his. “I know.”

Faith was reaching up, bouncing again impatiently. Jamie handed her back down her toys; evidently, she did not like them out of place for very long.

“I can’t thank you enough for this,” Claire said, squeezing his hands. “I think I’d be beside myself if I left her away from home. Well,” she laughed dryly, “more so than I already am.”

“It is an honor to ease yer burden, mo ghraidh.” He lifted their joined hands and kissed her knuckles fervently. 

Claire led him around the apartment to show him one last time where everything was kept; Faith’s vitamins and nighttime medicine, snacks, candles, spare batteries, matches. Jamie had remembered, but he let her show him all of it again to ease her mind. He knew it helped her feel like she had more control over the situation.

“Once the power goes out,” she said, gathering her own duffle bag with her overnight essentials. “Either soybean butter and jelly, cold cuts from that cooler that’s still in the fridge for as long as they’ll keep, or the spaghetti-o’s. Just pretend you’re using the microwave or something and she’ll never know the difference.”

Jamie nodded seriously, though he’d remembered all that, too.

“And watch her with the fridge. She’ll keep it open and stare in there looking for something which is bad enough when there is power. Make sure she doesn’t let the insulated coolness out if you can help it. Though if it’s gone for too long it’s a moot point.”

“Right. Got it.” Jamie nodded curtly. A large gust of wind howled outside, rattling the windows.

“Jesus.” Claire shuddered.

“Ye’d better get going before ye get stuck in the oncoming downpour,” Jamie said.

“Right.” Claire froze in the middle of the living room, her eyes glued to Faith, sitting cross-legged with Angus’s head in her lap, calmly stroking his fur. Jamie’s heart strained, and Claire looked like she might cry again. She exhaled heavily and crouched down next to Faith.

“Hey, baby.” She cupped her little head and smiled. Faith kept her attention on Angus, and Claire gently tapped her nose. “Can you look at me, Faith?” She did not, and so Claire took her hands off of Angus and held them between hers. Somewhat annoyed, Faith looked up at Claire, obviously waiting for her hands to be released. “Hi,” Claire said. “Remember what we said? Quiet hands, quiet feet, and quiet mouth for Jamie.” She pointed to each mentioned body part. “And listening ears on.” Claire poked each of her ears, one after the other. “Mummy will be gone for a few days, but Jamie is going to play with you, and keep you safe. It’s all going to be okay. It might get very dark, or very loud, and there might not be any tellie. But Jamie is going to make sure you’re okay. Yes?”

Faith moaned impatiently, and it was unclear if she was listening.

Jamie is going to make sure you’re okay.

Jamie’s chest involuntarily puffed out, and his back straightened. He silently and solemnly vowed to do just that.

“I’m going to miss you, lovie.” Claire cupped both of Faith’s cheeks. “I love you.” She held up the sign, and Faith mirrored her as always, pressing their foreheads together.

“I’m going to call every day. I’ll talk to you on the phone. I promise.” Claire pulled Faith in  for a hug, squeezing her tightly. “Big goodbye hugs,” she whispered into her hair.

When Claire released her, she stood up with a heavy sigh. Jamie was holding her duffle bag, and he walked her to the door.

“Please be careful,” Jamie said. “Text me when ye get there.”

“I will.”

He kissed her deeply, pressing her tightly to him. When their lips parted, he looked into her eyes, those swimming pools of amber and honey. On his tongue was something he’d known, something he’d been burning to unleash from within him since April.

I love you.

Instead, he swallowed thickly and kissed her forehead. “Drive safe, Sassenach.”

With one final squeeze of his hand and a reassuring smile, she was gone. Jamie ran a hand over his face before peeking out the window to make sure she pulled out of the driveway. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to tell her. Christ, he’d wanted to reply with it the second he watched that video; he’d wanted to tell her that day in the office, he’d wanted to tell her on the ferris wheel, the carousel, he’d wanted to tell her when she fell asleep and drooled on his shoulder halfway through The Godfather, he’d wanted to tell her when he’d finally positioned himself between her legs and entered her, and felt so completely fulfilled and complete, and every time he was in that position thereafter.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Not until she was ready to hear it.

He knew she was scared; no matter how well this was going, he knew she was still worried and paranoid. He wouldn’t rush her.

A giggle pulled him out of that train of thought, and he realized that Claire’s car was long gone. It had also already started to rain, and it would definitely get nasty soon. He turned to see Faith grinning impishly down at Angus, who was licking Faith’s open palm over and over. This was something she did often, put her palm right at his snout and wait for him to oblige her. Jamie supposed she liked the tickling sensation. He smiled and made his way to the couch, sitting down and watching Faith with her loyal companion for a while.

Claire had given him a whole list of things that Mrs. Lickett usually does with Faith while Claire is gone for the day. There was play-doh, the big clunky legos (both good for fine motor), the flashcards for identifying signs, and of course coloring. On the list, Claire wrote that when Faith colored with Mrs. Lickett, Mrs. Lickett always — underlined several times — signed the color that Faith picked up. Color identification would be a big deal once she started school.

