#its not clear and its not bright but its there

[arom-antix]

Hey, just wanted to reach out to say that I found you pointing out and calling this person was really great and you shouldn't have apologized. It was incredibly true what you said, and to be honest it seems out of touch with the reality of a great deal of the japanese fandom, the nuances and their culture. Also, it was as you pointed out, extreme and may I say rude. I want to mention too that the way it was written, as if entitled of the knowledge and the 'explanation' made it all worse in context of the 'fucked up'. The original poster always gets away by using the 'well-written academic'' statement of their 'metas' as an excuse to do or say and make everyone else agree and if not, uses victim narrative and discourses exactly selecting wording for people to agree on it or feel bad.

I don't know if they tagging you in the way they did made you reblog and apologizing/backing up, but no one thought bad about you pointing it out. On the contrary, a lot of people had been bullied and discriminated by this person when they called them out/disagreed going onto lenghts of sending their friends to harass people, and the other persons can't even defend themselves because they are effectively blocked. To quite a few people in the fandom has been done, even accusing them as 'acephobes' (when they're not) or even Nazis by spreading lies. So yeah, I just wanted to say that. I think you were right to call them out publicly.

Thank you very much for this ask. To be completely honest I agree with everything you said here and don't actually feel bad about pointing anything out. I mainly apologised because I didn't want any potentially poor phrasing from my side to cause unnecessary hostility and because I myself have gripes with this person's behaviour but didn't want to cause a scene.

My honest opinion is that they have a serious issue with taking accountability for their own mistakes and highly overestimate their own intellect. If you're reading this, @thegirlwhorideslikeasamurai, sorry if I seem harsh, but it's true. I saw your post lamenting how you're the only academic meta writer / fan in the fandom and I didn't interact then because I honestly do not care enough to start that drama but with the information Blonndiec has just given me, I think it's necessary that someone calls you out.

You're not an academic. You're not beyond the mental capabilities of other fans. You're actually incredibly childish in your metas and analyses and I am not kidding when I say that I was halfheartedly writing essays more academic than every analysis I've seen from you when I was barely a teenager. I don't know how old you are and I frankly don't care. You're not as clever as you think you are.

Also, don't think I didn't notice that you didn't reblog my correction (link here to my correction and here to their "response" for those who didn't see that exchange) of your post so that you could control what your followers saw of the exchange. You're the opposite of an academic. You control information to tailor the narrative, you don't cite your sources properly if at all, you don't format your posts in anything close to how an academic analysis would be, you make unbased claims, you reference posts and canon material without in any way indicating where that information is from, you reference your own (equally unacademic) metas and your conclusions from them without indicating what post it's from or that it's your own theory this new one is based on and instead present it as a common fact, and I could go on and on and on. Your posts are also riddled with logical fallacies and you talk in absolutes and opinions when there's no canon basis to claim such things. I'm sorry, but that's not academic in the slightest.

To be clear, you don't have to be an academic to post on the Internet. You don't have to be anything at all. You could up front be a genuine idiot with no remorse and that's fine. But when you claim to be an academic and also put down the rest of the fandom for not being on your level, you have to be able to back that up. It'd still make you sound like a prick but at least your arrogance would have a basis. It currently does not.

I haven't personally seen the discussions that Blonndiec is referencing and I'm not going to claim anything definitive (because that would be unacademic of me, take notes) but if what they're saying is true and did happen as described, which I have empirical, if anecdotal, evidence to believe could very well be (a friend of mine has personally been blocked by you after they criticised you without actually mentioning your name which I of course can't prove is the reason for the block but the timing is awfully convenient), you should know that you should be ashamed of yourself.

If there's context missing, feel free to enlighten me and call out any incorrect accusations. You have every right to defend yourself. However, I encourage you to cite your sources since you're such an academic. If you don't, then it's just your word against Blonndiec and anyone else who might comment's word and that doesn't prove anything. Don't misunderstand, acephobia and nazi rhetoric should absolutely be called out but only if it's actually happening. False accusations can ruin lives. I hope you know that.

I'm not a fan of calling people out publicly and, again, thank you for this ask, Blonndiec. But considering many of the issues I've personally seen and those I've been informed of by second hand sources were posted publically, I don't really feel bad about calling this out. I could do a full breakdown of just the insulting "academic" comments alone and how there's no academia to be found in said academic metas and, Samurai, if you give me reason to, I will show exactly what I mean point by point (and academically just to give you an example of even low level academia).

If you respond to this, do it in a reblog. That's what a real academic would do. If I'm wrong and you can prove it, you'd have no reason to not show my post in your rebuttal. If I'm right, you'd have every reason to be upfront about your mistakes and how you intend to rectify them. There's nothing wrong with being wrong but there's a lot wrong with refusing to admit to it in a way that lets others peer review you (academic thing, look it up) and come to their own conclusions about the situation. That's what you did when you just @'ed me instead of reblogging my response. A true academic wouldn't hide a peer review. You'd know that if you were one.

I swing in many academic spaces and yet that doesn't make me any kind of expert and I don't claim to be one because I'm not. But since you want to be one so badly, reblog this with a response and show us all how smart you are. I'm dying to know what your academic take on this is.

[shy-writer-999]

Ice skating with Law ❄️ (fluff)

Summary: When Law takes you on an ice skating date, he can't help but show off both his feelings for you and his skating skills. ~950 words. CW: Fluff! G/N language. Kissing. Holding hands. Sweet stuff!

Artwork by @hirakyun13 - thanks so much for collabing with me!

“Just hold on, I won’t let you fall.” Law held out a gloved hand to you and when you laced your fingers with his, he squeezed your hand in a gesture of comfort and security.

The ice was bright. Glaring sun reflected off its smooth surface, marred in places by the tracks that metal blades drew on top. The ice rink was empty except the two of you, the clearing in the forest was gorgeous and quiet, the sky was bright blue—it was picturesque, dream-like.

As Law guided you across the ice, you wobbled a bit.

“You’re favoring your right foot,” Law pointed out, looking down at your form while you struggled to keep up with his already-slow pace. “Make sure to put your weight evenly on both skates and lead with both interchangeably. Good form means you can do cool stuff later.”

He smiled at your look of dismay (it was quite endearing to him). You groaned. “Aghhhh. Okay. Like this?” Your adjustment looked adequate enough to him and he nodded.

The only thing audible after a while was the smooth sound of your skates moving almost in tandem with each other, cutting the surface of the icy rink.

“You’ve been skating since you were a kid, right?” You asked Law and he nodded.

“Yeah, I went when I was growing up a lot with my parents and sister but… After… Well, you know. Certain circumstances meant I didn’t make a habit of it for a long time. It was only when the Heart Pirates formed and got more comfortable in the North Blue sea that we had time and safety to do that sort of stuff. To have fun, I mean.”

Some silence passed. Comfortable silence. You slipped and almost fell, but Law held you up. As you looked up at him, he cracked a smile.

“See? You’ll get the hang of it eventually.”

You blushed. It had been a minute since your faces were this close. When you were back to skating after your almost-wipeout, you felt steadier and more confident.

“There you go,” Law encouraged. “You’re getting the hang of it. That was fast.”

A few laps around the rink with Law holding you steady and he decided you’d be set to try it on your own. “I’m going to make you do it yourself now. You ready?”

When you agreed, you skated side by side for a while. It was a gorgeous day and every ray of sun that reflected off the ice surface of the rink and onto his face made your heart flip. He was so handsome it was mind boggling. When light filtered onto his hair, you saw how rich the color of those dark locks was. Multi-dimensional and stunning. Just like his eyes. And while you quietly remarked on his beauty to yourself, he did the same for you.

“You can do cool tricks, right?” You asked him playfully after a while.

“You’re not going to actually make me do some, are you?” Law responded, frowning. He hated this sort of thing. He felt like a clown. But… if you were asking, then he’d have to oblige. Anything for you.

He begrudgingly put on a little show. He was obviously comfortable on the ice, skating backwards for a bit before doing some sort of cool twisting thing. A jump and a fast turn. It was impressive.

“Woooowwwwww,” you clapped when he came to a stop next to you. “That was crazy impressive. What else can you do?”

You smiled at him, and he froze for a second, turning crimson. You saw his gears turning.

“How about this?” Law asked, then reached for your hand and softly pulled you towards him. When you were close enough, he placed a hand on your waist and pulled you into a kiss.

He certainly caught you by surprise. It had been a while since you locked lips—circumstantially, you didn’t have much time for it on the ship.

Any opportunity for affection or quality time was treasured. Ice skating like this and taking a break from everything on the sea felt like a vacation, a reprieve from every painful wound you both held. If you thought about it long enough, you would have realized that this was the first actual date Law had taken you on.

When he pulled away from the kiss, you were both smiling. “I mean, that wasn’t what I had in mind, but I’m not complaining,” you giggled.

“Well, if you’re not complaining then, by all means,” Law brought a hand to your cheek and guided his lips to yours again.

His kisses were delicate. After a few moments, he pulled away. His cheeks were dusted pink with blush and his hand stayed on your cheek for a minute as he took in the sight of your face, so pretty and so close to him.

“Let’s take a break,” Law said. “That sound okay?”

When you agreed and exited the skating rink, Law set up a place for you to sit together. A waterproof blanket below, a fuzzy blanket on top, thermoses of spiked, piping-hot cocoa, and some snacks.

You snacked together and warmed yourself to the bone with the hot cocoa. It was a picture-perfect set up, thoughtful and considerate just like Law himself. After more skating and a snowy trek back to the Polar Tang, the crew couldn’t contain their excitement seeing you and the captain hand in hand with ruddy cheeks. They had matchmaked for far too long—now that it was a reality, they were elated.

They welcomed you back on board the submarine with the most embarrassing and raucous round of cheers and chanted “kiss! kiss! kiss!” to rub it in your faces. You did, in fact, share a kiss in front of the crew, something that they never let you live down. You didn’t mind it all that much, though.

that's all for this one!! make sure to check out becca's page, since she's so damn talented it isn't fair - @hirakyun13!

here's my masterlist if you're interested, and the masterlist for this holiday event. tysm for reading :3

[lazysoulwriter]

A Christmas of Our Own - Paul Mescal.｡･:*˚:✧｡

·̩̩̥͙＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊·̩̩̥͙＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊·̩̩̥͙

The cabin was nestled deep in the snow-covered hills, its stone walls and thatched roof glowing softly in the golden light of the fireplace. Outside, the world was silent, blanketed in white. The only sound was the occasional whisper of the wind through the pines.

Inside, Paul stood by the window, watching the snow fall in slow, mesmerizing swirls. A mug of hot cocoa steamed in his hands, and a faint smile played on his lips.

“I still can’t believe we’re really here,” he said, his voice warm and low.

She turned from where she was placing the final ornaments on their small, modest Christmas tree. Her sweater sleeves were pushed up to her elbows, her cheeks pink from the fire’s heat.

“Just us,” she replied, stepping closer. “No distractions, no cameras, no schedules. It feels… perfect.”

He set the mug down and reached for her, pulling her into his arms. She fit against him as if she’d been made for that very moment. His chin rested lightly on the top of her head as he sighed.

“I’ve dreamed of this,” he murmured. “Our first real Christmas. I’ve never needed anything fancy… just you.”

She leaned back to look up at him, her eyes shining in the firelight. “You have me,” she whispered. “Always.”

The weight of the year seemed to lift as they stood there, wrapped in each other’s warmth. It had been a whirlwind—work, public appearances, stolen moments that always felt too fleeting. But here, in the quiet of the mountains, time stretched. It felt infinite.

“Do you know what I love most about you?” he asked suddenly, his voice thick with emotion.

“What?” she asked, her tone playful but curious.

“Everything.” His hands cupped her face, his thumbs brushing against her cheekbones. “The way you laugh. The way you make me feel like I’m enough, even when I doubt myself. The way you see through all the noise and find the real me. I’ve never known love like this before you.”

Her breath hitched, and she blinked back tears. “Paul,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “You’re everything I’ve ever wanted. You make the world brighter. You make me braver. Loving you feels like the best thing I’ll ever do.”

He kissed her then, slow and deep, pouring every unspoken word into the connection. When they pulled apart, her hands lingered on his chest, her fingers tracing the outline of his sweater.

“Let’s make a promise,” she said softly.

“Anything,” he replied without hesitation.

“Every year, no matter what life throws at us, we find a moment like this. Just us. Just love.”

His smile was tender as he nodded. “Deal.”

They spent the rest of the evening wrapped in their own little world. They shared stories, exchanged simple gifts, and danced slowly to Christmas songs that played softly in the background. The tree lights cast a gentle glow, and the fire crackled, its warmth mirroring the love that filled the room.

As midnight approached, they stepped outside, hand in hand. The snow had stopped, and the stars stretched endlessly above them, bright and clear against the inky sky. Paul turned to her, his breath visible in the crisp air.

“Merry Christmas,” he said, his voice a reverent whisper.

“Merry Christmas,” she replied, her heart full to the brim.

In that moment, surrounded by the stillness of the night and the magic of the season, they knew they had found something rare. A love that wasn’t just for Christmas, but for all the days that lay ahead.

[cognitiveoverload]

Basic human decency: The pretty doctor – 2/4 (Aaron Hotchner x fem!reader)

summary: In which Jack is the best wingman Hotch can ask for.

masterlist

As you’re wandering the aisles of the store near your home, looking for the next item on your shopping list, you make a quick phone call to check on a patient. It’s your day off, but it was a complicated surgery, and your brain can’t turn off its professional side. You listen to your colleague telling you about the latest lab results, getting so lost in the conversation that you almost hit a little kid with the shopping cart. You raise your hand and say sorry, but when you turn the cart to get past him, he lets out a gasp and points at you.

“Dad, look, the pretty doctor!” he says excitedly.

You pull the phone away from your ear as you give him a questioning look, but the little blond boy is only smiling at you happily. “I’ll call you back, Claire,” you tell your colleague before putting the device away. “I’m sorry, what did you say?” you ask the boy with a kind smile.

He rushes past the cart and stops in front of you. “You’re the pretty doctor who saved my dad.”

“Jack, don’t run away like this, I told you to stay by my side. I’m sorry, I hope he didn’t bother you.”

The man who stopped behind the boy is not unknown to you, mostly because he was the last patient who sent you a thank you gift before being discharged. You’re still being teased about it regularly, but you hoped that stupid giddy feeling you get every time would disappear as the time passed. It didn’t. And you think the fact you kept the card that came with the flowers doesn’t help with that.

It takes your brain a moment to restart, but once it does, you shake your head and flash a smile at him. “Oh, no, he didn’t. But I bet he’s gonna be a little heartbreaker based on how he runs around calling women pretty,” you tell him with a laugh.

“It’s Dad who calls you pretty all the time,” the little boy corrects you with a pout. 

“I most certainly don’t do that,” Hotchner assures you with an awkward smile.

There’s a moment of silence while Jack looks up at his father with a deep frown, but then a mischievous grin appears on his face and he goes, “Sometimes he calls you gorgeous.”

With a panicked look, Hotchner covers the boy’s mouth with his hand and leans down a little. “Buddy, there are things you aren’t supposed to talk about,” he tells him quietly, but even over the terrible music in the store, you can hear every word. “I’m sorry, we should probably just go,” he notes after clearing his throat.

Laughing, you nod and offer your hand for a high-five to Jack, who welcomes it with an excited giggle. But before they could move on, you turn to look at the older man again. “By the way, how are you? Everything healed perfectly?” you ask, desperately clinging to the only topic that can keep them here just a little longer. 

It’s strange, and maybe a little weird, but it’s so good to see him again, and his son is also adorable, and god, you’re pathetic. Why can’t you just move on? Why did you keep that card? Why are you this stupid?

“Yeah, everything’s great, thanks to you,” Hotchner replies with a warm smile. He then hesitates, obviously trying to choose his next words carefully. “I was wondering why you didn’t come see me again. I… thought I crossed a line with those flowers.” There’s something about his tone, like he’s feeling guilty about the whole thing. Strange.

Without hesitation, you flash a bright smile at him and go, “Oh, no, they were beautiful, thank you.”

“That’s not why I mentioned it.”

“I know, it’s just–”

“Dad?” the little boy speaks up, interrupting you with the sweetest smile you’ve ever seen. “Can the pretty doctor have lunch with us?” 

“Jack, I’m sure she’s busy.”

The little boy begins to jump up and down from excitement, tiny fingers clutching his jeans to keep his attention on himself. “Please?” he asks.

Hotchner looks at you with a questioning look, shrugging in an attempt to lighten the mood. But there’s a smile on his lips, and a softness in those brown eyes that make you want to say yes. You would be a fool to miss this opportunity. So, why would you refuse? Why wouldn’t you cancel all of your plans with your friends just to spend more time with this little family of two? 

Before answering, you look down at Jack, who watches you with wide eyes. “Are you sure about this?” you ask kindly, to which he responds with an enthusiastic nod. 

You then glance over at his father, looking for that final confirmation that he wants this too, not only because of his son, but because of you. Maybe it’s stupid, but deep down you hope those flowers and smiles back in the hospital actually meant something. Soon enough, he nods and mouths please in an attempt to convince you. 

“Alright, you convinced me,” you reply with a wide smile. 

The boy jumps around as he celebrates, while his father steps closer to you, a hand landing on your waist while he leans so close to you that you can feel his breath on your ear. “Thank you, this makes him really happy. And I’m also really happy, just saying.” When you turn your head to look at him, he’s smiling at you in a way that makes you want to kiss him, but you barely know the guy, it wouldn’t be right. “Oh, and we will have to go on a proper date later. Just you and me, doing adult things.”

“Dad!”

Before you could say anything, he moves away and ruffles his son’s hair. “We’re coming,” he says with a laugh.

Well, that escalated quickly.

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

The Emperor’s Gaze Part 3

Pairing: Emperor Geta x Maid! Empress!reader

Warnings : Fluff, Spice, Caracalla STILL being an ass, mentions of fighting

Authors Note: I hope you enjoy! I apologize if this makes no sense, I was in a writing mood soooooo here we are :)

Word Count: 5.2k

Masterlist Previous Next (?)

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

One evening, as you walked through the palace gardens hand in hand, Geta paused, turning to you with a soft smile.

“Do you remember what I said about building a future together?”

You nodded, your heart swelling with emotion.

He reached into his tunic, pulling out a small box. “I think it’s time we made that promise official.”

Opening the box, he revealed a simple yet beautiful ring. “Will you marry me?”

Tears filled your eyes as you nodded. “Yes,” you said, your voice trembling with joy.

He slipped the ring onto your finger, sealing your promise with a kiss.

——

The palace buzzed with anticipation in the weeks leading up to the wedding. The announcement had sent shockwaves through the empire, cementing your position as Geta’s chosen empress. The court scrambled to prepare for a celebration of unparalleled grandeur, though many whispered of Caracalla’s growing displeasure.

Despite the chaos surrounding the event, Geta made time for you, ensuring that you were not overwhelmed by the weight of your new role.

“You’re the reason for all this,” he said one evening, standing beside you as you gazed out over the city from the palace balcony. “This wedding is as much a declaration of my love for you as it is a message to the court.”

“And what message is that?” you asked softly, leaning into his side.

“That I will let nothing and no one come between us,” he replied, his tone resolute.

---

The day dawned clear and bright, the sun casting a golden glow over the bustling streets of Rome. Crowds gathered outside the palace, cheering as the procession began. You were dressed in a gown of the finest silk, its deep crimson hue symbolizing strength and unity. Intricate gold embroidery adorned the fabric, shimmering with every movement.

As you were escorted to the grand hall, your heart raced with a mixture of excitement and nerves. The vast chamber was filled with the empire’s elite, their eyes turning to you as you entered.

And then you saw him.

Geta stood at the altar, resplendent in his imperial robes. His gaze locked onto yours the moment you appeared, his expression softening into something that made your breath hitch. In that instant, the crowd, the whispers, the grandeur of the occasion—all of it faded away.

When you reached him, he took your hands in his, his touch steadying you. “You look breathtaking,” he murmured, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

“And you look like an emperor,” you replied, your lips curving into a small smile.

The ceremony was steeped in tradition, each vow and gesture steeped in the weight of history. But as you stood before the gods and the empire, it felt deeply personal—a bond forged not by duty, but by love.

“I vow to protect you, to cherish you, and to stand by your side, no matter the storms that come our way,” Geta said, his voice steady and clear.

Tears welled in your eyes as you echoed his words, your voice trembling with emotion. “And I vow to support you, to love you, and to face whatever comes, as long as I’m by your side.”

When the final blessing was given, and the high priest declared you husband and wife, Geta didn’t wait for permission. He cupped your face in his hands and kissed you, a tender yet possessive gesture that left no doubt of his devotion.

The hall erupted in cheers, the sound echoing through the palace as Geta led you to the grand feast prepared in your honor.

---

The feast was a dazzling affair, with tables laden with the finest foods and wines. Musicians played jubilant tunes, and dancers performed to entertain the crowd. Yet despite the grandeur, Geta’s attention rarely wavered from you.

He leaned close, his voice low as he spoke. “Are you enjoying yourself, my empress?”

“Very much,” you replied, though your gaze flickered to where Caracalla sat at the far end of the table, his expression unreadable.

Geta followed your gaze, his jaw tightening. “Ignore him,” he murmured. “Tonight is ours.”

You nodded, turning your focus back to him. “Then tell me, my emperor, what does the future hold for us?”

His eyes softened, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Whatever we want it to. Together.”

As the night wore on, Geta led you to the center of the hall for the first dance. The crowd watched in awe as the two of you moved in perfect harmony, your connection palpable. It was a moment of unity, a declaration that, no matter the challenges, you were unstoppable as long as you were together.

---

When the feast finally ended and the palace quieted, Geta led you to your shared quarters. The room had been transformed for the occasion, with petals scattered across the floor and candles casting a soft, golden glow.

He turned to you, his expression tender as he cupped your face in his hands. “This is just the beginning,” he whispered.

You smiled, your hands resting over his. “And I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

As he kissed you, the world faded away once more, leaving only the two of you in a moment of pure, unshakable love.

After the night of the feast, Geta ordered the preparation of shared quarters for the two of you. It was an unprecedented move, defying the expectations of the court and solidifying your place by his side—not as a mere companion, but as an empress.

The quarters were exquisite, blending grandeur with intimacy. The sprawling room was adorned with gilded columns, rich tapestries, and intricate mosaics. A grand bed sat at the center, its canopy draped in silk, surrounded by low tables bearing fine oils, perfumes, and flowers. Yet amidst the luxury, the space felt warm, like a sanctuary far removed from the palace's scheming halls.

When you first stepped inside, your breath hitched. “Geta… this is too much.”

He stood behind you, hands resting lightly on your shoulders. “It’s yours. Ours. Do you like it?”

You turned to face him, your heart swelling at the vulnerability in his eyes. He wasn’t asking as an emperor seeking approval but as a man desperate to give you the world.

“It’s beautiful,” you whispered, reaching up to cup his cheek. “Thank you.”

Geta smiled, leaning into your touch. “You deserve this and so much more.”

---

Life in your shared quarters brought a sense of closeness that you hadn’t realized was missing. You woke each morning to the sight of Geta sprawled beside you, his dark hair mussed and his features softened in sleep.

Sometimes, he’d wake before you, his gaze already on you when your eyes fluttered open. “Good morning, my empress,” he’d murmur, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

Evenings were spent in quiet companionship. He would read scrolls or dictate letters while you worked on embroidery or simply watched the fire crackle in the hearth. There was an ease to these moments, a sense of belonging that made the rest of the world fade away.

One night, as you lounged together on the plush divan near the fire, Geta pulled you closer, his arm draped around your shoulders.

“Do you ever think about how far you’ve come?” he asked, his voice soft.

You glanced at him, brow furrowing. “What do you mean?”

He smiled, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “When I first saw you, you were just a maid—quiet, unassuming, hiding in the shadows. And now… look at you. You command the attention of everyone in the court. You’ve stolen the heart of an emperor.”

A soft laugh escaped your lips. “I don’t think the court admires me as much as you do.”

“They don’t need to,” he replied, his gaze locking onto yours. “I admire you enough for all of them.”

Your heart swelled at his words, and you leaned into him, your head resting against his chest. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat was a comforting reminder that, despite the challenges, you weren’t alone.

---

One particularly stormy night, you woke to find Geta sitting by the window, the faint glow of lightning illuminating his profile. He looked deep in thought, his shoulders tense.

Slipping from the bed, you padded over to him, your bare feet silent against the cool marble floor. “Couldn’t sleep?” you asked softly.

He glanced at you, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Too many thoughts.”

You placed a hand on his shoulder, the warmth of his skin grounding him. “What’s on your mind?”

He hesitated for a moment before speaking. “Caracalla. The court. The future. I worry about what this means for you… for us.”

“Geta,” you said gently, kneeling beside him so you could look him in the eyes. “I chose this. I chose you. Whatever comes, we’ll face it together.”

He reached for your hand, his fingers curling around yours. “You’re stronger than anyone gives you credit for, you know that?”

“I have to be,” you replied with a soft smile. “For you.”

His expression softened, and he pulled you into his lap, his arms wrapping securely around you. “I don’t deserve you,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

“You deserve so much more than you give yourself credit for,” you whispered, your hand resting over his heart.

In that quiet moment, as the storm raged outside, it felt as though nothing could touch you.

——

Married life with Geta was both everything you had dreamed of and more challenging than you could have imagined. The love you shared became your sanctuary in the chaos of palace life, but shadows loomed in the form of Caracalla.

Despite Geta’s unwavering affection, Caracalla’s hostility grew more apparent with each passing day. He rarely spoke to you directly, but his disdain was clear in the curt nods and cutting remarks he reserved for his brother during council meetings.

Geta, however, remained undeterred. “He’s always been this way,” he assured you one evening as the two of you shared a quiet dinner in your quarters. “Jealousy is his constant companion.”

“Does it not worry you?” you asked, concern etched across your face.

Geta took your hand in his, brushing his lips against your knuckles. “Not as long as I have you by my side.”

---

The tension finally boiled over during a council meeting a few weeks later. You had joined Geta at his request, seated at his right hand as he discussed plans to expand the empire's infrastructure.

Caracalla, seated at the opposite end of the table, interrupted with a scoff. “Perhaps instead of roads, we should invest in ensuring the loyalty of those within these walls. It would be a shame if weakness led to betrayal.”

The veiled threat sent a chill through the room. Geta’s expression darkened, his hand tightening into a fist.

“If you have something to say, brother,” he said coldly, “say it plainly.”

Caracalla’s lips curved into a smirk. “Only that some alliances are built on shifting sands. Time will tell if yours is strong enough to withstand the weight of the crown.”

Geta rose from his seat, his voice sharp as steel. “Enough. Your constant undermining will no longer be tolerated. I am emperor, and I will not be challenged—not by you, nor anyone else.”

The tension was palpable as Caracalla stood as well, his gaze fixed on his brother. “We shall see, brother,” he said, his tone deceptively calm before turning and leaving the room.

---

That night, Geta seemed restless. He paced the length of your shared quarters, his brow furrowed in thought.

“Talk to me,” you urged, placing a gentle hand on his arm.

He stopped, looking at you with a mixture of frustration and affection. “He’s always been this way. Always trying to take what’s mine. But this… this is different. I don’t trust him, and I don’t know what he’s planning.”

You stepped closer, wrapping your arms around him. “Whatever it is, we’ll face it together. You’re not alone in this.”

His arms tightened around you, and for a moment, the weight of his responsibilities seemed to lift. “How did I get so lucky to have you?” he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple.

“It’s not luck,” you replied with a soft smile. “It’s fate.”

Geta tilted your chin up, his gaze searching yours. “I’ll protect you, no matter what. You are my everything.”

He kissed you then, slow and deliberate, as if pouring every unspoken promise into the act. The tension melted away as you lost yourselves in each other, the world beyond the walls of your quarters momentarily forgotten.

---

But the peace didn’t last. Whispers of Caracalla’s schemes reached your ears in the days that followed. Servants spoke in hushed tones of secret meetings and alliances being forged in the shadows.

One evening, as you prepared for bed, Geta entered the room, his expression grim. “We need to be cautious,” he said, his voice low. “Caracalla is plotting something, and I won’t let him put you in danger.”

You nodded, your heart heavy with unease. “What can we do?”

“For now, we wait. But I won’t let him win. Not this time.”

As you lay together that night, the weight of the empire and its struggles seemed to press down on both of you. Yet in the quiet moments, as Geta’s hand found yours and his steady breathing lulled you to sleep, you held onto the hope that love would be enough to weather the storm.

---

**The Emperor’s Gaze** *(Part Eleven)*

The days following Geta’s warning were marked by mounting tension. Despite the façade of normalcy, you could feel the undercurrents of something dark brewing beneath the surface. Servants whispered in corners, courtiers exchanged wary glances, and even the palace guards seemed more alert.

Geta, ever the watchful emperor, began meeting with his most trusted advisors in secret, determined to uncover the full extent of Caracalla’s schemes. You supported him where you could, offering counsel and encouragement, though you couldn’t shake the feeling that danger was drawing closer.

---

It came to a head one evening during a routine council meeting. You stood by Geta’s side, your presence a silent but powerful statement of your role in his life and rule.

Caracalla entered late, as was his habit, but this time his arrival was different. He strode into the chamber with an air of defiance, his gaze locking onto Geta with unmasked contempt.

“Brother,” he said, his voice dripping with mockery. “I’ve come to offer my assistance in matters of governance. Surely even you must admit that two heads are better than one.”

Geta’s jaw tightened, but he maintained his composure. “If you have something of value to contribute, speak now. Otherwise, spare us your theatrics.”

Caracalla’s smirk widened. “Oh, I have plenty to contribute. Like the fact that your so-called advisors are more loyal to coin than crown. Or that whispers of rebellion are growing louder outside these walls.”

A murmur rippled through the council. Geta’s gaze remained fixed on his brother. “If you have evidence, present it. If not, keep your poison to yourself.”

Caracalla stepped closer, his tone turning cold. “You think you’re untouchable, don’t you? But power is fleeting, brother. And when it crumbles, it will take her with it.”

At his pointed glance toward you, Geta rose from his seat, his voice sharp and commanding. “Enough! If you threaten her again, I will not hesitate to act. You may be my brother, but even you are not above the law.”

The tension in the room was palpable as the two men stared each other down, the air thick with unspoken challenges. Finally, Caracalla sneered and turned on his heel, leaving the chamber without another word.

---

That night, you found Geta in the palace gardens, his expression shadowed as he paced among the moonlit flowers.

“Geta,” you called softly, drawing his attention.

He turned to you, his face softening as you approached. “I didn’t mean for you to see that,” he admitted. “But I won’t let him threaten you.”

You placed a hand on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. “You don’t have to face him alone. We’re in this together, remember?”

He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing against your cheeks. “You’re too good for me,” he murmured.

“And you’re too stubborn for your own good,” you replied with a small smile. “But I love you all the same.”

His lips met yours in a kiss that spoke of both desperation and devotion. The weight of the empire, the schemes of his brother, all seemed to fade as you lost yourselves in each other.

When you finally pulled away, Geta rested his forehead against yours. “I’ll do whatever it takes to protect you, no matter the cost.”

“And I’ll stand by you, no matter the cost,” you replied firmly.

---

In the days that followed, you and Geta worked together to secure your position. Trusted allies were placed in key roles, and plans were made to counter any potential rebellion.

One evening, as you reviewed documents in your quarters, Geta joined you, a rare smile on his lips.

“What is it?” you asked, setting aside the scroll in your hands.

“I’ve been thinking,” he began, taking a seat beside you. “It’s time we remind the empire why we’re stronger together. A tour of the provinces, perhaps. Let the people see their emperor and empress united.”

Your eyes lit up at the idea. “It’s a bold move. But it could work.”

He took your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “We’ll face whatever comes, together. Always.”

The warmth in his gaze filled you with renewed determination. No matter the challenges ahead, you knew that your love for each other would be your greatest strength.

---

The days following Geta’s declaration of a provincial tour were a whirlwind of preparation. Courtiers and advisors worked tirelessly to organize the emperor’s journey, while you assisted in coordinating appearances and speeches. The empire was eager to see its ruling couple in action, but the shadow of Caracalla’s enmity loomed large.

Despite the outward display of unity and progress, whispers of Caracalla’s schemes grew louder. His late-night meetings and clandestine visitors hinted at something more sinister than political rivalry.

---

Two nights before the tour was set to begin, you awoke to the sound of raised voices echoing through the halls. Geta was gone from your side, and you hurriedly wrapped a cloak around yourself, following the noise.

You found him in the council chamber, his expression thunderous as he faced Caracalla. The room was empty save for a few guards who looked uneasy, unsure whether to intervene.

“How dare you?” Geta’s voice boomed, reverberating off the stone walls. “Conspiring with the Praetorians? Plotting against your own blood?”

Caracalla’s smirk was infuriatingly calm. “You accuse me so easily, brother, yet where is your proof? I merely spoke with them, as any leader should. Or are you so paranoid that you see betrayal in every shadow?”

Geta took a step forward, his fists clenched. “You’ve overstepped for the last time. This isn’t just about me. You’re endangering her.”

Caracalla’s gaze shifted to you as you stepped into the room, his eyes narrowing. “Ah, the empress herself. How charming of you to join us. Tell me, do you enjoy playing queen while the real power lies elsewhere?”

“Enough!” Geta roared, positioning himself protectively in front of you. “Guards, escort him to his quarters. He is not to leave without my permission.”

The guards hesitated, glancing at each other before moving to obey. Caracalla didn’t resist, but his parting words sent a chill down your spine. “You can’t protect her forever, brother. Some things are inevitable.”

---

The confrontation left you shaken, and Geta wasted no time in reinforcing your security. Additional guards were stationed outside your quarters, and trusted allies were assigned to monitor Caracalla’s movements.

That night, as you sat together in your chambers, the weight of the situation pressed heavily on both of you.

“You shouldn’t have confronted him like that,” you said softly, your hand resting on his. “It only makes him more dangerous.”

“He’s already dangerous,” Geta replied, his tone firm. “But I won’t let him harm you. He’ll have to go through me first.”

You looked at him, your heart aching at the burden he carried. “We’ll face him together,” you said, your voice steady. “Whatever happens, I’m with you.”

His gaze softened, and he pulled you into his arms. “I don’t deserve you,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“And I don’t deserve the love of an emperor,” you replied with a small smile. “But here we are.”

---

Despite the tension, the provincial tour began as planned. Crowds gathered in every city to catch a glimpse of their emperor and empress, cheering as you passed through the streets. The sight of Geta addressing the people with confidence and charisma filled you with pride, and you marveled at his ability to inspire hope despite the challenges he faced.

At night, in the privacy of your quarters, the two of you found solace in each other’s arms. The love you shared became a beacon of strength, a reminder of what you were fighting for.

But even as you celebrated small victories, the shadow of Caracalla remained. Reports of unrest in the capital reached you, and you knew that your brother-in-law’s schemes were far from over.

---

When the tour concluded and you returned to Rome, the tension was palpable. Geta’s advisors warned him of a potential coup, but he refused to live in fear.

One evening, as you prepared for bed, a messenger arrived with an urgent summons for Geta. He kissed your forehead before leaving, promising to return soon.

Hours passed, and unease settled in your chest. When he didn’t return, you decided to seek him out, ignoring the protests of the guards.

You found him in the council chamber once more, facing Caracalla and a group of armed Praetorians. The sight made your blood run cold.

“Stay back!” Geta shouted as you entered the room, his sword drawn.

Caracalla’s smirk was as infuriating as ever. “Ah, the empress graces us with her presence. How fitting for you to witness the end of this charade.”

“Enough of this, Caracalla!” you said, stepping forward despite Geta’s warning. “What do you hope to gain by turning against your own brother?”

Caracalla’s gaze darkened. “Power. Something neither of you truly understands.”

The tension snapped like a bowstring, and the room erupted into chaos. Geta fought valiantly, his sword flashing in the dim light as he defended both himself and you.

---

In the end, loyalty won the day. Guards loyal to Geta arrived just in time, forcing Caracalla and his men to retreat.

As you stood amidst the wreckage of the council chamber, Geta pulled you into his arms, his grip fierce. “Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice laced with worry.

“I’m fine,” you assured him, though your heart was still racing. “But this isn’t over.”

“No,” he agreed, his jaw set with determination. “But we’ll face it together.”

---

The aftermath of Caracalla’s brazen attack left the palace in disarray. Courtiers fled in fear, and whispers of civil war spread like wildfire. Geta acted quickly, summoning his most loyal advisors and reinforcing the palace with trusted guards. His calm, commanding presence kept the empire from descending into chaos, but the tension weighed heavily on both of you.

---

You stood by his side in every council meeting, your mere presence a symbol of unity and strength. Together, you worked tirelessly to solidify his rule, making strategic alliances and rooting out those who could not be trusted.

“I won’t let him tear this empire apart,” Geta vowed one night as you reviewed reports in your shared quarters.