Something else that Jamie knew would come once school started was the school district-provided tablet for text to speech communication. Claire had been recommended speech therapies to get a head start on that, but she’d turned them all down, insisting that it was very important to her that Faith know how to sign before relying solely on the screen. And since Faith had proven capable, she’d stuck to that.

It amazed Jamie how Claire somehow just knew what was best for her child. Jamie saw all too often at the stables parents that had no idea what they were doing. Which was understandable and nothing to be judged about. But when he’d reach out, recommend additional services, hint that they might get more out of equine therapy if they approached certain things a different way, they didn’t want to hear it. It was hard to watch those kids regress because their parents weren’t willing to set their pride aside and admit they weren’t aware of something. But his reach only extended so far, and if he was going to sleep at night, he had to let those things off his conscience.

With Claire, if someone offered her advice, she could plainly tell them that she’d already researched that and had either tried it or decided it was not going to work, but thank you very much. Prompt speech therapy, for instance. If Jamie had a nickel every time Claire complained to him that yet another person had recommended Faith try it, he’d be quite the rich man. Prompt speech involved a lot of touching, and Faith would certainly not be okay with that. Even if it meant her daughter would never say a word, Claire would not put her through it. Not even an eval.

And Jamie admired the hell out of her for it.

After letting Faith continue with Angus for a bit, Jamie intervened and ushered her into the kitchen for some “structured play with learning benefits,” as Claire had referred to it. Faith, having never done any of the listed activities with Jamie, wanted to do every single one. They went on even longer than Jamie had anticipated she would sit still for because playing these games with Jamie was a novelty. They built a castle with a wall with her legos, made several snakes and desserts out of play-doh, colored, and worked on signs. Faith was not satisfied until every single card was flipped over and worked on. Jamie knew full well that she did not insist on such a thing with Mrs. Lickett. It made him grin smugly and melt at the same time.

It was pouring in earnest by the time Jamie finished getting through Faith’s stack of flashcards. Instinctually, he checked his messages from Claire, even though she’d told him hours ago by now that she’d gotten in safely. The wind was picking up, too, turning into a constant roar.

“Ye’re brilliant, Princess Faith,” Jamie said, giving her a thumbs up. “Ye did such great work today, lass. I’m so proud of you.”

She smiled cheekily and then reached for her crayons and princess coloring book again. Rain suddenly pelted against the kitchen window, the wind having changed direction to blast the water right into the glass. Faith dropped her crayon with a startled cry and clamped her hands over her ears. Jamie had to admit it even startled him.

“It’s alright, lass,” he crooned, getting out of his chair to kneel beside hers. He stroked her back soothingly. “Just the rain. It’s alright.”

She kept her eyes squeezed shut and her hands on her ears, so Jamie switched tactics. He scooped her in his arms, cradling her to his chest. He brought her out of the kitchen and deposited her on the couch. If the wind was blowing into the window in the back of the apartment, perhaps a similar noise would not happen in the front windows. He called Angus over when Faith still would not move or open her eyes, and after a few minutes of deep pressure, she at least opened her eyes. Jamie was then able to coax her into picking a DVD. They were on borrowed time until they lost power, so he thought it best to take advantage of the tellie while they still had it.

She ended up choosing a Winnie the Pooh movie, jabbing at it with her elbow, hands still on her ears. She didn’t even take them off to put the movie in the player, though she stood by and watched every move Jamie made as he did so instead. As the DVD started playing the previews before the “play” screen, Faith got behind Jamie and started pushing against his legs. He took this as his cue to walk, and he allowed her to push him into her bedroom. He knew immediately what she wanted. He smiled widely as he stepped into the room and picked up the enormous “Pooh Bear” that he’d won for her at the carnival. Faith hummed in excitement and bounced a little as Jamie carried the giant bear into the living room and deposited him on the couch. She skipped back into her room and Jamie gathered the rest of her Hundred-Acre Wood friends, arranging them around their giant leader.

A few minutes into the movie, Faith finally took her hands off her ears and began enjoying the movie in earnest. The wind continued to howl and the windows continued to rattle, but the movie drowned most of it out for now, as did Faith’s giggling and humming along to the little songs. At one point, she moved all of the little toys into Jamie’s lap and tipped over the giant bear so she could lay bodily on top of him. It really was practically a mattress underneath her. She nuzzled further in, humming contentedly and smiling broadly, bottom lip caught between her teeth. Jamie smiled down at her, her eyes fixed on the screen, and then he brought his legs up on the couch, cross-legged, so he could fit every toy she’d given him in his lap, holding onto them with as much care as he would if Faith herself was in his lap.

The power went out before the movie finished, close to the end if Jamie deduced correctly. Faith immediately sat up, nearly toppling off the couch because of her uneven position on the bear. Jamie felt dread settling in his gut, and he immediately wanted to kick himself. He’d made the wrong move, and he was about to pay dearly for it.

Faith slid off both bear and couch and marched right up to the tellie. She began pushing all the buttons on the tellie and the DVD player, the volume of her whining increasing. Jamie set aside her toys and approached her tentatively.

“Faith, it’s alright. Remember what Mummy said? That there might be no tellie?”

With a great wail, she began slapping her hands against the television screen, and Jamie grabbed her wrists.

“No, lass, ye canna do that. No hitting.”