“And I won’t let him tear us apart,” you replied, your voice steady. “We’re stronger than he is, Geta. We’ll prevail.”

He reached for your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours. “You give me strength,” he murmured. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

You leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. “You’ll never have to find out.”

---

Meanwhile, Caracalla retreated to a stronghold outside the capital, gathering forces loyal to him. Reports of his movements reached you daily, each one painting a clearer picture of his growing army.

“He’s trying to divide the empire,” Geta said during a strategy meeting. “If he succeeds, Rome will be lost.”

“We won’t let that happen,” you said firmly, standing beside him.

One of his generals spoke up. “Your Majesty, we must act swiftly. A decisive victory will quash any hope of rebellion.”

Geta nodded, his expression resolute. “Then we prepare for battle. But first, we must ensure the safety of the capital—and of the empress.”

You started to protest, but Geta silenced you with a look. “I won’t risk you, my love. You’re too important—to me and to Rome.”

Reluctantly, you agreed, knowing he only wanted to protect you.

---

As preparations for war intensified, you and Geta cherished the rare moments of peace you had together. One evening, he led you to the palace gardens, the moonlight casting a soft glow over the flowers.

“You brought me here once before,” you said, smiling at the memory.

“And I’ll bring you here again,” he replied, pulling you into his arms. “When this is all over, I want us to live without fear. To build a future together.”

You rested your head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. “We will,” you promised. “I believe in you, Geta. I always have.”

He tilted your chin up, capturing your lips in a kiss that was both tender and passionate. In that moment, the weight of the empire seemed to fade, leaving only the two of you and the love you shared.

---

The day of the confrontation arrived sooner than expected. Caracalla’s forces marched on the capital, their banners visible from the city walls.

Geta took to the battlefield, his armor gleaming in the sunlight as he rallied his troops. You watched from a secure vantage point, your heart pounding with every clash of swords and every cry of battle.

Hours passed, the outcome uncertain. But as the sun began to set, a cheer rose from the battlefield. Geta emerged victorious, his banner held high as Caracalla’s forces retreated in defeat.

When he returned to the palace, bloodied but unbroken, you ran to him, throwing your arms around him despite the protests of his guards.

“It’s over,” he said, his voice hoarse but filled with relief. “He’s gone.”

You held him tightly, tears streaming down your face. “You did it,” you whispered. “We did it.”

---

With Caracalla defeated, the empire began to heal. Geta’s victory solidified his rule, and the people celebrated the triumph of their emperor and empress.

In the weeks that followed, you worked together to rebuild what had been lost. The scars of the conflict remained, but so did the strength of your love and the promise of a brighter future.

——

The victory celebration had been a grand affair - feasts, toasts, and the adulation of the people filling the palace halls. But as the night drew to a close, Geta had only one thing on his mind: you.

He ushered you into your shared chambers, his hands already roaming your body, his touch possessive and hungry. "I've been waiting all night to have you to myself," he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear.

You shivered at his words, your heart racing in anticipation. "Geta," you breathed, your hands fisting in his tunic. "Please."

He chuckled, the sound low and dark. "Patience, my love. I intend to take my time with you tonight."

His fingers found the fastenings of your gown, working them loose with practiced ease. The fabric slipped from your shoulders, pooling at your feet, leaving you bare before him.

Geta's eyes raked over your body, his gaze hot and intense. "Exquisite," he growled, his hands skimming over your curves, mapping every inch of your skin.

He backed you towards the bed, his lips trailing kisses down your neck, your collarbone, your breasts. Each touch sent sparks of pleasure racing through your veins, your body arching into his.

When the back of your knees hit the mattress, Geta pushed you down, crawling over you with a predatory grace. "I'm going to worship every inch of you," he promised, his voice rough with desire. "I'm going to make you forget everything but my name."

His mouth found your breast, his tongue circling your nipple before drawing it into his mouth. You gasped, your fingers tangling in his hair, holding him close.

Geta worked his way down your body, his lips and tongue leaving a trail of fire in their wake. He settled between your thighs, his breath hot against your most sensitive parts.

"You're already so wet," he murmured, his fingers parting your folds. "Is this all for me?"

You nodded, your hips lifting off the bed, seeking more of his touch. "Yes," you gasped. "Only for you, Geta."

He groaned, the sound vibrating against your skin, and he set about his task with a single-minded determination that left you writhing beneath him. His tongue was skilled, his mouth hot and wet, and he brought you to the edge again and again, only to pull back at the last moment.

"Not yet," he panted, his voice strained. "I'm not done with you."

He positioned himself at your entrance, the head of his cock nudging against your slick heat. "Tell me you're mine," he demanded, his eyes boring into yours. "Tell me you belong to me."

"Yours," you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders. "I'm yours, Geta. All yours."

With a low groan, he thrust forward, sheathing himself inside you in one smooth stroke. You cried out at the sudden fullness, your back arching off the bed.

Geta set a punishing pace, his hips snapping against yours with a force that rocked the bed. Each thrust drove him deeper, harder, until the room was filled with the sound of flesh meeting flesh and the creaking of the mattress.

You met him thrust for thrust, your legs wrapped around his waist, your fingers tangled in his hair. The pleasure built and built, coiling tighter and tighter in your belly until it exploded, washing over you in waves of ecstasy.

Geta followed soon after, his body tensing above you as he spilled himself inside you with a guttural moan. He collapsed on top of you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his breath hot against your neck.

"My star," he murmured, his voice soft and sated. "My beautiful, perfect star."

You held him close, your heart swelling with a love that felt like it could burst. In this moment, the rest of the world fell away, leaving only the two of you, wrapped up in each other's arms.

It was a perfect moment, a rare glimpse of peace in a world that was constantly at war. And you held onto it, cherishing it, knowing that it was a gift that couldn't last forever.

But for now, you were content to stay in Geta's arms, to let the rest of the world fade away. Because here, with him, you were exactly where you belonged.

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Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

[woso-story]

Mila's Norwegian Christmas

Ingird Engen x Mapi Leon x BabyMila

It was the kind of December morning that promised magic—crisp, clear skies and a chilly breeze that danced through the streets of Barcelona. In their cozy apartment, the morning sun stretched its golden fingers through the windows, spilling light onto the living room floor. Inside, there was a beautiful chaos: Mapi was sprawled on the floor with Mila, their three-year-old daughter, alongside her. And, of course, Bagheera, their fluffy, sassy cat, was curled up in the middle of it all, soaking in the sun too.

Ingrid had just come home from running errands, her arms full of shopping bags. As she entered the living room, she couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight before her. There was Mapi, still in her warm oversized sweater, lying down on the floor next to Mila, who was in her own little world, chattering happily. Bagheera was stretched out between them, her fur catching the rays of the sun like a golden halo. 

It wasn’t a typical morning, but Ingrid adored moments like this—simple, cozy, and full of love. But even though it looked peaceful, she knew there was an underlying challenge ahead. This was going to be their first Christmas in Norway and Mila had never experienced winter there. 

Mila had met Ingrid’s parents before, on the few occasions when they had visited Norway in the past. However, those trips had been in the warmer months, and Mila had never known Norway during the winter chill, the snow, or the frost-covered trees that Ingrid had grown up with. Ingrid had always talked about her family’s Christmas traditions in Norway—how magical it was to wake up to snow-covered streets, how fun it was to go sledging, ice-skating, and to sit by the fire with family. It all sounded wonderful, and Ingrid was determined to share it with Mila. But there was one small problem: Mila was very much a Barcelona girl. She loved the warmth, the sunshine, and the comfort of her familiar surroundings. The thought of a snowy Christmas in a freezing Norway didn’t excite her in the slightest. 

“Maria,” Ingrid said with a mischievous smile, leaning against the doorframe of the living room. “Do you realize that Mila and Bagheera are both the same—perfectly content to just lay in the sun all day?”

Mapi laughed, her bright blonde hair falling softly over her shoulders. “I guess I did pass on my love of sunbathing,” she replied. “But I can’t blame them. It’s the best part of the day.”

Mila, noticing that her mom was talking to Mapi, bounced up on her little feet, her curly hair bouncing with her. “Mama!” she said in a sing-song voice, running over to Ingrid, “Look! Bagheera is sleeping with us!”

Ingrid smiled at the way her daughter’s face lit up at the simplest things. Mila was still young, but her spirit was already so vibrant. She was curious, always on the move, and had a fierce love for her family—especially for Bagheera, their black cat who had been with them since Mila was a baby. 

Ingrid took a deep breath, watching Mila curl back up beside Mapi. The thought of the cold, snowy trip ahead weighed on Ingrid’s mind. They had talked to Mila about their plans for Christmas in Norway, explaining that they would fly to Ingrid’s parents’ house, where they could enjoy snow, sledging, and maybe even build a snowman. At first, Mila had been intrigued, her eyes wide with excitement at the idea of snow. But as soon as Ingrid mentioned the cold, Mila’s face fell. 

“I don’t want to go to Norway,” Mila had said, pouting slightly. “I want to stay here with Bagheera. I don’t like the cold.”

Ingrid had tried to reassure her. “It’s going to be so much fun, sweetheart! You’ll get to play in the snow, and you’ll see your grandparents, and you’ll have lots of fun with them! And don’t worry—your grandparents will be so happy to see you.”

But Mila had shaken her head. “I want to stay here with Bagheera,” she repeated stubbornly. 

“I know, baby,” Ingrid had said, smiling softly. “Bagheera will be fine. We’re just going on a little adventure, and soon you’ll see how fun snow can be!”

Despite Ingrid’s words, Mila wasn’t convinced. As the day of their flight approached, the little girl remained grumpy, unsure about the whole idea. It didn’t help that they couldn’t bring Bagheera with them. Ingrid and Mapi had explained that Bagheera would stay with her grandparents in Zaragoza, but Mila’s concern about her beloved cat was palpable. 

And so, two days later, they found themselves on a flight to Norway. Mila had her arms crossed over her chest, a pout firmly in place. She looked like a tiny replica of Mapi—her fiery look, the pout, and even the way she folded her arms. Mapi noticed it too and couldn’t help but laugh. “She’s definitely my daughter,” Mapi said with a grin. 

When they landed in Norway, the first thing Mila noticed was the cold. It was a sharp contrast to the warmth of Barcelona, and the snow-covered streets looked nothing like the sun-drenched beaches Mila was used to. Ingrid, wrapped in a thick coat and scarf, kept a watchful eye on her daughter as they walked to the taxi. Mila, bundled up in layers, had a look of complete disbelief on her face as she tugged at her scarf. 

Mapi, standing beside her, pouted just as dramatically, mirroring Mila’s discomfort. Ingrid laughed, snapping a picture of the two of them in their matching winter gear. She sent the photo to the Barcelona team chat with a note: “Twins in the cold. Not amused.”

When they arrived at Ingrid’s parents’ house, there was a warmth that instantly made Mila feel better. Ingrid’s parents were ecstatic to see their daughter and granddaughter, and Mila quickly forgot her grumpiness when she was swept into the arms of her grandparents. She loved seeing how tall they were, and the best part of any visit was always when her grandad, Orjan, would lift her onto his shoulders. Mila loved that feeling of being the tallest person in the room, and she couldn’t stop giggling whenever her grandpa would spin around, pretending she was the queen of the world.

But despite her grandparents’ excitement, Mila was still a little homesick. The snow was beautiful, but it wasn’t Barcelona, and she missed her familiar routines. Ingrid could see her daughter struggling with the change, but she wasn’t worried. She knew that soon, Mila would find her rhythm. 

Later, they went ice-skating at a nearby rink. To everyone’s surprise, Mila was a natural. After a few wobbly attempts and some help from Ingrid, she was skating around the rink like she had been doing it for years. Mapi, on the other hand, was struggling to stay upright, clinging to the edge of the rink and laughing every time she fell. Mila skated circles around her, calling, “Come on, Mami! I can do it. You can do it too!”

And then, something changed. The first time they went sledging down the hills, Mila’s mood shifted. The excitement of zooming down the snow-covered slopes with Mapi, who was laughing just as much as she was, was too much to resist. Mila’s giggles filled the air, and soon she was asking to go again, eager for the next run.

---

Everyone laughed as Mapi took yet another tumble. Ingrid, offering a hand to her wife, couldn’t resist teasing her. “Looks like we’ve got a little Norwegian ice princess on our hands,” she said with a grin.

Christmas Eve came, and the family gathered around the beautifully decorated tree in Ingrid’s parents’ home. The sight of all the presents underneath it made Mila’s eyes widen in wonder. She was amazed at how many gifts there were, and most of them had her name on them. Her grandparents even gave her a surprise gift—her very own pair of ice skates. Ingrid and Mapi exchanged a look of pride. It was clear their little girl had won over Norway, even if it took her a little while to adjust.

Mila beamed. “I’m going to be the best skater in Barcelona! Watch out!” she announced proudly, already planning how she would show off her new skills to her friends back home.

---

That evening, as they sat by the fire, enjoying the warmth and the comfort of family, Ingrid leaned back, watching Mila talk animatedly about her new ice-skating skills. “She’s definitely more Spanish than Norwegian,” Ingrid murmured with a smile.

“She’s a perfect mix of both of us,” Mapi said, her heart swelling with pride. 

And as they boarded the plane back to Barcelona, Mila surprised them by asking, “When are we going back to Norway again? I want to build another snowman!” 

Ingrid and Mapi exchanged a glance, smiling. Maybe their little Barcelona girl was more Norwegian than they thought.

[ripplestitchskein]

Like, can we take a second to understand that every single moment from the time Stolas left that courtroom until the end of Sinsmas was a SENSORY NIGHTMARE? He is immediately attacked and has disgusting things thrown on him after truly believing he was going to DIE, he’s taken to a place he does not live and is not familiar with, is put in clothes that are not his own and then awakens covered in horse plushies to a bright and chipper Blitz making food he is unfamiliar with. He is then taken out into a world he does not know, surrounded by people who are openly hostile to him, that he does not know the social conventions or etiquette for, and its all activities that require a TREMENDOUS amount of executive function even if you are at your peak: laundry, shopping, trying on clothes, running from shopkeepers and getting into fights at diners all this while UNMEDICATED and worrying about his daughter who he has not seen, who will not communicate with him, and who is currently being looked after by a woman who tried to kill him twice and brother in law who just took everything he has.

Then after all that he is asked to participate in a holiday he does not celebrate, which is already overwhelming on its own, but this time in a in a chaotic workplace while being asked to learn a new job with people he doesn’t know very well, people are actively fighting and blowing each other up, and being very loud the entire time. He’s encouraged to answer a phone while in the middle of a sobbing break down to talk to the worst sinner in Hell who then reminds him of how badly he fucked up and how people view what he did, has a moment of suicidal ideation and is then left ALONE with the homophobe who triggered it.

He rightfully loses his shit and goes after his daughter and is swallowed alive by an ice hydra, gets decimated emotionally by his daughter and is then forced to participate in a Sinsmas party, again with people he doesn’t know, who are all being extremely loud and overwhelming. He goes outside to have some time alone and he’s followed and reassured with a story about an estranged loved one, who to this day, has not forgiven Blitz. It doesn’t exactly inspire hope to be told “My sister won’t see me either because of something I did, we were really close, it super sucks”.

Like we, the audience, can recognize that Blitz is being extremely supportive and open for once and trying to be helpful and he’s approaching it exactly like he does Loona (like to the letter), but lets take a moment to see how this looks from Stolas’s POV. He doesn’t even know Blitz realized he was in love with him at this point, they haven’t talked about it. Their last conversation before all this kicked off that we can reasonably expect him to remember was when he found out Blitz didn’t tell him about Striker’s first assassination attempt? He was drunk at the party and we have no way of knowing how much of that he retained. He even says that Blitz doesn’t have to feel guilty. Because what else is he supposed to think are the motivations behind Blitz’s 180? Guilt and pity and quid pro quo life saving.

So yeah, it’s a lot for him to process and the show was very clear about how much it was and how unhinged he’s feeling right now and like, if you think what he should be doing in those moments is performing gratitude for gratitudes sake I dunno what to tell you buddy.

[tragedy-of-commons]

HOMECOMING.

── dan heng x gn!reader

summary: Your boyfriend invites you to spend Christmas break with him and his eccentric (but lovable all the same) family. You oblige.

contains: modern and university au, established relationship, comedy and tooth-rotting fluff, christmas shopping, the astral express fam all make appearances (pre-2.7), setting is very american-inspired (sorry), cringefail exuberant reader, one hurt/comfort scene

word count: 11.4k oops

taglist: @singularity-sam, @mitsvriii, @tetrachrxmacy, @bladism, @mikashisus

notes: for @azuresaqua, written for the @/stellaronhvnters secret santa 🎄 this took all month, but i hope you like it crys!! also this totally looks fine on dark mode. if you think otherwise then ummm SHHH. dividers by @/cafekitsune!

Your phone blares with its usual grating ringtone, startling you out of your reverie.

Scrambling to pick the device up, you’re pleasantly surprised. So much so that you drop the sweatshirt in your free hand mid-fold. The caller ID reads Dan Heng, lighting up your homescreen with his contact icon.

A warmth buzzes in your chest as you look it over, a giggle erupting from your throat. The selfie is of you and him, with Dan Heng looking particularly spacey in the midst of the bustling street.

You’re now considerably less bored. You’ve been looking for an excuse to procrastinate doing your laundry all day, and it just so happens to entail talking with your lovely partner. Not waiting any longer, you clear your throat, tap the green accept button, and press the speaker to your ear.

“Hi, darling!” you chirp, shifting to sit more comfortably, “I miss you. How’re you holding up? Still in the library studying the day away?”

The other line crackles with life. “Hello. I feel the same,” Dan Heng informs you matter-of-factly, his cadence clear as a river. “And no, I’m not there anymore. It was… too crowded for my liking.”

That’s no surprise. Finals are upon the whole campus in a few days, and it shows. There is a distinct, depressing atmospheric pressure that weighs upon your fellow students. 

The scourge of exams, the final boss of the semester, the enemy of mental fortitude and peace. Though Dan Heng loves your university’s expansive library, you can imagine he’d be less enthralled when a hundred tired young adults are populating it to cram.

“Yeah, I can imagine,” you wince. “Well, look on the bright side. We’re almost done, yeah? Soon enough, the library will be solely your domain once again, and you can be a doll and skim the archives in my stead.”

His voice takes on a sarcastic lilt, affection hidden underneath the words like a hard-won reward. You think it’s an indulgence for him. “If my memory serves correctly, I had to smooth things over with the librarian on your behalf. I don’t think it’s a wise idea for you to loiter there any longer, as energetic as you are.”