She began screaming in earnest, jerking against him with all her might.

“I’m sorry, Faith. The tellie is all done. I’m sorry.”

Fat tears rolled down her cheeks as she continued to pull against his grip on her wrists. He swiftly picked her up under the arms and deposited her away from the electronics. She pointed at the tellie, bouncing impatiently, wailing all the while.

“Aye, lass. I ken. It’s my fault, I’m sorry.” Jamie genuinely hated himself at the moment. He thought they’d have time before the power was gone, he thought that it would be good for her to be able to watch a movie that wasn’t downloaded to her tablet. He should’ve thought of this possibility, and he should’ve known that she’d be grossly unhappy if the movie was unable to finish. It would drive her mad for hours, knowing that the movie was sitting unfinished in the player. She couldn’t even get it out of the player to put away. One of her biggest OCD triggers had gone off, and it was his fault.

Jamie wracked his brain. Claire had said if she were melting down to either give hugs and cuddles, or to deposit her in her room and let her scream it out. That is if Angus didn’t do the trick. Jamie tried for the hug, but narrowly avoided a swinging fist. Clearly she blamed him for the tellie’s sudden malfunction. As she should, he thought miserably.

He called Angus over just as Faith started swinging her arms with abandon, and Jamie caught one of her fists before it collided with a picture frame on the table behind the couch. She pushed at his hand, punched his arm, pulled backward, but Jamie knew that if he let go, she’d dive right for trouble and possibly break something. Angus arrived just as Faith sank her teeth into the skin of Jamie’s hand.

He swore in Gaelic, and then he pinched her nose shut, causing her mouth to immediately open as a reflex. Jamie shook his hand, hissing in pain, but he didn’t skip a beat. He maneuvered himself to be behind Faith, and he scooped up the photos in her reach. He stood back and let Angus do his job, shoving his bleeding hand into the pocket of his shorts to avoid dripping anywhere else. At least if it stained, it wouldn’t be where anyone could see.

Angus kept hopping up on his hind legs so he could brush his snout against Faith’s screaming face, gently patting her chest with his paw before falling to all fours again. Every time, Faith pushed him away with an indignant yelp, but he kept trying until she sank to the ground with him, tightly squeezing his neck. Jamie sighed with relief when girl and dog were settled in a pile on the floor. He took the opportunity to put a bandaid on his hand before it soaked through his pockets.

When he returned after being in the bathroom for mere seconds, Faith’s screaming had been reduced to a heartbreaking, whimpering sobbing. Angus used his front paws to stop Faith from scratching and hitting her face or pulling at her hair, and he started licking her palms to keep them otherwise occupied. Jamie sighed and quietly made his way to the kitchen, where he could sit down and still see her through the doorway. He kept his eyes glued to her, his leg jiggling and his left hand tapping on his thigh. The urge to press her to him for comfort was painfully strong. Ignoring the urge to comfort was just as painful as it had been with her mother, all those months ago, before he’d ever really held her.

Jamie’s eyes must have glazed over, either with tears or weariness, because when he blinked, Faith was standing right in front of him, still weeping quietly.

“Hi, leannan. What d’ye need?” He restrained himself from touching her. Her hands were laced in Angus’s fur, sitting dutifully beside her. “What d’ye need, Faith? Show me?”

She inhaled slowly with a great tremor, and on the exhale, she put her arms up in front of her with a long, drawn out whimper.

I need a hug.

He heard her, loud and clear.

“Oh, lass…” Jamie’s voice broke, and he practically sprang forward. “Come here…I’ve got ye.” He scooped her into his lap and hugged her tightly, rocking gently. “It’s alright, now. Ye’re alright. I’ve got ye. Dinna fash, now. It’s alright.”

Claire had said that during a meltdown she wouldn’t want to be touched, but that perhaps after, she’d need to be held. Jamie had thought about it, then brushed it off. This was his fault. It was clear she’d blamed him for the mishap. She’d bitten him, swatted at him. She’d take her comfort from Angus until she was calm, and then she’d ask to be fed. That was what he’d thought.

But here she was, clinging to his shirt and sputtering into his neck, wetting his collar.

“I know, mo chridhe, I know…” he soothed. “I’m sorry, leannan. It’s alright. I’m sorry…”

He continued to whisper such platitudes, in both English and Gaelic, rocking her and holding her tightly. He knew how silly his train of thought had been. He’d seen with his own eyes this exact same pattern of kids coming back again and again despite how much it seemed like they hated their parents or guardian. He was always the first to assure a parent that it was never personal, that the child just could not see past their distress and only wanted to swat at whatever was in the way.

But even the thought of Faith resenting him had made him sick, however briefly it came to him. He couldn’t mess this up; god, he just couldn’t.

She burrowed in further, nuzzling her wet cheek against his neck, and then her hands came up to caress his beard stubble. Jamie smiled involuntarily. He knew she liked how that felt. He let her rub her hands and arms all over his cheeks, even shaking his head back and forth so she could feel it across her skin.

And then, after an indeterminable amount of time, she was quiet.