How cheeky! Honestly, you’re not even that loud. Sometimes you laugh a little too hard at benign things (like the way some book titles sound out of context), or react too vibrantly at the wrong times (like exclaiming profanities after tripping over your own feet), but those aren’t crimes.

Even now, ruminating over this reasoning, you still don't understand how you got banned from the library. Unreal.

“Hey, come on now! I don’t even loiter… I just want to spend time with you, even if studying isn’t something I burden myself with. That guy has it out for me,” you insist, growing smile threatening to split your face in two. “Anyway, I’m not saying this to be rude, but…”

“But?” Dan Heng asks cautiously.

“You normally don’t call first. Is everything okay?”

You mean it when you ask. Though you love your boyfriend, he isn’t the best at initiating longform communication. Sometimes you’ll get a text with a link to a video he found interesting, or he’ll update you with life (mostly just classes and endless papers), and then you’ll respond by quadruple-texting and then maybe calling him. For hours. And then asking to come over to his dorm. And then falling asleep with him. All at your request, which he doesn’t seem to mind.

That being said, it’s atypical that he takes up the mantle, which makes you worry. And if you worry, Dan Heng feels guilty. Trying not to be patronizing, you patiently wait for him to speak on his own terms, humming to yourself idly. You could, y’know, do your laundry, but you’re not gonna do that. Free will is so cool and awesome.

“Yes, everything’s fine,” he assures, words measured. “I just have something I’d like to run by you, but I didn’t want to interrupt if you were busy.”

“I’m never busy! Spill!” Extremely curious, you pluck your phone from your ear and put Dan Heng on speaker. While you’re at it, you also stand up and pace the short length from your bed to the door of your suite, clothes abandoned on the floor. 

“It’s about this winter break. We haven’t conferred on plans yet, but I was planning to ask you if you’d meet my… my family. Of course, it all depends on your availability - don’t feel too rushed to answer, I’d just like to know in advance so I can get things in order on my end.”

Woah, what just happened? You stop walking to think, gears spinning and grinding and pushing all sorts of implications. His family. 

Dan Heng has one, yes, he divulges details every once in a while and elaborates on his mishmash of a homelife when you ask, but you’ve never heard him refer to these mystical figures as family. They’ve always been referred to as my friend, followed by their name. You know them well, committing each to memory despite not having met them yet: March, Caelus, Welt, and Himeko. 

Of course, you pester your boyfriend about them. Nothing too invasive, just remembering the important details. Asking for updates about March’s creative ventures or inquiring if Himeko’s coffee has gotten any more palatable, to name a few. 

In turn, Dan Heng would make a comment about how they also pester him about you. It’s like a big game of telephone - this indirect communication is what you’re used to. It’s kind of surreal to think about actually meeting them after all this time.

Then the joy comes. He wants to share this part of his life with you. Is this the natural next step in your relationship, like all seasoned married couples fondly reflect back on? Dan Heng wants to spend three and half weeks with you, uninterrupted, at home. His home.

Tears prick at your eyes, but you blink them away, grinning like an absolute fool. Does he really think you’ll say no? You’d already do anything to make him happy. Despite being several buildings and crosswalks away from him right now, your hearts feel impossibly close together.

(It’s not like you have anything else planned.)

That thought is pushed away as quickly as it comes. No time for you to be bitter when it’s the season of giving and all things cheerful! This opportunity is nothing short of a blessing… you’re saved from being cramped up inside the inevitably deserted hall for the entirety of break. You’re saved from having to admit to Dan Heng that I have nowhere to go and nothing to do like everyone else. 

Shock, joy, relief. 

“Oh my god,” you laugh, breathy. With a repressed-young-man-trained-ear, you catch a soft sigh of relief dissipating on the other line. “Yes, of course I want to meet them! Dude, this is so exciting! What if I died? What if I blew up the entirety of campus in my merriment? What then?”

He is far too used to your theatrics to react too strongly to them at this point. “...I wouldn’t put it past you. But I’m glad you said yes. There’s just the issue of details to work out.”

Dan Heng proposes different times on different days to leave. Well, he probably went more in depth than that - he likes to schedule and plan for the future, even if he doesn’t always stick to those self-imposed regulations in the end - probably droning on about the cost of gas or something. But you’re way too shell-shocked to respond coherently, muffling squeals and noncommittal hums that give away exactly how much you’re not paying attention.

Digesting about half of the information, you bring up what you have left to do before winter break after he does the same: registration for next semester’s classes, turning in textbooks for certain courses (thank the stars renting is affordable here), and the remaining days riddled with finals. 

Despite how daunting these tasks are for others, you find yourself enjoying the denouement. Guessing on scantrons has gotten you pretty far, and the other obligations can be swiftly eliminated through sheer will and lots of Christmas music. Your Spotify listening history must look like some kind of tinsel-festooned warzone.

This will be your first ever Christmas with Dan Heng. He’s never been extremely festive by any means, but you cajoled him into a matching Halloween costume a month ago, and he is fond of horror movies despite how silly they can be, offering little bits of trivia or his critiques on the film’s score. 

You think this holiday, spent at his home, in his hometown - will be the source of many happy memories. It’ll also, hopefully, be another endless source of teasing. 

Images flit through your mind, the most notable of which being your stoic boyfriend in a truly hideous red and green sweater. You snicker to yourself until your amusement is disturbed by Dan Heng promptly clearing his throat. 

He says your name in that soft way that makes you weak in the knees. You’re under his spell just as much as he is under yours. You should take to reminding him of that more often. “Just to be clear, is this alright with you?”

It’s so much more than alright, you think. Winter, for all of its bitter cold and unforgiving responsibilities, still teems with life as the leaves die. For every day you’ve spent alone during the last two Christmases, you’ll be repaid with one in kind spent with Dan Heng and the people he trusts most.

You’re blessed with the sweet thought that you’re now a part of those treasured, trustworthy few as well. 

You know you’ve been treasured for a long time, but feeling it actualized, solidified in action, is as homey and warm as a burning hearth.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “I am, darling. I’m so excited that I think I’m shaking!”

You tighten your grip on your phone, almost leaving indents in the shitty case, attempting to still your vibrating fingers. His response is a mumble along the lines of you should probably eat something, and I’m glad. Dan Heng can be a little awkward, especially over the phone, but that just speaks of his sincerity. He’s glad you’re coming. 

You scuttle over to the window beside your bed, yanking the blinds askew to peek outside. A glimpse of the first frost coating the student parking lot promises something more. Something magical and childlike.

Joy. You have a feeling you’re going to be extremely insufferable to any and all scrooges (people rightfully sick of dealing with your chipper attitude) in the coming days. Oh well, they can suck it up because it’s the most wonderful time of the year, and you’re in love with the most amazing person in the world. 

You tell him not to worry, which he sighs at, and then the brunt of the conversation is over. The following silence is calm but electric, dragging on for just the right amount of time. A well-deserved respite, you think. 

“I love you,” you confess.

“...I love you too. Touch base soon.”

With that, the call ends abruptly. Your cheeks feel hot and you’re reinvigorated, daydreaming of Dan Heng’s expressions obscured by distance - you want nothing more than to see him, but you know your partner well enough to realize when he needs a break; to realize when he needs his alone time. You would never begrudge him for it.

That was a fucking whirlwind.

You shove your phone in your pocket after nudging the blinds back in place. There’s so much to do, and you’re definitely gonna need another run-down of the schedule (preferably in person), but for now, you’ll let yourself be over the moon and overrun with task paralysis. 

Triumphantly, you turn to flip off your abandoned pile of laundry. Free will is so cool and awesome.

“We are so back!”

You’re so impatient that you’ve started counting the hours.

The final stretch is a lot more boring than you thought it was going to be. Picking a time to check out of your dorm, fixing up any scuffs on the walls from your shitty posters before room inspection, actually passing your classes. The normal stuff. 

Both you and Dan Heng decided that you would leave at around three in the morning on the first day of break. It sounded bewildering at first, and you had levelled him with a look that made him hurriedly elaborate.

“In order to get there at a reasonable time, it’s the best way to go,” he’d said over coffee. “The drive isn’t more than a few hours, but if we leave right after routine inspection, we’d be arriving in the middle of the night.”

Though the mental image of showing up on a quaint little home’s doorstep in your pajamas and waking up the whole neighborhood with your knocking is funny, it’s not funny enough to quell your nerves. 

You’ve noticed, usually in the midst of trying to be productive, that the excitement is weighing heavily on your heart. Your hands are perpetually shaky, you’re sweating disgusting buckets, and you’re sure you look as if you’ve lost your marbles to any soul brave enough to strike up conversation.

That last part came to your attention when Bronya, your desk neighbor in your Interpersonal Communications class, dared ask you if she could borrow a pencil. She barely got the question out before she asked if you were alright. And if Bronya asks you if you’re alright, it means that you must look terrible. 

Sure enough, you are getting less and less sleep, and you’ve been prone to twitching. In retrospect, you probably had that wild look in your eye that screamed I am at rock bottom and it’s in the public’s best interest that I’m contained.

But you’re not at rock bottom! You’re just nervous, and it’s weird when you’re nervous, because such an occurrence is as rare as a blue moon. You’re going to be meeting Dan Heng’s family in a matter of days, and you’re expected to behave as a normal, functioning member of society. Unbelievable. Even the love of your life has noticed the difference in your behavior - he seems disturbed but respectful. 

You recall him asking if you were ill, which you had vehemently denied. Then he kissed you under the thin covers of his bed, and everything was fine for a moment.

But you think you’re feeling better on this day in particular. To distract yourself from the anxiety, you’ve sunk deeper into the holiday cheer. With Dan Heng at your side, you’ve blown off classes for the day to go gift shopping. The outlet mall near your university is always bustling, but during this time of year, you’d think there’s an overpopulation crisis wreaking havoc on your city.

Escalators are crammed with excited children dragging their parents along, there are decorations painstakingly put up in every nook and cranny, and you have a mission to see through.

“Thanks for ditching to help me out,” you preface. “It’d be way too difficult to shop for your family on my own. Just the idea of stress-buying things they may not even like… ugh. Also, wow! I realized you haven’t told me jack shit about them! I’m actually clueless.”

Dan Heng is not amused, but he doesn’t outright refute your assertion. “I suppose you have a point. And I didn’t ditch class,” he emphasizes, ears red. “Psychology got canceled.”

Here, among the sea of people, Dan Heng looks his least confident. While you, the person known for befriending every stray cat you meet, look your best.

The juxtaposition makes you feel fuzzy, and you know in your heart that he would've helped you anyway, even if he had class. He can be so obvious but so subtle at the same time. You tug on the sleeve of his sweatshirt once, purely affectionate. 

“Right. Uh, where do we start? Who’s the easiest to shop for?” you wonder aloud, crossing the stretches of marble and doing your best to peer down the massive store-lined strip. “We could start with March. She’s into crafty stuff, right?”

Your boyfriend tames a cowlick in his dark hair. “Yes. You seem to have a plan figured out already, but she uses up heaps of film while taking photos. An arts and crafts store would likely have the 600 type for her Polaroid. That’s what I had in mind in terms of a gift she’d appreciate.”

“We seem to be on the same page, but that just sounds so… impersonal! Bit of a safe choice, don’t you think? Let’s play it by ear and see what they have. I’m sure she’d also appreciate something handmade. I think I have enough time to DIY a gift; they probably have kits for all sorts of stuff.”

Dan Heng is starting off in the direction of the correct storefront. The display window is easily spotted, plastered with all kinds of paper mache ornaments. “You don’t need to fret. Knowing her, she’ll love anything that comes from you.”

You blink, grinning. “Really? Didn’t know I was so popular.”

“You have no idea,” sighs Dan Heng.

Warmly titled Make n’ Create, the door chimes, signifying your entry. Immediately, you’re assaulted by the smell of candles - a few hundred thousand, you hazard. 

Scents of vanilla and evergreen paired with cinnamon burn your nostrils as you survey the aisles of winding shelves overflowing with endless possibilities. Almost forgetting to return the greeting of the woman behind the counter, you snap out of your stupor and drag your boyfriend along.

Everything looks enticing… your savings account is telling you to be responsible, but your heart is telling you to snatch up and squirrel away any item of interest just in case. You wander the marble floor under the bright fluorescents, humming under your breath. “Hey, we can probably save some time and split up. Could you go look for the film? We’ll definitely get that along with whatever catches my eye.”

Relieved to have something to do, Dan Heng nods and disembarks from your side, perilously weaving between other shoppers buzzing with excitement. He mentioned that he deliberately put off Christmas shopping since you insisted on doing it together, the thought alone satisfying. 

The prospect of scrawling both of your names on the same box, passed off into eager hands. The words will read From: Dan Heng and his partner.

Rounding a corner, the pottery and ceramics section calls to you like a siren. There are stocks upon stocks of white, unpainted Christmas trees and wreaths, advertised as blank canvases to decorate as your own - paint included. Those are cute, but something relevant year-round would probably be received better. 

Impressions, impressions. Your gaze drops lower, dutifully searching…

Aha!

Ceramic jewelry dishes. Same gimmick as the trees and wreaths, but not necessarily seasonal. There are a few different types among the kits - heart-shaped, some with hinges that open and close, even some with music box elements with heftier price tags. 

Your intuition slaps you across the face multiple times. March will love one of these, you just know it! Cautious, you spare a shifty glance from left to right before squealing to yourself. The package in your hand is crisp and promising as you check over the price and instructions.

Dan Heng returns to witness your perfect find. You know this because you recognize the soft padding of his footsteps anywhere (which is not creepy). You turn to see him and the fond look in his eye - and the aforementioned packages of film he’s clutching. 

“Hey, you,” you chuckle. “You found it, great! Anyway, look what I stumbled upon. Do you think she’ll--” “Yes,” he breathes, suddenly decisive. “She will. Especially the heart one.”

Quickly heeding the ever-rare suggestion from Dan Heng, you discard the now inferior package and seize the heart-shaped one. “I trust your judgment. She has good taste, honestly. Thanks for your help, love, I appreciate it. I know for a fact she likes pink, and though my hands are a little clumsy… I’ll make a masterpiece outta this, trust me.”

He exhales through his nose. That’s a laugh if you’ve ever heard one. “You sound so resolute…”

“Duty-bound, if you will,” you grin. “We can move on to the next place if you’d like. Didn’t expect to be done here so fast.”

“...wait.”

You tilt your head, following his line of sight back to the shelves. He seems transfixed on something else there, and a few seconds go by in silence as you’re left to figure out what it is on your lonesome. 

Dan Heng has gotten better at speaking his mind - he was never bad at it, but sometimes words get tangled up in his reticent hesitation. You understand this well. So, you try to determine what’s caught his eye. The understanding you come to is a nice one. The lowest rung of the shelf, almost overshadowed, are more ceramics - no surprise there. But it feels like fate the way that they’re displayed; two sturdy coffee cups with intricate handles, then a miniature raccoon forever inlaid with a devilish expression, practically commanding a paintbrush to make its mischievous grin come to life with color. 

Himeko, Welt, Caelus.

You laugh, loud and bright, grabbing your boyfriend’s hand with a conspiratorial grin. “Four birds with one stone, huh? We’re gonna need a cart!”

Dan Heng is blushing. It’s subtle, not at all burning or obvious to any nosy bystanders, but it’s enough to make your heart sing with delight. You take it he’s glad that you picked up on his thoughts so wordlessly. 

He excuses himself after muttering something about going to get the cart while you smile like an idiot. A lovestruck idiot. A lovestruck idiot with a soon-to-be overdrawn bank account.

…well, not exactly. After you gather everything and go to check out, he insists on paying for all of it. You make sure to argue with him in front of the very amused cashier, reaching a compromise in no time at all thanks to your amazing negotiation skills. He’ll pay for this load (whatever), and you’ll pay for any remaining splurges today. It’s only natural you need to stop by a few more places, considering March has two gifts while the others only have one. 

By the time Dan Heng’s social battery is drained and yours is frayed, you have everything. An apparel outlet that you would’ve never stepped foot in normally now has your patronage; a golden brooch in the shape of a rose (that’s surprisingly affordable) for Himeko, a classy but patterned tie for Welt, and a trendy jacket for Caelus.

You think you’re the most jealous of that last one - it has many pockets and takes up enough space to suffocate a small orphan.

Hauling the bags into the icy parking lot, you suddenly stop in your tracks, feeling the generous weight of your spending in the process. “Hold on.”

Your tired but loving partner heeds your command. “What? Is something the matter?”

“We forgot to shop for each other,” you point out, sheepish and breathy. Seems you’ve both been so caught up in the tradewinds that you forgot. “Should we go back inside?”

“No,” he blurts, “I’ve already acquired your gift.”

Gobsmacked, you almost drop your share of the bags. He’s been holding out on you?! The surprise quickly fades into mushy limerence before it dulls. “Huh? When did you do that? Oh shit, I haven’t gotten you anything yet… dude, I’m sorry, I’ll head back inside, all secret mission-esque and find you something while you wait in the car--” 

Dan Heng shakes his head. “You… you don’t have to.”

The hell? Does he even know how Christmas works? “Of course I do, come on,” you push forward. Knowing you’ve already forgotten where you’ve parked, he strides out in front of you and leads the way, preparing to argue his case. “We’ll put these in the back, and I’ll find you an amazing gift, you’ll see.”

You both reach his little beat-up sedan (which you’ve aptly named Granny), while he fumbles for his keys. He sighs, rolling the frigid joints in his shoulders as he opens the driver’s seat to unlock the trunk. Setting the bags down on the gross pavement is unfortunately inevitable. You throw the thing open, already loading. 

Dan Heng’s rebuttal is almost startling.

“I don’t need an ‘amazing gift’. I have you.”

You freeze. Where did he pull that from? Are you hallucinating again? Is this like the time you stayed up for two days straight to half-ass a dozen unfinished assignments? Or maybe it’s selective hearing… such a line is probably from an old romcom that you’re mentally regurgitating and then projecting onto him.

But you don’t tease or ask him to repeat it. Instead, you choose to fully believe and embrace that compliment, warming your heart and your cheeks. His expression is obscured from your position, but he probably looks the same.

“I’m… really glad you think so, Dan Heng,” you almost whisper.

Before he can say anything else that’ll ruin the moment, you decide that’s your job! and slam the trunk closed, deafeningly loud. 

“But that’s unacceptable! I’ll find you something perfect in the coming days no matter what!”

You hear him sigh before you hear his approaching footsteps. “Try not to stress too hard about it. Also, open that back up, there are more bags.”

“Oops,” you giggle. “Why not ask me nicely, like in that Romeo way you did five seconds ago?”

Your other half rightfully elects to ignore you.

As you finish wrapping up with him at your side, the subsequent ride back to campus is in comfortable silence. The buzz of what’s to come lingers on your mind as you stare out of the passenger window at the familiar scenery. You’ll find time to squeeze in finding a gift for Dan Heng, you’ll make sure of it. 

But for now, what to pack for the impending trip…?

You wake to the sound of your blaring alarm. Scrambling for your phone to make the thing shut up, you’re blinded by the time. It’s 2:30 in the morning, you’re disoriented, and you desperately want to go back to sleep. But when you really come to a minute later after hitting snooze, it all sinks in. 

Your room inspection is over with, your finals have been taken (you didn’t fail any of them, yay), and you have to leave campus with Dan Heng in about thirty minutes. Surreal that you’re awake at this hour, you go about getting ready - this includes texting the man of the hour to make sure he didn’t oversleep.

To your satisfaction, he responds swiftly. To your horror, he mentions that he’s ready and waiting. Unfair, in your opinion - why is he always punctual, and why are you always late?

You look in the mirror at your haphazard reflection. Not too shabby; just a leisure t-shirt and some sweatpants, pulled together by the thickest jacket you have since it’s grown even colder out. Your bags are already packed and practically bursting at the seams, loaded with your essentials, and of course the presents for Dan Heng’s family. 

You spent all of your free time crammed between everything else painting the ceramics while he wrapped and made everything else look pretty.

(You almost got crudely mixed pink paint on your dorm wall - well, you did just a little bit. Luckily it came off without the need to go sprinting to the nearest hardware store in pursuit of a cover-up job. That would have been bad. Very bad. Also, you left the primary suite door open to ventilate, and at least three students walking down the hallway witnessed your perfectionism-driven breakdown. Also, your suitemate hates you now.)

All of that’s over, though. Making sure you have everything once, then twice, then three whole times - you decide it’s finally time to go. You lug everything out of your dorm, down the hallway, into the elevator, and wait as it descends.

You check your phone, updating your boyfriend as the cabin grinds to a halt on the ground floor. Outside is nothing short of beautiful, if not hypothermic.

Snow falls in tiny flurries that make the dark cement purgatory look like a dream. The floodlights leave some corners of the parking lot shadowed, but illuminate Dan Heng just right. You spot him and his old ass car smack dab in the middle of all the empty spaces, just about everyone having vacated already.

“Hi, darling,” your breath syncs with the air as a wispy cloud. You kiss his cheek. “You ready?”

“I have been for the better part of an hour,” he informs you, perhaps a little grumpy from waking up so early - or it could just be that wry sarcasm rearing its head.

You find that Dan Heng is neither an early bird nor a night owl, oscillating between the two like nobody’s business. He’s up when he needs to be, including now, softened under the touch of your lips. 

And so, without much fanfare, the road trip commences. It’s notably different than the other times he’s chauffeured you around - so silent and grave. It kind of puts a damper on the Christmas spirit you’ve so painstakingly adopted, but you think twice about cranking the radio. He is the one driving, after all.  

You offered to switch with him halfway, and to his credit, he thought about it. But then Dan Heng politely shook his head and muttered something about bad weather and hydroplaning. Whatever a hydroplane is, you aren’t sure what it has to do with you being untrustworthy behind the wheel. 

The pleasant blast of the heater, the occasional robotic warbling from the GPS app, and the noise of the light drizzle outside are your more talkative companions. You’re getting antsy; you feel it in the bouncing of your leg and how you mindlessly chew on the dead skin of your bottom lip. 

Should you try to ignore it? Put on your headphones and tune out? The thought is appealing. 

Instead, you pipe up a few minutes before you’re due to turn on the interstate.

“Wanna get coffee?” you singsong. “I mean, you especially are going to need the caffeine to keep awake. Sleep deprivation is, like, the number three reason people get into car crashes.”

Dan Heng huffs in amusement. You’re glad that got some kind of reaction out of him, glad that the stoney silence has been broken. But if you’re being completely honest with yourself (which you really hate doing), this detour suggestion is just an excuse to delay the inevitable. For all of your joy, lingering anxiety chips away at your trademark smirk. 

You decide to bribe him just a little. “I’m buying.”

He turns into the nearest place without any further prodding. The coffee, which you have successfully paid for by the way, is nice. The searing light of the menu options, clambering over Dan Heng to place your orders as loud as you can because you know it’s hard for them to hear anything - fleeting memories of taking orders at your high school part-time job and all that. 

As you take the cup holder tray from your partner, ferried through the drive thru window, he speaks up, much to your chagrin.

“You’re nervous,” he says, leaving no room for doubt. You continue to situate the drinks and glance into the side view mirror, taking a sudden rapt interest in the line forming behind you.

You decide to lie. Maybe he’ll be merciful and let you work this one out on your own. “Me? Nervous? Whatever gives you that impression? Perhaps you needed the coffee more than I thought… poor Dan Heng, so tired that he’s hallucinating…” you whistle.

Gaslighting, unfortunately, doesn’t work. Persuasion check must’ve rolled off. Dan Heng says your name, soft but stilted in a way that makes your heart ache. He rolls out of the drive thru after checking the rearview mirror, his knuckles white around the steering wheel. They gain their color back after he realizes you’re staring at them.

“I’m nervous too. Extremely.” You’re back on the highway, and you fiddle with the GPS to get yourself back en route, taking in his words as they come. Dan Heng is being candid with you; encouraging. “Going back home is always an… ordeal.”

You deflate a bit, conflict warring on your face. Considering how flustered he gets when you dote on him, albeit within his limits, you can’t imagine how exhausting being fussed at from all angles would be. Not like he’s a kid, but that he’s returning home after another semester of being independent.

“Yeah, um, I can imagine. I don’t know much about that stuff, but it’ll probably be amplified with me coming with you. We’ll get through it together and have a great time.”

You say it to convince yourself more than him, but it works. Perhaps that was his plan all along?

“Yes,” agrees Dan Heng. “We will.”

The interstate stretch, predictably, is the most sizable chunk of the trip. Temptation whispers in your ears tantalizingly, the idea of a nap or two at the forefront of your sleep-addled mind. The soft pitter-patter of the rain against the windshield battling with the snow makes it even harder to resist.

So, you doze soundly in your reclined seat, nice and warm. You think you feel a hand, cold and calloused, brushing against your cheek, but fighting it would require waking up to demand he focus on the road! It retracts, and you’re out for a good long while.

You know that for a fact, because when you wake up, dawn is encroaching. The stars are still visible against the bleeding horizon. You feel much better, even if Dan Heng suppresses a smile at your expense - you seriously must look wrecked from a few simple hours of rest. Geez.

You yawn, waking up to chat. Your boyfriend looks unruffled, cool eyes scanning road signs for a place to apparently fuel up.

He tells you that there’s only about an hour or so left, the ETA checking out. Nerves flood your system, but after a deep breath and stepping out to stretch your legs, you feel better.

“Who knew you were so good at pep talks,” you tease, if not to hide the fact you’re completely enamored with him. You fill up the tank after he cuts the engine, purposefully yelling so he can hear your words through the rolled up windows. “My man, the motivator!”

You hear his ensuing groan, claiming mental victory as the pump dings. Easy. 

Staring at the signs of his hometown, a foreign sense of wonder engulfs you as you split from the interstate. Has that diner been there since Dan Heng was a kid? Did he even spend all of his childhood in one place? Should you ask, or is that too invasive? 

The trees lining the grassy outcrops are tiny and thin, likely just having been planted by the city. How much has changed since you’ve started monopolizing his time?

Your questions spill out, and he does his best to answer them - but he also seems nostalgic, wistful and pained. Your earlier revelation rings true; you don’t know much about Dan Heng’s past.

That’s slowly changing as he tells you some stories, though his words are messy and create a muddled image in your head. You don’t push too far, chattering his ear off in response to keep things lighthearted. 

(Maybe you’ll be more open about yourself too. Maybe.)

Then you careen into a residential area. It’s more suburban than you expected for a city-town hybrid of this size, streets of apartment units and then gated communities of houses. You whistle because you’re almost there, you can feel it!

“Which one is it, huh?” you pester, practically pressing your face against the glass. “Come on, pick up the pace a little!”

“I am not keen on getting a ticket this far in. A few more turns.”

True to his word, a row of townhouses come into view. They’re not massive, but the few you see are brimming with character. Full, decadent awnings and aged brick matched with just the right colors to make your brain happy. They look lived in, filled with memories that you’re eager to digest and, hopefully, be a part of.

Dan Heng pulls into the driveway of the oldest-looking one and parks. The GPS drones on, informing you of your arrival. Your anxiety has almost entirely abated at this point, thank the heavens and stars, and it’s near time to face the music with open arms.

“What a nice place! I guess we should greet them, and then start unloading?”

He nods. It’s still cold out, but less so than at school. Stepping out onto the pavement gives you a little thrill, and you trail behind Dan Heng, stuffing your hands into your jacket pockets as you stare at the front door.

It has a little brass knocker in lieu of a doorbell, and you reach out to grasp it on instinct. Your hand brushes his that had reached out at the same time.

You wiggle your eyebrows at him. 

He sighs and finally knocks after you reel your grubby hand back. It all comes down to this - kind of anticlimactic from someone else’s perspective, but paramount from yours. Who will answer the door?

The answer is immediate: Welt. The thing creaks open, revealing a tall, older man with graying brown hair and glasses. He’s utilizing a cane and looks exactly like you imagined, distinguished and fitting right into the scene with his creme turtleneck and kind eyes. He regards you both, first Dan Heng, then you. 

“You’re here early. Welcome back - and I see you’ve brought them, as promised,” Welt’s voice is warm, and you get the feeling the small smile he’s wearing is quite rare. “Come in, we’ve been waiting on you two. It’s an honor to meet Dan Heng’s esteemed partner.”

You’re utterly awestruck, responses forming on your tongue only to dissolve into garbled nothings. As you robotically follow inside, you watch as Dan Heng falls into an awkward-looking side hug with Welt - quickly averting your eyes so they can have a moment. Then, you can’t contain it anymore, speaking to your heart’s content.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you too. I’ve heard a lot - well, not a lot, but enough,” you ramble unapologetically, taking in the decor of the foyer, “and I’m really excited to be here, you have no idea. Are those Ray Bans? You have a lovely home!”

Your boyfriend, wetting his chapped lips, communicates silently with Welt. You think it’s something like a greeting, a familial synergy you can’t quite grasp yet. Maybe it’s a warning: I am dating an idiot chatterbox, please be nice to them. 

That seems unlikely; necessitates further observation. This is just like Animal Planet. 

“Thank you, I recognize your sincerity. It’s a rare trait, these days,” he mutters mostly to himself, probably reminiscing on some mysterious past. He goes on to curtly answer your more frivolous questions while leading the two of you deeper inside. Dan Heng squeezes your hand and you share your own telepathic glance with him. 

This is going well!

The interior of the living room is striking, bearing the marks of age and care. You recognize most of the furniture as antiques - leather couches and loveseats with beautiful upholstery, a sage grandfather clock standing tall near the stone fireplace, and overflowing bookshelves that’d satiate even the most voracious of readers.

Paintings adorn every wall, not a square inch left blank. The mantle boasts many trinkets and baubles of various cultures, some of which you recognize - and some of which you don’t. Those could definitely be a great conversation starter! 

So charming, so quaint, so rich in history! You’d wax poetic and stare at each nifty little thing until your eyes bled if you could.

“Darling, I didn’t know you were so well-off! Maybe I should start calling you Mr. Old Money.” “...please don’t.”

Welt hides a chuckle in his gloved hand before surveying the room. “It seems everyone is doing their own thing. I’ll go get Himeko, she must be in her study,” he throws a look over his shoulder, uttering your name with just the right amount of phlegm. “Welcome. Don’t be afraid to make yourself at home.”

And you’re left alone to breathe for a short minute. You run your thumb over Dan Heng’s knuckles reverently, pondering aloud. “He’s so cool! He’s an animator, right? I’ve heard you mention something like that before.”

He nods. “Indeed. He’s worked on various pitch bibles for all kinds of IPs, but he’s more content on assuming quieter roles in the industry, or so he’s told us. His passion is what carries him, not the spotlight.”

“...that’s a great way to live,” you marvel. The air feels vulnerable after that, the nature of something as intangible as family running through the undercurrents of the house. “Do you think he’s right for being so humble?”

“It is not my place to comment, but… I can say that I look up to him,” he admits, giving your hand a shy squeeze. “Himeko is similar. She’s--” “--enthralled to finally meet your acquaintance?” 

A new voice cuts in. Himeko is also a vision, donning a winter shawl that wraps around a sepia-colored dress with tights, topped off with a beret. She looks absolutely stunning, and you’re overwhelmed with the urge to compliment her profusely. She stands at a comparable height to Welt, expression softened with mirth.

“It’s long since overdue,” Himeko extends a handshake which you take. Your jaw must be scraping the floor, which Welt and Dan Heng see fit to ignore.

She whips a ruby curl out of her face to scrutinize you - shit, you probably should’ve worn something nicer. First impressions and all that!

She greets Dan Heng with a hardy embrace after letting your hand go. He stands rigid.

“I was beginning to think he was making you up,” she teases. “When you both settle in, we have a lot to catch up on. Can we help you with your bags?”

You grin at your boyfriend, nudging him with your elbow. “Whaddya say, huh?”

He nods, shoulders slumping as if he’s made it past some great obstacle. 

“Great,” Welt interjects, heading back towards the front door with Himeko in tow. Dan Heng turns to you, voice akin to a whisper.

“March and Caelus are probably in their bedrooms or,” he sighs, “conspiring elsewhere. If you’d like, you can go on and look around while we deal with the luggage. It’s a lot to get used to, and you’re better off getting your curiosity out of your system.”

You gasp, splaying a hand over your heart. “You say that like I’m some unruly child! I’m not going to break anything…”

Dan Heng gives you a look.

“...this time,” you begrudgingly add.

Before he can hurry after them though, you gingerly (roughly) grab him by the collar and give him a smooch. It’s over as quick as it began, and you barely get a glimpse of his scandalized visage before you set off to explore. 

The adjoining hallway leading you out of the living room is painted stark white, all kinds of framed photographs hanging on display. Most of them are noir shots of famous people; movie stars, historical figures and the like. You stop in your tracks to look each of them over.

Some aren’t so impersonal. For example, there’s one of Himeko standing in a train station, posing on the platform with a massive and austere steam locomotive behind her. There is also a gray-haired dude at her side, pointing at the train with an exaggerated expression of shock. Caelus. And the photo’s signature - March 7th. 

Right on time, before you can continue snooping, you hear the distinct noise of bickering further down the hallway. You grin, sensing drama like a blood-sniffing shark. 

The muffled racket becomes clearer as you approach what is probably a bedroom door, and you hesitate for only a second before not-rudely throwing it open. You can deal with the consequences later. After all, this sounds more like banter than a serious argument - you would know!

The first thing you see are two figures with their backs turned to you. Pink and gray hair hunched over a desk - Caelus sitting and clicking furiously with March pointing at the one of the three flashing monitors, posing a threat to this hell of a gamer setup.

“You actually suck at this! Log off already, Dan Heng and his guest are going to be here soon,” she chastises as Caelus huffs, him dying moments later (in Pac-Man of all things). “Seriously, this is as boring as watching paint dry. I don’t know how you have so many viewers…”

You blink, scrutinizing the monitors again. Yes, there’s Pac-Man, but there’s also a live chat that seems to be going crazy, dozens of messages burying even more dozens of messages. There’s a facecam too, framing all three of you - wait, three? 

Oops. You’re live on Twitch.

“March is just a grade-A hater,” Caelus declares to his audience, “always betting against me. I’ll have all of you know that I, Whisperer of Dumpsters, Toilet Destroyer--”

A groan. “Not this again.”

They seem oblivious to the fact that you’re here, and you clamp a hand over your mouth to suppress a laugh. Clippers must be going nuts right about now…

Dan Heng never mentioned that Caelus took this career path - but then again, you can imagine he was trying to avoid the headache of you pestering him with stream references. Either way, you’re here now, and you’ll be damned if you pass up an opportunity this golden.

“They’ve been keeping me in the basement for three years!” you yell, causing both of them to jump and turn in bewilderment, “They’re frauds, kidnappers, liars--”

“We’ve been what?!” March shrieks. She’s either 1.) quickly adjusting to your improv and playing along or 2.) now wholeheartedly convinced that you’ve been held captive here under the floorboards.

The chat lags from how fast messages are coming in, and Caelus cackles maniacally before mashing a shortcut on his keyboard to switch to a Be Right Back screen. What a performance, and you also burst out in laughter, not unlike his. 

“Well, you certainly uh… made an entrance,” March grimaces, looking only slightly mortified. That sourness fades into a friendly smile as she scratches the back of her head. “It’s so nice to finally meet you. Oh my god, c’mere!”

Caelus stares at you with beady eyes as she bounds towards your form in the doorway, engulfing you in a giant hug. You feel like crying again. This was supposed to be unserious, but you can’t help but already feel at home. 

“It’s nice to meet you too. Your hair clips are so cute!” 

You exchange pleasantries for a moment before you hear creaking. Caelus has stood up now, an unreadable expression on his face as he approaches slowly - like molasses slowly. One menacing stomp in front of the other like he’s trying to intimidate a bear. You tilt your head curiously while March spins around to look at him.

“What are you doing?”

“Group hug. Bring it in,” he answers cryptically.

March wrinkles her nose. “Why do you sound like that? You’ll creep them out!”

Caelus turns to you, looking for confirmation. Immediately, you understand what you must do. This chemistry you share with this kindred spirit should be studied in a lab under a microscope.

“Collective embrace,” you parrot. “Bring it in.”

“...so you’re both weird, huh? Just great.”

You respond by smushing both of them in a crushing hug, a chorus of giggles echoing off the walls, all three of you being the perpetrators. 

This year’s holidays are off to a great start.

Things surprisingly don’t drag on. 

What that means is a little hard to quantify; nebulous like carbon monoxide. You can’t see it, you can’t taste it, but it certainly takes its toll. 

The first day comes to a close after a shared dinner, a feast, really - you’d never seen so much food in your life and you scarfed it down like a starving man in between conversation on every topic under the sun. You’ve fallen into the swing of things so naturally, and while that’s good, it’s a little too good.

You’ve never considered anxiety to be a formidable foe in your life. You carry conversation, pass the cornbread, spice up everyone’s lives (sometimes at the detriment of your reputation), and most importantly, you do it with a smile.

But after a night or two spent in Dan Heng’s almost spartan bedroom, tossing and turning, you’re starting to believe you’re in more trouble than you thought previously.