——

Claire [9:22]: Made it here alive. Just in time it would seem. Have a good day. xx

Jamie [9:25]: glad to hear it. stay safe. good luck. xx

Jamie [10:03]: cheerios and a banana for breakfast. made sure she had milk too.

Jamie [10:03]: not in the cereal, mind. I ken she doesn’t like that.

Jamie [10:37]: *photo attachment*

Jamie [10:37]: look at the size of that castle :)

Jamie [11:16]: *photo attachment*

Jamie [11:16]: “snakes. why did it have to be snakes.”

Jamie [11:16]: since i ken you’re too busy to answer, i’m just going to trust that you got that reference.

Jamie [11:17]: don’t panic, they’re made of play-doh. lol.

Jamie [11:56]: *photo attachment*

Jamie [11:56]: the art gallery we’ve created today

Jamie [12:32]: *photo attachment*

Jamie [12:32]: the gang’s all here for movie time. bet ye can’t guess what we’re watching ;)

Jamie [12:32]: got through a bunch of signs cards today btw. she did great. very proud.

Claire [12:46]: Thanks for all the updates. Faith looks so happy in all these. You’re amazing Jamie. Thank you.

Jamie [2:17]: power went out a bit ago. wee meltdown, but she’s alright now. eating soybean butter and jelly. already picked oreos for her treat.

Claire [2:18]: I saw the word meltdown. Do you need me to call? Are you okay? Any blood or bruises?

Jamie [2:19]: everything is fine. angus did a great job. i swear she’s perfectly content now. back to work missy.

Jamie [3:24]: *photo attachment*

Jamie [3:24]: needed to hold the flashlight while she did this so i couldn’t help. shame. i love puzzles. can’t believe how dark it got.

Jamie [3:24]: she’s got the headphones on now. wind is really loud. hope everything is ok by you.

Claire [4:04]: I’ll be able to call at 7:30. If she starts asking for me, tell her that.

Jamie [4:05]: aye aye captain

Jamie [6:02]: dinner promptly at six. spaghetti-os.

Jamie [6:55]: *photo attachment*

Jamie [6:55]: a wee faerie in her den.

——

Jamie tucked his phone back in his pocket after sending the latest message, smiling contentedly. The “faerie den” was a fort of sheets in the living room, tall enough for Jamie to sit up. Draped around the edges above their heads were battery powered string lights that Jamie had picked up a few days ago. He’d also blown up the air mattress that he’d known Claire had (with a battery powered air pump), put on a fitted sheet, and piled it with blankets and pillows from both Faith’s bed and Claire’s bed. Claire had told him to sleep in her bed, so he’d assumed the pillows would be up for grabs to do with as he pleased.

Faith was absolutely enamored with it. The smallness of the space made her feel cozy and safe, and it also made it easy to illuminate, so it was very bright in there in an apartment that was otherwise very dark. The worst of the storm was happening right at that moment, and it was dark as night at six in the evening in August. If Faith hadn’t been wearing her headphones, she’d be inconsolable at the sound of the wind, the occasional crack of a tree, the rattling of the windows. But she was blissfully unaware, petting her dog in her faerie den, tablet at the ready.

After Claire’s phone call, Jamie pulled out his flashlight and led Faith to the bathroom to brush her teeth. On their way there, she tried turning on every light switch they passed, growing increasingly distressed the more she encountered that would not work. When they reached the bathroom, she flipped the switch an uncountable amount of times and then started crying. No matter what Jamie did, she would not allow him to brush her teeth; she just sat on the floor with Angus and cried inconsolably. Jamie brushed his own teeth to the sound of her wailing, and she only got off the floor when Jamie pushed aside one headphone and she heard the words “faerie den” in her ear.

She calmed down very quickly after she was settled back in her bright little safe space. Jamie quickly shot Claire a text that teeth-brushing did not go very well, but that he’d snagged the Risperdal and dropper from the medicine cabinet so he could give it to her without reminding her that the lights weren’t working.

Apparently, she’d be sleeping in the fort tonight. Jamie had anticipated the possibility, which is why he’d included the mattress, blankets, and pillows. The question was whether or not he’d be sleeping in there.

The answer came shortly after when Faith had fallen asleep in his lap at the end of the movie she’d put on for them to watch on her tablet: Brave. Jamie couldn’t hear since she was using her headphones to continue to block out the storm, but he watched it playing, laughing when she did, pointing at the screen and signing to her occasionally. It was a whole new experience, watching her watch it rather than watching it with her. The only audio he got was from Faith herself, humming along to the music. It made his heart ache with love.

They were nestled in a veritable nest of blankets and pillows when Faith fell asleep in his crossed legs, head resting against his heartbeat. For a moment, he told himself he would simply stay in that position all night, that it would be worth it if it brought her a good night’s sleep after the chaos of the day. But then his hip started cramping in the open position, and he remembered he hadn’t given her Risperdal yet. So he had to move. 

Cradling her like a tiny infant, he lifted her off his lap and laid her gently atop a free section of the air mattress. He commanded Angus to lay beside her and left the fort to put on the sleep clothes he’d brought in his duffle bag. Just as he got his shirt off, Faith started whining. He quickly finished dressing and crawled back into the fort.

“I’m here, leannan. I’m right here.”

Right. So he was definitely sleeping in there.

After coaxing her to take the dropper of her medicine, Jamie swiped a pillow off the air mattress. She began whining again.

“Come on, lass. I’m no’ going anywhere. See?” He settled in on his pillow, facing the air mattress and looking up at her. “Go back to sleep.”

She did, and Jamie flicked off three out of the four strings of lights inside the fort before laying down again, getting as comfortable as he could on the floor.

——

Jamie [9:02]: she’s asleep. we watched brave in the fort and she crashed. made sure she had her medicine.

Claire [9:11]:  Of course you watched Brave. That’s the one she associates with you.

Claire [9:11]: I’m in bed now myself. These cots are not nearly as comfortable as my bed. Especially when you’re in it.

Jamie [9:11]: don’t start talking about me being in your bed. not when i can’t do anything about it.

Claire [9:12]: ;)

Claire [9:12]: Really though, I’m about to crash myself. Sleep well, darling. Give Faith a kiss for me.

Jamie [9:12]: what about me?

Claire [9:12]: I think you know exactly what you can give yourself. From me.

Claire [9:12]: ;)

Claire [9:12]: Goodnight, Jamie.

Jamie: [9:12]: goodnight sassenach

[waiting4inspiration]

Her Eyes IX:  Into the Mountains

Summary: You choose to stay with your father and say goodbye to Geralt. Even though that was the plan since the beginning, it’s not a easy goodbye. Your father starts to teach you things you haven’t been taught on your way to the city buried in the mountains.

Warnings: angst, strong language, this will have a happy ending I promise, magical elements, mentions of bullying(?), little fluff, daughter-father bonding time

Word Count: 2,223

Her Eyes Masterlist II The Witcher Masterlist

It’s a silent journey. Geralt riding a long way in front of you and your father circling the skies above you, leaving you with your horse as your only company. Still, talking isn’t even a thought on your mind now. With your decision being made to stay with your father and live in the secret city filled with people like you, you’re not sure how you will say goodbye to Geralt after what happened last night. 

Before your father showed up and saved both you and the Witcher from those Magic Hunters, you had the mind of forgetting about being with people like you where you were so sure you’d carry on living your life alone because you refuse to be tossed around from man to man, finding out who will be compatible to you so you can have a family and just travel with Geralt. Now, with your father in the picture and his offer to teach far more than any Mage with towers filled with books can teach you… Everything has changed. You’ll have the family you wanted now that you have your father. And security for being hunted for your blood. 

You just hate having to say goodbye to someone you’ve grown so fond of. Someone to who you’d be willing to give your heart. Someone who might actually have your heart already. 

Coming to the foot of the mountain you had been traveling towards all day breaks you from your thoughts and makes your heart leap into your throat as your father lands slightly behind you, startling your horse a bit. “This is where we must part ways, Witcher,” Armen says, your head turning over your shoulder to look at him for a moment before you look back at Geralt. “(Y/n), this is where you say your goodbyes. To me, or to Geralt.”

You open your mouth to speak but stop when you hear Geralt dismounting his horse. He looks up at you, waiting for your reply, but you close your mouth again and drop your head between your shoulders. Then, you look up at your father, tears almost brimming your eyes and you gently nod your head at him. And when you look at Geralt again, he can see what it is you decided. He thought that it would be your decision. 

Dismounting your own horse and leading it towards Geralt, you clear your throat so that when you speak, your words won’t break. “Thank you,” you end up whispering, not trusting yourself enough to speak confidently. “For everything you’ve done for me. I was told to give you this upon my arrival.” Digging into the pouch on your saddle, you pull out a bag of coins to hand to him. 

It’s his payment from your uncle. Geralt had forgotten about this, that it started out as a job, and takes the bag from you with a small chuckle to himself. “I hope you’ll get everything you wanted,” he grunts, looking up from the bag to you as his smile falls. 

“I won’t. Not without…” You stop, swallow past the lump in your throat and breathe out a sigh to stop yourself from shedding any tears. “Here. Take my horse too. No doubt the mountain path is no place for a horse and he’ll fetch you a good price too,” you say, handing him the reins you hold and forcing a smile. “Especially if you mention that he’s-”

Geralt doesn’t let you finish speaking before he leans down, closing the space between you and him and pressing his lips to yours, his hand coming to touch the side of your face. You lean into his touch, kiss him back as you snake your arm around his neck to hold him close one more time. You thought he would be angry at you for your decision. But this doesn’t seem like anger. 

Armen with a soft grumble, as a cold wind blows down from the mountains making you slowly pull away from Geralt. But he holds you close for a few moments, his forehead resting against yours as his thumb caresses your cheek. “I hope, one day, I will see you again,” he whispers.

“I hope so too, Witcher.” Slowly, you pull away from him and turn to walk towards the path that leads into the mountains. 

With the sounds of your footsteps walking away from him, Geralt works on attaching the reins of your horse to his saddle so the horse can follow him, unaware that you have turned back to look at him one last time before venturing into the mountains, your father taking flight once again after a brief farewell and conveyance of gratitude for bringing you this far. 