The nerves are easy to suppress when you’re bouncing energy off someone else, lost in the moment, because you do truly enjoy the socializing - but that feeling lingers.

And when you’re left with nothing to do, staring at the ceiling with a vengeance on the third night of your stay, all of the doubt catches up. It gains ground until your heart thunders in your chest.

You’ve learned that Himeko is buddy-buddy with the department of transportation, doubling as an engineer and cartographer. She’s even had a part in restoring defunct trains to their former glory, spearheading many vacations along the way. 

(You don’t deserve to be privy to such a meaningful story.) 

Caelus can’t ride a bike. Neither can you. Upon coming to this seismic revelation, he offered to take the plunge with you in an attempt to learn if you were interested. You agreed before he could even get the full sentence out. 

(You’re only good at goofing around.)

March insisted that you be a temporary proofreader for her own university essays, most of which being on topics you could never wrap your head around in a million years.

Shenanigans ensued until you ended up denouncing higher education as a whole, choosing to believe in her own freestyle structure rather than whatever hellish rubric was being peddled. 

(You’re too airheaded to help in a normal way.)

You’ve even grown closer with Welt. You two listened to the crackling of the old gramophone in his respective study, chiming in with your own thoughts on his archaic but classic music taste. There was a little bit of discussion on media preservation, your earnest passion pairing well with his own. 

(You’re coming off too strong.)

But you feel the worst about the man sleeping next to you. 

You’re supposed to be in your highest spirits, but Dan Heng has gotten good at spotting your tells. The tightness of your smile comes off as overjoyed to your new friends, but strained to him. The guilt of possibly ruining it all is unforgiving, tightened about your neck like an evil scarf.

He knows something’s up, and you know that he knows. It’s on you for not being forward about your struggles - hell, you’ve scolded him countless times about how he clams up about feelings and all that mess. You’re just a little bit of a hypocrite, then. What would you even say on the subject?

Sorry I’m such a buzzkill? Sorry I haven’t been more open with you? Sorry that I’m the actual wors--

You muffle a sob, burying your face in Dan Heng’s pillow. You just need to calm down, even if that means getting snot on his nice shams. You hiccup, and to your muted horror, the mattress creaks with movement.

Voice rough with sleep and alarm, Dan Heng calls out to you. You tense but otherwise refuse to lift your head up from your comfy sanctuary, chest rising and falling in snappy bursts.

You can’t face him like this, so tangled in everything you feel. You feel so unbelievably guilty, even if a more sensible part of you knows you’re just overthinking.

“Please look at me.”

If you’re making comparisons, Dan Heng must be the wind. Gentle and mild like a calming gale, never a torrent eager to knock you off your feet. No, he is sobering like a wayward breeze. His plea is so soft, and you only hate yourself a little bit for giving in and meeting his eyes.

His hair is sticking up in every direction just like yours. It’s not a foreign sight - you’ve slept in the same bed at least a hundred times, but the worried frown tugging at his lips is new. You sniffle and wipe your face, words a jumble of nonsense.

“Try to breathe. It’s going to be alright,” he swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. “I’ll wait.”

That last part might sound impatient in some other context, but right now, it’s resolute - it’s a promise. He’ll wait until you’re ready, however long that will take.

You crumble, shakily inhaling and exhaling until you sit up to mirror his stance. You fumble to embrace him, which he accepts readily - not unused to your spontaneous acts of affection. 

However, there’s a stutter in his movements. He’s not used to seeing you so put out, you hazard, unable to even produce coherent speech.

“I love you so much,” you gasp.

“...is that what this is about? Or is there more?”

Dan Heng strokes your hair through your tearful explanation. You know you don’t make a lot of sense right now, but it’s all you can manage. He still listens with scholarly attention to detail, not doting or prying. He’s here. He’s here for you, just like you are for him.

The dam has burst. “Have I ever told you about my family?”

“No,” he admits. “Do you want to?”

So you tell him enough. You only paint a vague picture; recounting endless disagreements and fighting, being kicked to the curb and ostracized, scrambling to pick up the pieces of your barely adult life before being thrusted into college all alone with no one to watch out for you. You’ve only dropped hints beforehand - after all, who wants to reopen old wounds? 

Silence can be just as powerful of a response as spoken words. Dan Heng understands, you know that already, but the way he holds you is compelling evidence alone.

Dan Heng’s family is wonderful; being part of it makes you feel a little sick inside, somehow made worse by his ministrations. “It may be unfair of me to say, but… I think I know how you feel. My life before I came to live and travel with everyone was lonely. Lonely and painful, and you don’t deserve to feel that way. Ever.”

When you don’t respond, he continues. 

“But I’m now content to call them my cherished companions. And you,” Dan Heng emphasizes, syllables unsure despite his best efforts, “are one of them as well. We haven’t pried too much into what is painful, but I’ve always felt like we’ve never needed to. That was my mistake.”

He makes a point of thumbing the residue of your episode away, an apology in and of itself. Of course he blames solely himself, you muse, biting back a playful reprimand that wouldn’t land well right now. Your breathing regains a semblance of normalcy as you muster up enough gusto to respond. 

“No, don’t be silly. I want to talk to you more about our lives before each other, I think. Together, y’know? I-Isn’t that just so romantic? Being emotionally constipated doesn’t do either of us any favors.” 

Your tone has lightened, enough for him to notice and furrow his brows in concern. Given, you rebound at the speed of light, never wishing to linger on the bad - partially because sadness is unpleasant and uncommon, but mostly because you feel like you’re unable to. That’s just how you are. However, the way he looks at you is encouragement enough to move forward.

You feel better, you do, but your eyes are still red and puffy. The night outside is still cold and unpredictable.

“Whatever you need,” Dan Heng nods. He can only be so sworn in his promises - so determined - before you crack a smile.

“Alright, easy on the white knight talk,” you chuckle. Realizing how close you actually are, there’s a pause. You can smell the mint of his shampoo, and your arms are tangled with his in some kind of human knot that’d have Houdini sweating. “It’s weird…”

He stares at you, unimpressed. “I thought you wanted me to talk to you in a ‘Romeo’ way.”

You only huff, unable to come up with a retort for once, which is fine. You wipe your face again and drag him down with you back onto the bed, which he allows, because Dan Heng is too good for you and also happens to be a complete pushover. At least you can use your frazzled, unstable emotional state to get what you want.

Case in point: you spoon him. The covers assume their original position after you wrangle them to behave, holding him close from behind. A little part of you does this so he can’t see if you start up the waterworks again, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“It’ll be alright,” Dan Heng reminds, surrendering to your whims as always.

The dust settles and you’re inclined to believe him. There is still much time left, with Christmas day being the focal point of your visit, and you’re starting to get sleepy again. That’s always a good sign; sleepy, relaxed, and with a head drained of pressing worries - at least for the present moment.

Your eyes close, bereft of tears as you murmur your agreement.

To your surprise and horror, this house didn’t have a Christmas tree. It’s not like it mattered that much, but it was still shocking nonetheless. With a building exploding with life, there wasn't an evergreen decked out in ornaments or a pine covered in lights to tie the room together.

Honestly, where were they going to put their presents? 

However, you forgave this transgression a day or two later under the condition that you would be allowed to pick one out. Everyone seemed to be fine with it, with you offering to cover the cost this close to the 25th - and your determined expression that would’ve been pointless to argue with. Santa Claus works hard but you work harder.

Caelus and March jumped to go with you, much to the others’ relief, and that was more than enough hands on deck for you to hop in Caelus’s car and drive to the nearest tree farm in the dead of winter, borrowing some mittens and a cute knitted hat from March so you wouldn’t become a human popsicle before your 30s.

Uh, you did get a bit lost. You had to interrogate the shit out of the GPS and one poor local to get there; the latter was not your fault by the way! Caelus just so happened to be carrying a bat and had a concerning look in his eye. That put you in good enough standing to make it there, even if the selection of trees were picked over, leaving only the runts on sale.

All three of you turned away with your hands empty, opting to make a last minute shopping trip to the mall to buy a fake one. You were against it, but your suggestion to buy three small trees and place them really close together was vetoed. “Majority rules” is totes unfair…

But the mall trip turned into a lot more when you actually got there. Both of them ganged up on you with a reminder that you haven’t gotten Dan Heng a gift yet! Honestly, you could say you regret confessing that to them earlier, but you totally needed to hear it.

Imagine you, waking up on Christmas morning with nothing to give the love of your life! Deplorable, unforgivable, and tragically heartbreaking. 

And you had a council there to help you; people that know Dan Heng just as well as you do. 

“He’s so hard to shop for,” March had groaned, flicking through racks of clothes with a dark aura surrounding her. “Trust me, I’ve tried in the past. He always says he’s fine with anything, giving me zero hints…”

“Maybe get him nothing,” Caelus suggested after, more occupied with trying to steal coins from the nearby wishing fountain. Like one does. “You could run him over and he’d thank you politely.”

Similar experiences there. He’s always been more attuned to your wants than his own, which you’ve been trying to get him to work on at his own pace. Unfortunately, the place was about to close for the night since you already spent the day gallivanting around.

The burly mall security guard looked dangerously close to kicking your trio out, with at least one of you kicking and screaming, so you had to leave empty handed again. 

The others assured you that you’d find a present in time. You decided to go with the flow and hope that the heavens above would drop one into your lap by the day of.

Spoiler alert: they didn’t! Because Christmas day is now here, and it all seems hopeless. Well, aside from the fact that you’re all settled around the coffee table and a big, burning fire is roaring in the fireplace. 

There’s still a smile on your face as Welt and Himeko tear open their presents with wise, softened gazes. You can’t let your own mistakes ruin the moment, after all.

“Truly, thank you both,” Himeko croons, looking over her respective mug and brooch with awe. “I was prepared to perhaps play up the excitement a bit, but… I’m very impressed. Dan Heng, you’ve picked well.”

He flushes. “They helped me,” he nods to you.

“No,” she laughs, “I meant you picked a good partner.”

Before you can stammer out a reply, Welt chimes in. He’s inspecting the quality of his tie with muted gratitude - his new mug seems to only serve as a reminder that he has to drink Himeko’s coffee out of it. Hey, at least your heart was in the right place!

“I have to agree. Both of you must have collaborated seamlessly to shop for our preferences.” 

Caelus, wearing his big ass jacket that you and Dan Heng bought him, sprawls out across one of the couches like a housecat. “This is a lot better than what you got me last year, Cold Dragon Young.”

Dan Heng bristles and you burst out laughing at the expression he’s making. “Cold Dragon what?”

“Ignore them,” he pleads, lips twitching upward just a smidge; a ghost of a smile. Dan Heng really does like the teasing more than he lets on. 

March was almost reduced to tears by the jewelry dish you painted for her - which is more of a jewelry box at this point - but she recovers from her reverie and endless thank yous to giggle at your partner’s expense, something that’s swiftly turning into a group effort. “One time, we all got roped into fistfighting these bad guys in a club, and after Dan Heng took care of them--”

“I was left with no other choice--”

“--then that became his ring name. Cold Dragon Young!” she finishes. 

Himeko and Welt exchange an exhausted look. You immediately decide that the moniker is going to become his contact name in your phone until the end of time. You also start wheezing (and also kind of blushing) at the idea of Dan Heng, the near-pacifist, duking it out with someone. “S-Sounds like you guys have been everywhere…”

“...we have,” your boyfriend clears his throat. You sense a topic change, or even a segue, drawing your attention. You sit up a little straighter and wipe the comically-induced hysteria from your eyes. 

He’s looking at you expectantly with some of the earlier heat coloring the tips of his ears. The room lulls into silence as he makes his way over to the tree to retrieve a box from underneath the branches, wrapped in pastel yellow with no bow.

Dan Heng hands it over, and when your skin brushes against his for a fleeting second, you feel the clamminess of his palms.

“Oh, me next?” you blink. Shaking the thing a bit too aggressively, listening for any indication of a bomb (just in case), you get a good feel of its weight. Light and mysterious. You’re too busy making mental guesses that you don’t notice Welt shepherding the others out of the room.

“Yes. I hope you like it,” he watches as you tear open the wrapping paper and the box itself. Dan Heng is so beautiful it’s almost criminal, unintentionally batting his lashes in a way that has you swallowing drool.

You scoff. “Of course I will!”

Inside the box rests… two tickets? Your mind jumps to movie tickets first and foremost, but that’s obviously not the case; the ones here are golden with faded ridges and accented with red, sparkling as you fawn over them. Then you read the printed text lining the bottom of the thin cardstock.

The Astral Express. They’re two boarding passes.

“No way,” It’s the name of the restored steam locomotive in the picture, the very same one that Himeko told you about working on during the height of her career. “Does this mean…?”

Dan Heng drinks in the surprised part of your lips, scratching at his neck. “You mentioned that you wanted to travel. I, and the rest of us, thought you’d like to accompany us on a trip. If you don’t want to, that’s perfectly fine,” he promises. “I can get refunded, and we’ll all stay. But it’s scheduled to start the day after tomorrow and last until the new year.”

You don’t want to cry again, even if they’re happy tears, so you launch yourself into his arms as a welcome distraction. You may be imagining it, but you think you feel him slump in relief. Again. How long will it take to get it through his thick skull that he could never disappoint you?

“Duh, of course I want to! Darling, what kind of jerk would I be if I said no and made everyone cancel their plans? Oh my god, oh my god--”

“You m-may want to breathe.”

His concern is so genuine - that’s not even meant to be teasing. You scream into his shoulder, already thinking of nights spent in velvet cabins and days spent watching the cross-country scenery go by on the silver rail. With good food. Lots of it. 

“I’m breathing,” you huff, in fact, short of breath. “Thank you, Dan Heng. I love it so much.”

You pull back, box and tickets still safe in your grasp despite your earlier flailing. The magical moment fizzles, your joy stunted as guilt emerges. “But I… I didn’t get you anything. I’m so sorry, we shopped all over, and everything’s been so hectic…”

He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “I meant what I said.”

“Huh?”

“When we were shopping all that time ago,” he clarifies. “I don’t need anything but you. And with the others coming along,” Dan Heng gestures to the tickets, everyone else’s likely stowed away somewhere safe, “It’s the best gift I could ask for, more than I could ever want.”

You don’t rebut him this time.

The guilt has all but vanished, and you pull Dan Heng into a tender kiss. This has, no joke, probably been the best break of your life so far. Not to mention you have a whole new trip to look forward to, with a whole new family at your side.

Just as you think this perfect moment is unshakable, hoots and jeers break out from behind you. You whip around, dazed, and Caelus is cheering both of you on like his life depends on it.

“Wooooo! I told you they’d like it, dude! May your love burn bright for years to co--”

…then March clamps a hand over his mouth and hauls him away. 

Dan Heng is so embarrassed that he chokes on a laugh. You make sure to join him in kind, the present moment also holding the infinite possibilities of the future.

thank you for reading! it means the world to me 🎅🎁

[lcvelust]

Normalcy / The Black Brothers

Regulus couldn’t forgive his brother to an extent.

“Reg? Reg!” You called through the quiet night, panting as you placed your hands on your knees; the chilly air making your skin crawl after it had burned from your sprint. You stared at Regulus as puffs of air escaped you in mists of white, feet propelling onto the ground as if you’d been frosted over.

“What’re you doing..? What– who’s that?” You breathlessly whispered, eyes digging into the back of the unknown person’s head.

Regulus looked as if he was in denial, specks of fear lining his irises that held that of a fog on a cloudy day, his perfectly arched brows furrowed in confusion. Words were stuck in his throat, hesitance clear as day through his thinned lips, tongue unwilling to unravel.

“Siri?”

He muttered into the stillness of the land, voice as fragile as a thread that was ready to snap at any given moment. His stomach twisted painfully as he forced the syllables out of his mouth, acidic, his heart twinging at the prospect of what his brother had done.

Slowly, the figure turned, its black hood gently falling to his shoulders. His long, raven hair flowed freely in the breeze, toppled with snow as it cascaded down his face that was masked from the kiss of the wind— the intricate wood carvings of his vizard shining bright under the dim moonlight.

You could only watch in shock as the expression on Regulus’ face morphed instantly, the visible fright that he wore melting into one of loathing. A sneer replaced the frown that had etched itself upon his lips, an emotion that both him and Sirius had grown all too familiar with.

He had glared with so much intensity that in a flurry of time, your eyes blurred, for the familiar face of Orion Black, though he couldn’t have been physically there, was dizzying.

Regulus snapped you out of your daze before the image of their father completely slithered into your brain to sink its fangs into your thoughts, jabbing at Sirius’ chest harshly, caring not of his surroundings. “What do you think you’re doing, parading into an assembly like that?”

“Reggie..”

“You could’ve been killed. You’re most fortunate the Dark Lord knows not of your presence.” Regulus locked eyes with Sirius angrily, the snow swirling between the three of you in furious gusts seemingly battling him of his rage.

He hadn’t even let Sirius retaliate before he continued on, spite blossoming on the pits of his chest, a gaping hole instead of a heart that beats. “Ever since we were kids, you’ve been so defiant of our parent’s ideologies. How come you’ve changed your views so suddenly?” He challenged, “how much longer are you going to keep pretending?”

Sirius’ hands balled into fists, his patience fraying like old fabric. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about, he thought. The wind howled, whispering in his ears like a dull mantra, but it felt nothing compared to the tempest raging inside of him. “Just let me explain, please,” he let out desperately, his voice low and steady, dripping with a lack of venom that his brother had used against him.

Sirius hadn’t waited for a response, stepping forward before grabbing Regulus on the arm with a grip that was that of a vice; unyielding.

With a wave of his wand, his mask disappeared off and into the air, a vulnerability glittering in his eyes he had never dared muster in Grimmauld. “Don’t be mad,”

“How couldn’t I be?” Regulus asked, a quiver of his lips present. His eyes didn’t brim with tears easily, he had valiantly fought back: you will yourself to look between them. You wish you hadn’t. The grief that swam in their storms would be enough to haunt you for the rest of your life.

Though, for the first time in years, Sirius looked as if he had his mind set on something. He wanted— no, needed, for his brother to understand.

He had left him in that cruel house with so much anguish, so much hatred for the circumstances he was left in. Deep down, you both knew that it wasn’t Sirius’ fault, it never could’ve been. He’d experienced such abuse that it drove him out, walking out of his parent’s lives without looking back at anything he had ever needed to look after for and more. Closing the door to leave his little brother to fend for himself.

But everything had changed now, it was as obvious as the rising of the sun.

“I did this for you,” Sirius muttered gently, bunching up the black sleeve that hung to shield his left forearm from the cold. His fingers trembled, and with a deliberate motion, he revealed his pale skin that lay beneath the confines of the fabric, the Dark Mark branded in sinister detail.