Then, Geralt looks down at the bag of coin in his other hand. He opens it to quickly check how much he has been paid. But, on top of the golden orens lies a silver pendant with a dragon engraved in the metal. Slowly, he pulls it out of the bag by its chain and recognizes the older pendant you received from the traveler that told you of the Dragon-born city in the mountains. 

He turns to look at you over his shoulder but finds he is standing alone. He takes a deep breath, turns his head back around, and then quickly mounts his steed. Now, the best thing for him to do is put this place behind him. 

It’s quiet in the mountains. All you hear is the wind howling as it blows through the almost narrow path you travel and the flaps of your father’s wings as he flies overhead. The path has a few difficulties along the way, especially as it gets darker with the setting sun. And even though it’s quiet around you, your mind is busy and loud. 

Armen lands on top of the peak of the rocky wall in front of you, shifting to distribute his weight evenly, and then looks down at you. “We should stop here for the night.”

“I can keep going,” you mention, turning your attention back to the path that lies ahead and you take one step forward. 

“Venturing through the mountains without a clear mind will surely end in disaster,” he says in a booming voice that echoes through your mind. You stop in your tracks, stare into the dimming light in front of you as you breathe out a heavy sigh. “Look back. Look at where you’ve come from.”

You close your eyes and shake your head to yourself. You don’t want to look back. Looking back will only remind you that you chose your father over Geralt. Looking back will remind you of what you left behind and what you said goodbye to. You only want to look forward. But, you slowly turn around. 

When you open your eyes again, you see the path you had taken weaving all the way through an open expanse. You had not realized you were walking through this area because you had been stuck in your own head. 

“You could walk right through that nearing city and you wouldn’t even know it until you got to the other side of this mountain,” Armen says, lowering his head down, slightly closer to you. “A muddled mind leads to chaos. Chaos leads -”

“To dangerous affairs,” you finish his sentence, having been told that Akius after the incident where you almost lost control. “I know. I just can’t stop thinking. My thoughts are running through my mind and I can’t stop them.” You look up at him as you shake your head. Surely, there is nothing you can do about that. You can’t control how loud your thoughts can get. 

“You have been holding back on your magic because of fear. I saw that when I told you to lose control.” You frown up at him, tilt your head slightly to the side as you realize that when the magic hunter attacked. “You cannot learn to grow if you are afraid of what you can do.”

“I am not afraid.”

“Then let it go,” he challenges, nodding towards the empty field. “Lose control. Let your power flow through you without any restriction,” he urges and you feel something growing deep inside you. It’s the same feeling you had when you almost burnt down half of your uncle’s kingdom. “There are no repercussions here, (Y/n). Only freedom.”

You close your eyes, tune in to the fiery feeling growing inside you. When you open your eyes again, looking down at your arms, you see that small wisps of fire are flickering off the top of your skin. They travel all the way to the ends of your fingertips and when you look up at your father, he nods out to the open area behind you. 

Turning to face back the way you came, you hold your arms out in front of you and forget everything Akius taught you about control. You remember how people looked at you with a cautious eye everywhere you went as if they were scared that you were going to set something on fire due to your reputation. You remember how they would look at you and then whisper something about your eyes. You remember how you never felt like you were a part of them like you would never fit in with their society. 

Then, like a wave of relief, you let that all go. And fire streams out of your hands like how your father would breathe fire. 

When it’s finished, you sigh and lower your arms as you slowly open your eyes and to gasp at the raging fire in the open field that you cause. The bushes and shrubs are all burning and the destruction that will be left behind will all be because of you. But, the relief you feel inside you, letting everything go, it’s the best feeling you have ever felt. 

“Fire eventually dies. It burns the brightest when it is released but eventually, it dies and settles. And it leaves room for growth,” your father says, staring out into the flames you have created as you turn your head to look up at him. “Soon, I hope you will see it’s beauty as I do. And I hope you will not keep it burning inside you. Many Dragon-borns have died because of it.” He looks down at you when he says that but you turn your gaze to the fire in front of you, feeling the heat on your face as you watch the shrubs burning to sticks and then to the ground. 

“I don’t understand. Why was I taught to control everything if it would end up killing me?” you ask, shaking your head as you turn your gaze up to your father again. 

He turns, you can see he is ready to take off to the skies again so you turn to carry on walking on the path, leaving the burning field behind you. “You were taught wrong. You should not have been taught to control by holding everything in, but to control by knowing how much to let go. Have you let everything go?” You nod your head. “Good. Because we will need a fresh start if you are to learn things properly.” 

“So, everything I taught was wrong?”

Armen chuckles, flaps his wings, and lifts off of his perch. “Not everything. But most things. Come. The city is most alive at night.”

“I thought you didn’t want me to carry on tonight,” you mention, a smile growing on your face as you watch him fly above you. 

“I didn’t want you going on with a troubled mind. I think that has changed. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be talking to me right now. Or am I wrong?” 

No, he’s not. You’ve never felt more like talking to him than you do now. Your mind feels clear and quiet for the first time since you parted with Geralt. And you want to know more. You want to ask your father all the questions you’ve kept in your mind. Now that you are alone with him, you feel it is the best time to ask him. 

You lick your lips as you step over a fallen rock, press your hand to the stone wall to support yourself, and think of your first question to ask him. “Do I have any brothers or sisters?” It wasn’t a question you had hoped to one day ask him and it just came to your mind after thinking about how many people like you are in this city. You wonder if there will be any that share your parentage.

“I have only ever loved your mother,” he says with a laugh, looking down at you as he flies above you. “You will also learn, some dragons reproduce just because they can. Their children often end up being not so different. It is wise to stay away from them.”

“You’ll help me with that, won’t you?” you ask, stopping before you have to squeeze through a gap in the rocks. You know there is a hint of fear in your voice and you’re not ashamed of it. You think your father should know that you're scared of something happening to you. 

“I will be there to help you whenever you call on me.”

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[just-call-me-the-intrusive-thot]

Che Bellissima Neve

Pairings: Romantic Prinxiety

TWs: agoraphobia mention, just a lot of long distance pining

Summary: With his lover constantly travelling the world, acting on stages all over Europe and beyond, Virgil wonders if it’ll be snowing in Venice by the time he sees Roman again...

(Recommended music: Snow In Venice by Elizaveta)

--

Virgil Giordano was never normally one for things like promises and long goodbyes. 

Coffee in hand, he warmed his cold fingers against the mug. His phone was right there by his side, but his right index finger instead busied itself - not with numbers - but with cursive. 

Looping letters. 

Spelling out where his heart lay.

The winter had seen fit to bless Venice with a soft kiss of frost. Gathering in the corners of the windows, haphazardly along the walkways, tickling the noses and lips of passers by. All the while Virgil couldn’t fight off the disappointment as the sky remained clear. The stars were beautiful, but his wasn’t among them. No, his star was miles away from where he should be; back home, in Virgil’s arms. 

Stealing his body warmth while they cuddled together. Complaining at the lack of room for the both of them on the one chair, but still refusing to move. Running his hands through the freshly plum pigmented plume of hair atop Virgil’s head. 

A soft sigh left Virgil as the homebound poet quietly pined for his lover. 

-

Roman D’Angelo had only dreamt of this level of stardom in far fetched dreams and scrawled in journals during drama lessons. 

Even as he walked out of Berlin’s Theatre Des Westens still wearing his getup as Leopold Bloom, Roman could hardly believe he was one of the most sought after up-and-coming musical actors in Europe. Stopping for autographs was brief; Roman adored his fans of course, but the face he always longed to see among them was never there. Not for a lack of wanting, but because his beloved was confined to his home - no, their home, it was always home for the both of them no matter how far Roman travelled - by his agoraphobia. Roman never held it against him, he only wished he could call home more often. 

As his taxi passed a phonebox, Roman politely asked the driver to stop. His wallet held rarely any change these days, but he had what he hoped would be enough.

The cold night air caressed his fingers unpleasantly. Curse his lack of patience, but spontaneity was always Roman’s forte when it came to acts of the heart. Screw his phone that needed charging back in his hotel room, he needed to hear his beloved’s voice that second. Each number dialled brought a new rush of excitement and nerves until the phone began to ring.

He just hoped Virgil hadn’t decided to have an early night..

-

Luckily for Roman, Virgil was as much an insomniac as he was an agoraphobe.

Of course, he didn’t recognise the number, perhaps it was a spam caller? Probably. He rolled his eyes and went back to sipping his cooling coffee, content to let the answering system take a message. Instead of some hack trying to sell him car insurance or some scam worthy payment plan, the voice on the other end had Virgil scrambling to answer the call so quickly he nearly doused himself in lukewarm bean water.

“Virgil? It’s me, though I take it you must be asle-”

“Roman!”, Virgil cursed the crack in his voice as he answered, “I’m here, Princey. It’s been a while, where are you calling from this time, mister world-famous-actor?”

Roman’s hearty laughter had Virgil’s own heart beating so loudly he wondered if he should schedule a doctor’s visit. “I’m not quite there yet, cuore mio. But I’m in Berlin, Charlottenburg to be exact. And it’s still snowing, in fact it’s snowed every night since opening night. Can you believe that?”

“Really?”, Virgil sighed, unable to stop the fond smile making itself at home on his lips, “Sounds lovely.”

“It is…. But it does have its drawbacks.”, the actor mused, drinking in the adorable noise of intrigue his lover made over the phone.

“And what would they be?”

“... It’s not home.”, Roman began, his eyes following the tufts of snow that danced through the skies outside the phone box. “And you’re not here.”

For a moment, Roman wondered if he’d overstepped. If he’d made Virgil feel bad for not being able to be beside him, but his fears were replaced by a longing he wasn’t aware he was capable of as Virgil’s voice - almost strange in it’s softness - caressed his ears, 

“Funny, I was just thinking that myself.”

It was hard for Roman to find the words, but he mustered the courage to ask, “Are you doing alright, Virge?”. The silence gave Roman his answer, he knew Virgil would never admit to him outright just how much he missed him, how lonely he was at night without Roman by his side. Well, not directly.

“... When will you be home again, vita mia?”

Virgil knew Roman would be home in an instant if he could manage it. If he wasn’t bound by the dream he’d had since their adolescent years, Virgil knew his beloved would be in his arms right that second. But the poet knew what he signed up for when he fell in love with Roman D’Angelo; he was prepared to let his beloved chase his dreams while he could never follow alongside him. That didn’t mean it hurt any less to be without him.