Regulus seemed to choke back what sounded like a sob racking through his body, not believing of his older brother’s unbecoming. You held onto his shoulders.

“..Why?” He had forced out, the words tumbling out of his throat in a low, grating, voice— almost a screech he’d recognized to be akin to his mother’s. “Why do you keep doing this, Sirius? I don’t.. I can’t understand! You left me be, remember? Why are you suddenly back into my life, now, when I’ve learned to breathe without the thought of you suffocating me?”

Sirius stared at Regulus, his hand still resting on his brother’s arm, the cold seemingly pressing in on them from all sides, as if the world on itself was holding its breath.

“Reg,” Sirius whispered, his voice breaking just slightly, “I’m trying to protect you now, because I.. I know that I was wrong. So wrong.”

“You still are, Siri. There’s a possibility that I’d lose my brother a second time.” Regulus’ expression softened, just barely, before he turned away, his shoulders slumping. “And I don’t know if I can ever forgive you for that.”

The snow continued to swirl around them, but for once, it felt like the moment was finally coming to a standstill.

“I don’t expect you to,” Sirius said quietly, his voice steady despite the turmoil of emotions mushing with the organs inside of his stomach. “But, it’s better me than you. I’ve failed at protecting you once; and I’m here for a chance to redeem myself, I’ll be here for as long as you’ll let me. I won’t leave you again, Regulus. I swear it.”

There was a long pause, and for a fleeting second, it felt like Regulus might say something more, but the moments passed with him gently prying Sirius’ hand off, letting the distance between the both of them grow once more as the night stretched on.

Sirius stood there, watching his brother disappear down the mountain with a tugging of his heartstrings, a throb from his mind. He looked pitiful. His brother was slipping through his fingers again, and he hadn’t quite held him close yet.

He turned to you, offering a faint, strained smile. “I thought I’d meet you again under vastly different circumstances. I’m sorry.” He spoke tenderly, a sliver of hurt threading through his words.

You nodded, the pain in your own heart too deep for you to find your voice. “It’s alright, Black. Forget it.”

Sirius’ gaze settled on your figure, a bitter chuckle escaping him. “I ought to.”

[icu-fetish]

Sara barely opened her eyes. Her body felt alien, heavy, and unresponsive. The bright light of the hospital room cut into her gaze. An oxygen mask was tightly pressed against her face. Her chest rose and fell with visible effort. Fear gripped her more and more. She tried to remember what happened, but her thoughts were muddled. She felt helpless and alone.

Sara's gaze stopped on two female figures in white coats. They leaned over her, whispering soothing words. Sara tried to make out their faces through her half-conscious state but saw only blurry outlines. Sara noticed the gleam of metal instruments in their hands. These were two doctors... not nurses. "Intubation," she heard muffled.

The doctors, having put on sterile gloves, leaned over Sara. Their faces were serious. "Sara, we need to act quickly. Your lips have turned grey, and your breathing has become erratic. Even the oxygen mask isn't helping anymore, and we have to move to more invasive methods."

The other doctor continued... "Soon you won't be able to breathe on your own. So, we only have one option. After the injection, you'll be in a coma. Then we'll perform the intubation. You'll be completely connected to an artificial apparatus. Of course, you won't be able to eat or drink – we'll insert a nasogastric tube. Also, necessary catheters will be attached to your body."

Sara was in panic. She understood that without the artificial apparatus, her condition would deteriorate rapidly and could lead to a fatal outcome. Every minute counted. The doctors exchanged glances. "Everything's ready," one quietly said. The other took a syringe with a clear liquid and brought it to Sara's vein.

One of the doctors took Sara's hand and gently stroked it. The other prepared the intubation instruments. Sara's heart began to pound in her throat. She nodded, but her eyes were filled with anxiety. She felt the needle pierce her skin, and warmth spread through her veins, bringing a slight numbness. Her eyelids grew heavy, her thoughts jumbled, and everything around began to blur into a haze...

The doctor carefully opened Sara's mouth and introduced the laryngoscope, illuminating the path with bright light reflecting off the mucous membrane. The other doctor took the endotracheal tube, checked its integrity, and quickly, but with utmost caution, inserted it through the open vocal cords into the trachea. Then she secured it with a cuff, which she carefully inflated to ensure a tight seal and prevent air leakage.

A plastic holder, made from soft material that fit snugly against Sara's face without causing discomfort, was placed to stabilize the tube. The doctors checked the correct placement of the tube by listening to the lungs with a stethoscope.

Ventilation parameters were set on the monitor, showing all necessary indicators: breathing rate, air volume, oxygen level. The doctors adjusted the ventilation mode according to Sara's condition, entering the data into the system. The machine started its work, rhythmically supplying air to the patient's lungs, accompanied by a soft noise that now became part of the room's background sound.

The monitor showed that blood oxygen saturation began to stabilize, and the heart rate returned to normal, indicating the procedure's success.

The doctors spoke to each other, their voices quiet. "The nurses will insert the nasogastric tube," said one, looking at the monitor readings. "Sara will be intubated for quite some time. However, we'll probably have to perform a tracheostomy on her," added the other, with a note of concern in her voice. Before leaving the room, the doctors checked Sara's condition once more, ensuring all parameters were stable and the equipment was working correctly. Then they left for the next patient.

After the intubation, nurses entered the room. They inserted the nasogastric tube for feeding and a catheter for the bladder. They also connected a peripheral venous catheter for administering medications. All actions were performed quickly and professionally, leaving Sara under full medical supervision.

Every day, doctors visited her, checking vital signs, adjusting the machines, changing medications through the peripheral catheter, and ensuring care for all the connected tubes. However, after several days, the doctors decided to remove the nasogastric tube because Sara needed another surgery - they were to install a GJ tube. This feeding tube allows food to be delivered to the stomach. The doctors understood that only a tracheostomy would provide more stable and long-term respiratory support.

The operation went successfully, but Sara did not wake up. In the room where Sara lay, there was silence, only interrupted by the hum of the machines sustaining her life. The doctors decided to keep her on life support, performing all procedures until some sign of improvement appeared or until another decision was made.

Maybe today she will open her eyes...

[j-w-blerd-bulletin-board]

Why Miles Morales Spider-Man Has to Be Cured of His Vampirism

By Wayne "Royale" Berry

Miles Morales has undergone some thrilling transformations over the years, but one of his latest challenges—a temporary bout with vampirism—has proven to be among his most dangerous. For readers who have been following his journey, it's clear why Miles needs to be cured. This isn’t just about restoring his humanity; it's about ensuring his future as a unique and positive hero in the Marvel Universe.

Vampirism and Its Impact on Miles’ Powers

In a twist that surprised fans, Miles recently acquired vampiric abilities. According to Screen Rant, Miles’ transformation granted him classic vampire traits, like enhanced strength, agility, and healing. However, it came with dangerous side effects that risk undermining his identity. Vampirism altered not only his physical form but his psyche, adding a sinister edge that doesn’t align with the ideals of Spider-Man. While his increased power might sound appealing, the darkness within risks corrupting Miles, potentially making him a hazard to those he aims to protect.

For a hero like Miles, whose moral compass is his guiding force, this vampiric influence threatens to derail his character. As Spider-Man, he's known for his dedication to doing good and respecting life—a core philosophy tied closely to the legacy Peter Parker set before him. Yet vampirism pulls him toward violence, hunger, and moral ambiguity. This transformation stands in stark contrast to the bright, empathetic hero fans know and love, which is why curing Miles is crucial.

The Vibranium Spider-Suit: A Gift of Protection and Identity

Another crucial element to Miles' story is his Vibranium Spider-Suit, a gift from Black Panther. This suit, made from the rare, near-indestructible metal Vibranium, symbolizes Black Panther's acknowledgment of Miles as a vital figure in the Marvel Universe. Vibranium, with its unique properties, provides Miles with resilience, durability, and protection that amplifies his power while safeguarding his identity as a defender.

This suit isn’t merely a tool; it’s an emblem of Black Panther’s faith in Miles. By equipping him with Vibranium, T’Challa has entrusted Miles with technology typically reserved for Wakanda’s most elite warriors, acknowledging his potential as a protector of his people and all humanity. As Spider-Man, Miles carries this suit as a badge of honor and responsibility, which vampirism threatens to corrupt. If Miles remains under the sway of vampiric influence, this gift could become tainted, casting a shadow over Black Panther's gesture and undermining the symbolic importance of Vibranium as a force for good.

The Need to Cure Miles

A cure isn’t just about returning Miles to a human state; it’s about restoring his heroic legacy. Spider-Man’s essence—whether Peter Parker’s or Miles Morales’—is about responsibility, empathy, and sacrifice. Vampirism disrupts that legacy, pulling Miles into a dark realm that contradicts everything Spider-Man stands for. Marvel’s heroes are defined not just by their powers but by how they wield them. For Miles, the cure represents a choice to reject darkness and embrace the light—solidifying his commitment to the ideals that define him.

Moreover, curing Miles reaffirms his commitment to Black Panther and the Vibranium suit. By ridding himself of vampirism, he proves himself worthy of Black Panther’s faith and can wield his suit as a true force for good, rather than risking it as a tool of destruction under vampiric influence.

Conclusion

Miles Morales’ journey has always been about defining himself as a hero who stands on his own while honoring the Spider-Man legacy. Curing his vampirism is essential to maintaining that balance. By seeking a cure, Miles reaffirms his commitment to heroism, protects the legacy of Black Panther’s gift, and keeps himself aligned with the core values that define Spider-Man. In a universe filled with temptations and dark paths, this choice solidifies why Miles Morales is—and always will be—a hero to believe in.

Miles Morales: Spider-Man #27 - "Webs of Wakanda" (2024)

written by Cody Ziglar art by Daniele Di Nicuolo & Bryan Valneza

[rottenpumpkin13]

For Christmas, I would like some angst with a splash of comfort.

Affer a particularly gruesome experiment as a small child, Babyroth (maybe 5 or 6) comes across a holding cell containing Red XIII.

Sephiroth finally snapped after a session that left him quivering, nauseated, and wracked with unease. He'd thrashed and screeched when they attempted another blood draw, sending blood vials cascading across the steel floor, leaving several lab technicians nursing their wounds. Hojo had him confined to a holding cell "until you learn to conduct yourself as a proper specimen."

The cell was cold, furnished only with an uncomfortable metal bench, the confining walls pressing in like a suffocating box as Sephiroth cocooned himself in the corner. His unruly silver hair cascaded over his face as he kept his head bowed, eyes adjusting to the darkness while he vacant-mindedly kept track of the click of lab assistants' shoes against the corridor floor.

But it was the padding of paws across the corridor that drew his attention. Sephiroth unfurled slightly, eyes straining through the gloom, curiosity piqued.

Sephiroth couldn't identify its species. All he knew was that it was unmistakably young, notable by its childlike movements, the nervous flick of its burning tail, and the inquisitive tilt of its head as it studied Sephiroth with equal fascination.

"Your hair looks like starlight," the creature suddenly spoke, its voice clear and young, sending Sephiroth practically leaping from the bench in surprise.

"You... you can talk?" Sephiroth whispered.

The creature's tail swished playfully. "Of course I can talk!" came the reply, tinged with a hint of pride. "I am Nanaki. And you are the one they call Sephiroth."

"Just Sephiroth," he confirmed, finding an unexpected comfort in this strange dialogue. "I've never seen anyone like you before. What are you?"

Pride straightened Nanaki's spine as he declared: "I am of a proud tribe from Cosmo Canyon," though his posture quickly softened with homesickness. "Though I am far from home now."

"Cosmo Canyon?" The words felt foreign on Sephiroth's tongue. His world had always been bounded by windowless walls, the sharp bite of needles, raining routines, endless tests, endless expectations.

Nanaki's eyes brightened as he settled onto his belly. "It's the most beautiful place in the world," he began, his voice rich with longing and admiration. "The canyon walls are red like the sunrise, reaching up toward the sky. At night, the stars shine so bright you feel like you could touch them. My grandpa, Bugenhagen, knows all their names and the stories they tell."

Sephiroth edged closer. "There are stories in the stars?"

"Oh yes! There are stories all around us! They teach us about the Planet, about life, about how everything is connected." Nanaki's voice grew animated as he painted pictures with words: warm winds dancing through the canyon, the rhythm of festival drums, the intoxicating taste of freedom on the night air.

Hours slipped by as they talked. Nanaki spoke of his people's sacred duty as canyon guardians, of planetary studies that sought to understand rather than exploit, of communities bound by love instead of scientific curiosity.

When morning came and the lab assistants came to collect Sephiroth, he hesitated, looking back at his newfound friend. In a world where survival was never guaranteed, goodbyes weren't possible and promises empty. Instead, Sephiroth offered a small wave, and Nanaki's tail blazed briefly brighter before they separated.

Neither could have known that their next meeting would come decades later, when fate would place them on opposite sides of a conflict.

But for one precious night, they were simply two children sharing stories in the darkness.

[aranarumei]

what would separate hirano and kagiura?

so. about that preview of the adult au… I’m sure everyone’s wrecked right now. and I. have some thoughts.

so like, for the adult au to exist at all, harusono sensei has to contrive a situation for both hirano & kagiura to not get their romantic drama in high school, and the same applies for sasaki & miyano. it’d be easy to say that these couples are separated just because they need to be, but i think it’s worth giving them a look. under the cut because i'm being thorough.

for sasaki & miyano, it’s simply that they never meet past their first meeting. hirano doesn’t tell sasaki what miyano's class is, and that’s that. kinda mundane, isn’t it? like… cmon, you’d expect sasaki to try a little harder.

except. well. if there’s any word that defines the sasaki of middle school and most of his first year of high school, I’d say it was apathy. I think sasaki's got a very strange relationship with the idea of force—he uses too much of it on his sister once and subsequently avoids using any kind of physical strength to an extreme degree. he doesn’t break up that fight in the beginning by brawling, and when those kids retaliate he doesn’t hit back (ch 1, 2, and 4 of sasaki and miyano show these scenes, but it's ch 2 of sasaki and miyano: first years that explicitly confirms that sasaki threw no punches) and in a friendly arm wrestling competition he uses basically none of his strength at all (2020 sosenkyo extras). he’s careful in how he speaks to miyano and he feels bad for asking him to quit the crossdressing competition (ch 23, sasaki and miyano). he’s really patient about getting his answer.

in its best form, I think sasaki & miyano's relationship is about Care—miyano is so into his interests and so bright about them, and i think that overwhelming sincerity attracts sasaki, and i think it's a large motivating force in making him a more active person. so in a certain way it makes sense that the way they "miss" each other, in this au, is something that amplifies a negative trait/feeling that exists in the original.

for hirano and kagiura, they don't room together for the next year, and then... they drift apart. but here's what interests me. in the adult au, kagiura gets 61st on his exams. you know what he gets in canon? 60th! that's a difference of one place—the difference is so very clearly not the grades itself, it's internal. @raihanstrapinch suggested that this is perhaps an AU where kagiura took the "one day off" mentioned in ch 19 (you can find the post here) and I think this makes sense for a one place difference! (that one place being the possible cutoff for being able to be roommates again is tragic, though)

interesting is that kagiura says that he doesn't want to look back and regret taking that day off, because then he'll never forgive himself. I think this is exactly what motivates kagiura and hirano drifting apart: shame.

in ch 18 of hirano and kagiura, the topic of "equality" in a relationship gets discussed. kagiura wants to have a relationship between equals, and so that's why they start doing stuff like taking turns waking each other up, and it's why hirano gets kagiura to teach him some basketball. this isn't a new topic, since kagiura's been wanting hirano to be needy with him for a few chapters now, and it's one that gets extended on into ch 24, where hirano makes clear that his 10 seconds is distinct from kagi. reciprocation... it's beautiful.

point is, a lot of hirano and kagiura deals with what hirano and kagiura can do for each other. that's because it's central in establishing their continual understanding of each other. hirano is learning to fall in love with kagi, little by little. they're figuring out their relationship. of special importance is how both hirano and kagiura influence each other in the spheres of basketball and studying.

basketball is obvious: in ch 1 and ch 2, hirano takes care of kagiura so that he'll recover quickly from his cold, and he also helps him handle his loss. it's in ch 17 where we really see the full scope of how it applies to both of them, though: kagiura takes his 10 seconds and gets recharged for practice, and then hirano thinks that he really wants to study right now. despite their differences, hirano and kagiura sharing space with each other makes both of them better at their goals. it's a direct repudiation of the ideas that are floated in ch 11 and ch 13: that kagiura came to the dorm to focus on his club activities, while hirano came to the dorm to focus on his studies. their focuses, then, should naturally be pulled in opposite directions. they might just end up distracting each other.

something that's fascinating about the preview of the adult au is that, after waking up, kagiura demeans himself by saying he essentially has no self-discipline / control. here it's in the context of getting basically blackout drunk, but I think it also reflects how he might've felt back then, getting that grade. he didn't have the self-discipline to balance both studying and basketball well enough, in his own opinion, and since he feels like he didn't try his very best at it ("one day off"), I think he might have concluded, personally, that it might be best to pull back. it's not the first time that kagiura's drawn back, after all: he was like this when he started reacting too much to hirano's touch, and he's still like that because he keeps carefully calculating out his 10 seconds. as hirano says in ch 23, he looks annoyingly miserable when he's like this. he worries so much about crossing the line, about not being as good as hirano thinks he is... to me it's perfectly reasonable that there's a world where kagiura retreats.

in their character descriptions for the adult au, it's noted that hirano is mostly taken up by studying and doesn't socialize much, while kagiura doesn't really talk to anyone outside of basketball-related matters. i think this really shows off that idea of the adult au kind of expanding on a theme that gets introduced in the original, but in a negative direction: instead of balancing and positively influencing each other like they do in canon, here hirano and kagiura have retreated solely into their own focuses.

i think hirano is genuinely rooting for kagiura's success in basketball. he's always so impressed by his passion for the sport, so I think here, along with kagiura's self-inflicted withdrawal, he'd probably rationalize to himself that kagiura's working hard on basketball, and it's... good for him that he's doing so. honestly he seems kind of slow on the uptake with emotions in general so even if he did circle around to thinking about reconnecting, he might've already graduated and it would've felt too weird for him. i also think that, to sort of mirror kagiura's own hard work with basketball, he'd also work hard on his studies. in some strange way, they're still powering each other forward.

[dragonbabes]

F*ck it, I'll do it myself...

Note | I've taken it into my own hands and am writing a short series on the weeks that Rook is stuck in the fade. This is based off my Crow!Rook playthrough. I'm posting it through AO3 as well, because why not. And buckle up my friends, this is gonna be a long ride and is very much going to be a passion project.