“...Virgil? Are you still there?”

“Oh, um, yeah. Sorry, I-“

“Got caught up in your thoughts again, cuore mio?”

Virgil nodded bashfully before realising Roman couldn’t see him, “Yeah. I just…. I miss you so much, Roman..”

“... I know you do. And I miss you too.”

He hadn’t meant for Roman to hear the soft, dejected huff he let out, but as he practically heard Roman frown over the phone, Virgil sighed, “It’s been almost a year, Roman, almost a year of telling myself not to be selfish, just wishing you were here with me instead. I just… I want you to be happy, but I don’t know how much longer I can go on without you.”

The anxiety he felt pooling in his stomach threatened to draw out his tears when Roman softly spoke again over the line. Lord knows, Virgil adored the tenderness in his tone and the love dripping from each syllable,

“Vita mia, anima mia, bisogna resistere...”, Virgil’s breath hitched and he was unsure if it was because he was close to an anxiety attack or because he could feel the hope building itself a home in his chest, “I’ll be home soon, vita mia, I promise.”

He wanted to believe it, but he’d heard those words before and Virgil couldn’t help the doubt his hope was wrestling with, “Before or after it starts snowing in Venice?”, he joked.

Roman chuckled, they were both grateful for the moment of levity, “Never doubt the power of my undying love for you, Giordano.”

Virgil chuckled, affectionately snarking something akin to ‘sbruffone’ as he hung up and got cosy in his armchair. It had just passed midnight, he might as well get comfy considering he wouldn’t be able to sleep now. Not with Roman invading his every thought…

-

Once Roman had returned to the taxi, he was filled with an unwavering resolve. He all but raced to his hotel room; his hands blurred in his vision as he began to pack the few things he had brought with him into his suitcase with one hand while the other held his phone. 

After the couple of times he’d pulled out the charger on accident, Roman was finally able to call his manager. Despite her protests, Roman knew they could let his understudy handle being Leo Bloom for the last couple of shows. Even if it meant it might cost him some valuable work and publicity.

Sure, being on stage was his dream, but Virgil was his life. 

“I’m coming home, vita mia...”

-

The armchair was so comfy. Virgil hoped whoever was knocking at his door was prepared for the consequences of waking him up. 

In fairness, he should have gone to bed instead of snuggling even warmer into the chair, but also in fairness there was no reason for anyone to be knocking on his door at half four in the morning. Seriously, who just does that? Virgil hoped it wasn’t some stranger in need of help; he didn’t fancy having to stomach explaining he was literally terrified of leaving his house. Perhaps it would just be Valerie next door, checking in on him, that’d be nice. That he could deal with. As long as it wasn’t the mailman. Or Mormans. 

If his fear of going outside could be rivalled by anything, it was with his hatred of people trying to intrude on his home.

Virgil’s mental ramblings stopped as his mismatched eyes caught a glimpse of a figure through the frosted glass of the door. It was hard to be certain, but the silhouette, the colours, even when distorted…

Never had the door known such force as Virgil tore open the door and came face to face with the love of his life.

“Roman…!!”

The taller man smiled like the angels Virgil was sure had carved him; his cheeks and nose were flushed rosy red, his dark hair was tousled and stuffed underneath the winter beanie atop his head. By the way he was breathing, Virgil guessed that Roman had run at least the length of the street to get here.

Despite knowing he’d regret it once the intrusive thoughts came for him, Virgil braved the two steps outside his doorway to wrap his arms around Roman, a gesture his beloved returned. Warm hands resting on Virgil’s lower back assured him that everything that was happening was real; that the Roman in his arms was real. He didn’t give a second thought to kissing his darling actor, he just did.

When they finally broke for air, Roman chuckled, sweet as honey, bathing Virgil’s face in warm breath, “Vita mia, Virgil, I’m loath to suggest we stop, but I fear you may freeze if we continue. I love you but I’d rather the love of my life not be turned into a popsicle.”

It took Virgil a second to realise what Roman meant. Not only had he rushed out in his pjs, but his clothes and skin were littered with tiny plumes of snow.

Snow. In Venice. 

When Roman pulled off a surprise, he sure did it in style.

As much as the poet could feel his anxiety over being outside - even momentarily - begin to build, he couldn’t help but let out a chuckle,

“Come on then, Roman,”, Virgil huffed softly, his smile so beaming with love, Roman wondered if it was possible to be burned alive by it, “You have stories to tell me from your travels, and I have a warm armchair and some coffee to for us to share...”

----

Fluff? Straight up fluff? No angst!? It’s likelier than you think!

Seeing out the year with a happy little fic based on smth I talked about with a friend after the Christmas Concert Livestream!

All the Italian used is stuff I tried to cross reference so if anything is wrong or could be improved, please let me know!

(they’re supposed to be talking in Italian the entire fic I just wanted to add in some actual Italian like in the song)

Taglist:

@patton-cake @does-this-look-logicality-to-you @justalittlecorrupted @irritating-lady-knight @katlikethesword @gattonero17 @shadowylemon