Words | 4,366

Pairing | Rookanis, for sure

The Thorns that Bind

Ch 1

He comes to notice the ache in his jaw first. How that dull throbbing is slowly spreading up into the base of his head, and then down into his shoulder and neck; oh, how he ached all over. The familiar burning of muscles from being pushed to their limit, and further, has him releasing a groan and a mumbled curse. His eyes crack open and drag mindlessly over the floating shelves and rings of the astrolabe that is suspended in the lighthouse…

The lighthouse? When did he get here? What happened?

A form — long hair spilling over their shoulders — leans over him, eclipsing the bright light he’s been squinting at while collecting his thoughts. They extend a hand to him.

“Rook?” He clasps onto the hand that forcefully pulls him up and then steadies him as his head spins. No, not Ise. Brown eyes stare back at his, brows slackened with uncharacteristic worry, and lips in a thin line.

“Did you have to hit him so hard?” Neve snaps over her shoulder, her gaze hardening at Taash. The young Qunari crosses their arms and shrugs, keeping their position between Lucanis and the stairwell leading down to the eluvian. He takes note of Harding, standing at the top of the other set descending steps. The assassin puts together that his lapse of memory may have as much to do with Taash’s blow as Spite’s influence.

“We don’t need him hunting down Solas and getting himself killed.” Taash confirms it with her own hard look at Neve. Lucanis rubs at his jaw and shuts his eyes at the sharp pain that jolts through it. What made Spite take over? He doesn’t recall going to sle-

“Get the dagger!” The line — one that comes with blurred images of bright red and the smell of metal — echoes in his head. He remembers being thrown back. From what? He squeeze his eyes shut and turns away from the others, so they wouldn’t see the confusion flittering across his paled skin. His heart begins pounding, his muscle tensing; Lucanis stands on the edge of a watery memory, desperately trying to get a clear view of what he was seeing or where he was.

“Lucanis?” Neve sounds like she's shouting from the other end of a tunnel.

There’s a crushing force pressing down against him, a fierce wind lashing out at him and throwing dirt and debris against his cheeks; it burned. He could only push himself to his hands and knees. He used one hand to block the blinding light trying to catch sight of-

“Rook! Get the dagger, Rook!” It’s a sudden shift that has his cheeks and arms running cold, and his heart coming to a dead stop from its hammering beat. There’s a flash of her long burgundy locks whipping in the wind, her hand latching around the hilt of the dagger – a swell of triumph in his chest because he won, he stabbed and killed the elvan god Ghilan’nain, and he smiled – and then her scream tears through his head.

“Where’s Rook?” Lucanis’ voice is drawn tight, his hand reaching out to stop Neve from stepping closer to him. He can feel and hear Spite fighting for control; bellowing that he gets her out. If he loses control again, he fears what Spite will do if they were to step between him and his goal: deny the Dreadwolf, kill Fen'Harel.  “Where is Isehari, Neve?” He pushes as the silence persists

“You don’t remember?” The mage’s voice is full of a pity that Lucanis can’t stand to hear. Why pity him? His flaring eyes dart to Neve’s, where the fire within him is immediately extinguished at the watery look she gives back. She wears a slack brow over downturned and wobbling lips. For the stoic Neve to have that look on her lovely features; Lucanis’ eyes flutter at the burn in them.

“What, Neve?” He grinds out, impatiently looks to the other for answers. Ghilan’nain is dead, Rook had the dagger. His gaze pleads with Neve to tell him what he doesn’t remember.

“After you killed Ghilan’nain and Ise grabbed the dagger, a tear occurred in the Veil… She was pulled into the fade, and – and,” Neve begins a pace, “we don’t know what went on in there, but it was the same at Solas' ritual, except this time Solas came out and…” She stops and surrenders her hands in front of herself. “And Isehari didn't.”

“So…” Lucanis blinks at the others. So, she’s trapped in the fade? Trapped in the prison that ancient mages, so powerful they were considered gods, couldn’t escape themselves for thousands of years? It digs up the suffocating feelings he thought he’d buried with Zara. Feeilngs that made him slam his fists against his cell walls, made him pace and scream and tear at his hair; feelings that he's smothered a thousand times before. He heaves in a sudden and deep breath, burying the corners of his lips into his cheeks.

“She’s imprisoned in the fade.” Taash does him the favor of saying it for him. He swallows thickly and focuses to keep his legs under himself. Lucanis reminds himself to count his breaths, deep and slow, until the pounding in his ears subsides.

“Thank you, Taash.” Lucanis nods to them. “Can we get her out?” Taash’s eyes flick to Neve, piercing into the mage.

“The question of the hour.” Lucanis raises his brow at Taash’s words and then takes in the closed off stance they hold toward Neve. The tucked chin, arms crossed over their chest, feet a shoulders width apart. He could cut the air between them like butter; the hard stares he’s finally taking note of making his feet shift.

“Am I missing something?” The assassin asks. Neve hums at him and holds her hand out to Taash.

“Oh, yes indeed!" Neve motions towards the dragon hunter, "Taash was enlightening me on how I don’t care about Isehari.” Neve’s voice is hard, and a tight-lipped smile returns to her face. Taash rolls their eyes.

“Neve…” Harding’s voice is shaking with nerves. Lucanis can see it on her round face, in the flush of her cheeks and her darting eyes, the way she holds her hands out in front of her as if she’s trying to calm a wolf. He imagines she feels that she is, somewhat, sandwiched between the towering form of Taash and the cool look Neve is giving. He’d be on edge too. “I don’t think Taash means it that way.”

“I do.” They don’t waste a beat.

“How can you say that?” Neve scoffs. Lucanis’ trained ear picks up the strain in the investigators tone. He looks back to Taash.

“Not really sure how ‘let’s leave Rook to rot in the fade’ exactly says you care about her.” Taash narrows their gaze. Neve throws her hands out and shakes her head. Lucanis holds his hand up and shakes his head.

“Wait – we’re considering leaving her?” Taash shrugs.

“I’m not.”

“I didn’t say that Taash!” Neve’s voice is raising. She takes a step closer to Taash, and Lucanis moves forward instinctively. He joins Harding in standing between the two and watching their every movement. What the pair would do — with Taash being triple the size of both of them, and Neve a force to be reckoned with — he isn’t sure. “I’m just saying that Elgar’nan is still out there. We need to deal with him.”

“Not without Rook.” Taash stands their ground. Lucanis is inclined to agree with them, too.

“Taash, not even Solas – an ancient elven god — could escape that prison. What makes you think we can get Rook out?” Neve’s voice comes out softer this time, almost as if she’s pleading with Taash.

“If we can’t, then Rook will.”

“Rook is just Rook, Taash. She’s not even a mage. What can she do?” Lucanis flinches at her words; he can see Neve recoiling at them herself. The dragon hunter’s hands find purchase in their hair as they begin pace around. “What do you expect her to do?”

“I don’t know!” Taash cries, tearing their hands from their hair and turning back to Neve. The tears reddening their eyes makes the mage draw back and swallow the other words she was poised to spew. “I don’t know, Neve. But Rook finds a way. She always finds a way.”

“And if we take the time to get her out? Elgar’nan will decimate everything in the meantime. Rook won’t have a home to even come back to.” Neve stops. As do the rest.

“If she can come back.” Harding’s head falls.

“You too?” Taash’s expression falls. “You’d turn your back on her?” Harding looks to her hands, head falling a little, and shoulders slumping forward. “No! I-“ Harding’s lip wobbles, but she steels herself against the judgement pouring from Taash with a deep and quick breath, “People are dying, Taash. We can't ignore that.” They only grunt back to Harding and then turn away, putting distance between themselves and the rest. “Varric brought us together to stop the world from falling apart. That’s what I intend to do.” Harding’s voice is soft. Lucanis’ heart pounds in his head. He sees where Neve and Harding are coming from… But…

“I can’t…” Lucanis’ voice breaks as soon as he starts. His head falls. Heaving in deep breaths, he tries to find the right words.

Does he want the world to burn? No. Of course not! But… He almost doesn’t care, with Isehari gone. The last time he fought a god with something weighing on his mind like this, he failed. He doesn’t get to fail twice. Not this late in the game, not with Elgar’nan on the cusp of breaking this world entirely…

“I can’t do this without Rook.” Lucanis’ words are rushed, and he’s positive he’ll never be able to get them out so evenly again. “It’ll be Weisshaupt all over again. I cannot do this, knowing she is trapped in there.”

“I don’t like it either, Lucanis, but what other choice do we have?” Neve reasons. “We don’t have the dagger, we don’t know anything about the rituals to open the prison, or where to look for rook, or how to find her; if she’s even still alive.” He takes in a sharp breath.

“She’s alive.” His words are hard, but his eyes are pleading. Eyes begging Neve to never utter those words again, or he may wither away to nothing. Her rich, chocolate eyes keep locked with his, steadily, before she sighs and turns away from him with a shake in her head.

“If I might…” Emmrich’s quiet and smooth voice, and the only person in the room who still seems to have a grip on even a thread of reason, finally breaks the silence he’s been keeping, “Rook has been gone for approximately four hours… We have done nothing but argue in the meantime.”

Lucanis didn’t realize it’s been so long since everything happened. It’s been a blink of an eye between now and when he saw Rook grab the dagger. Part of him deflates and he repeats those words to himself; it’s only been four hours, and Lucanis feels he’s already at death’s door…

“Yeah. All over bullshit, too.” Taash snorts over their shoulder at them. “We shouldn’t even have to argue this.”

“It’s not-“ Harding comes to an abrupt halt at Emmrich’s raising hand, the jewelry adorning him clanking together.

“Come now. We’ve been making circular arguments.”

“Because Taash won’t listen!” Neve cries. “Everyone else can see reason.”

“This isn’t about seeing reason! This is about being there for a friend that’s never let us down.”

“Oh?” Neve tilts her head toward them. Lucanis can already guess what she means — they’ve talked it over again and again — before it comes out of Neve’s mouth in a cool tone, “What was Minrathous?”

“Minrathous wasn’t just Rook’s responsibility.” There’s a glean in Taash’s eye, one that has Lucanis moving closer to them.

“Taash is right on this, Neve.” Lucanis pitches into the conversation. “I thought we worked past that…”

“I know that Rook made a hard call… But…” Neve crosses her arms over herself. “Lucanis you’ve seen my home now. You all have. I fully believed that Isehari would come through for me that day… So, forgive me if I don't feel the same about it.”

“Four hours and eight minutes we’ve been arguing.” Emmrich sighs. “Rook would have this cleared up in no time, wouldn’t she?” There’s a distant look in his eye when he says it, and a melancholy smile taking up his lips. Isehari does have a nose for trouble; she somehow shows up as soon as words started getting tense. She came with a smile and disarming green-blue eyes curved and sparkling. It’s like she sucked all their anger directly out of them. Then, she’d play peacekeeper.

“She did have a knack for peace keeping, didn’t she?” Harding gives a light laugh…

There’s a long silence after that. One that’s needed after the last twenty-four hours. He takes that time to sit down; the others soon follow. Every inch of Lucanis’ body runs numb with fatigue, his heads spinning, and his stomach twists. When’s the last time any of them have eaten? He’s still got blood dried on his gloves, and a cut on his arm he really should patch up. The others don’t fare much better than him. All disheveled, covered in blood, bruises, and dirt.

“Listen…” Lucanis leans forward. “We’re all exhausted. We need to clean ourselves up and eat something.”

“That’s an excellent idea!” Emmrich says. The assassin stands quickly and nods to the others before darting out of the lighthouse doors.

~*~

Dull eyes stare back at him. Shallow pools of earthy brown; pupils blown a little wide, the whites irritated, and the skin beneath them reddened and purple. They reflect nothing. He looks into them, and he sees nothing; feels nothing; can read nothing.

Gaze turns back down to the basin in front of him. He watches his hands turn through the cold water, barely feeling it shift against his calloused palms, and then considers how the firelight flickers off the ripples in the bowl, or the water dipping off his hands. His hands. They turn in front of him, and he examines the scarred knuckles on his right hand, the hardened skin on his palm; these are the hands that have taken a thousand lives, hands that he cooks with, the hands he used to brush Rook’s hair back from her eyes and tuck it behind her ear.

The hard and blank expression he’s practiced in the mirror falls off, his brow pinches, and his downturned eyes crest with unshed tears. He reached out to her that day without thinking – on instinct, because he couldn’t see her eyes – and took up the soft tresses that had fallen over her shoulder; her wide eyes had shot up to him and frozen him in place, hand stopping at the corner of her jaw before he quickly yanked it away. His heart was pounding, every inch of his body thrummed, he was on fire; he felt alive.

His heart beats the pace of a dirge now. His limbs are numb, and he is cold. Muscles aching at every movement, the assassin splashes water over his face and rubs at his quaking expression, until the sob swelling in his chest subsides and he can iron his expression out once more. The icy water on his face puts his feet a little flatter on the ground. He lets his head hang.

Rook is gone… She… Isehari is missing.

“Find. Rook.” Those words have been Spite’s mantra since Lucanis has come to. “She was torn away. Get her back!” Mierda, Spite knows no rest. It’s exhausting, ignoring the same thing being screamed and grunted every so often. “Ripped and torn from us!” Lucanis’ eyes flick up to the brown ones before him, and he meet’s the purple flash just behind the pupils with a wave of fresh determination hardening in his heart and setting in a frown on his lips:

He will get Rook back. At the very least, Solas will answer for his transgressions against Ise.

Lucanis steps back into the dining hall and pulls the tray holding the coffee he brewed along with cups, sugar, a small pitcher of sweetened milk, and a small jar of cinnamon off the counter… No one but Ise puts cinnamon in their coffee; he gave her a strange look the first time she followed him to the market one day to purchase a small jar of cinnamon and sweetened milk... He’s kept it stocked since.

He leaves the cinnamon on the tray and turns to Manfred, who stands close at his side, hissing his eagerness to help.

“Take this to the others, please.” The spirit takes up the tray – Lucanis imagines if Manfred could smile, his lips would be stretching from ear to ear, the way he bounces about – and scuttles toward the door. The assassin returns his attention to the assortment of foods he’s prepared, counting the plates and utensils twice, before taking up the dishes and realizing he’ll have to make two trips; the plate of fruits and the puff pastries that Harding always takes two of.

“Here… I’ll help.” Harding’s voice is quiet and sudden; he almost didn’t hear her approaching.

“Thank you.”

“I’m happy to… I’m not much help in there right now anyways.” Lucanis hums his agreement; he understands. This, he casts his eyes down to the snacking meats, cheese, and sliced bread in his hand, is the best he can do. Isehari is trapped in a lonely desolate place, and all he can do is prepare a decent spread.

Lucanis cannot poison the sky; he cannot stab the veil and force his way into the fade to find her; he doesn’t understand any of that. What he does know is that no one has eaten much of anything in at least eleven hours. No one here has any appetite to eat a meal, but a snack and drink is less daunting.

The others have cleaned themselves up and taken seats in the time that Lucanis has been preparing the food. He sees that the adrenaline has finally left the others systems, just as it’s left him an exhausted mess. Their eyes have fallen lidded, shoulders are slumped forward, defeated. The loud and passionate voices from before have become withdrawn and staggered between drawn out silences.

Emmrich is hunched forward with his forehead pressed to his hands, clasped atop his walking stick; the charcoal gray hair on his head is freshly washed, but unusually displaced. Neve holds her cup out as Manfred pours the coffee with a fascinated hiss at the rising steam. Taash has resumed the same pose as before: leaned back in their chair, arms crossed over their chest, furrowed brow, a frown, a tucked chin, and a withering glare locked on the table. Lucanis sits the snacks in front them, hoping it’ll redirect their attention for at least a minute. He takes up a cup from the coffee tray, and Manfred hops over to him.

“Thanks.” Lucanis’ eye is drawn to the coffee tray as Harding pours a bit of sweetened milk in her coffee. The three cups remaining on the tray catches his attention, and it remains there. One for Davrin, another for Bellara, and the last for Rook.

“Hey…” Neve’s soft voice calls him back. He shakes his head at her questioning gaze.

“Have we gotten anywhere?” Emmrich’s head is shaking before Taash or Neve could fire another back handed word or start up another argument that bordered more on word vomit than actual reasoning.

“We’re just circling the drain, my friend.” The necromancer leans back in his chair. “We can’t come to an agreement.” Lucanis can’t help the twinge of annoyance in his chest. He swallows it into his endless pool of patience and nods instead of snaps at the two stubborn parties glaring at each other.

“Right…” Lucanis grinds out quietly. “We’re not doing anybody any favors while standing here arguing. Not for the people dying by Elgar’nan’s hand,” he levels Neve with a look before turning it onto Taash, “and not Rook. We need to do something.”

“Like Emmrich said before,” Taash begins in a surprisingly civil tone, taking up some of the cheese from the tray, “Rook would’ve had this figured out asap. We need Rook to make the decisions, whether we like it or not. If we go up against Elgar’nan without her, and we can’t come up with a plan on the fly, we’re all dead. And everything was for nothing.”

“Taash, there is so much we don’t know, and not enough time to understand it. Believe me, I want to get Isehari out; I do! But this is so much more than stabbing at the sky and pulling her out.”

“Well, duh. But, if I’m right, didn’t Rook just spend the past few months recruiting fade experts, famous investigators, and assassins? If there’s anyone that stands a chance of helping Rook, it’s us.” Lucanis nods.

“They’re right. It’s not like we have to chose one or the other, right?” Harding sits up on the sofa, and then sits her glass down as her face lightens. “Emmrich, Taash, and Lucanis, you can look into what we’ll need to do to get Rook back, if you can… Neve and I can keep tabs on Elgar’nan. Loosing Ghilan’nain must be somewhat of a setback for him.”

“Or it’s just pissed him off a little more.” Neve mumbles. Harding nods, acknowledging that that could be very true as well. The mage sighs. “You tear open the Veil, and there are going to be consequences.”

“As there always are.” Lucanis finally takes a seat.

“The consequences are something to consider.” Neve reasons. “What we could do by breaking into that prison? It could be catastrophic; we could release more blight, release more demons, or get ourselves killed in the process.” Taash scoffs.

“Rook wouldn’t let any of that stop her if it was any of us in there.” Lucanis is inclined to agree with them. “Rook would find a way. We need to do the same.”

“You’re right. Rook does things that no one expects, and she rarely considers the consequences when the stakes are high. But that’s also the whole reason any of us are here.” Neve cooly says back.

“Neve…” Lucanis shakes his head. “I don’t think it’s fair to blame all of this on Isehari.” The Shadow Dragon blinks and shakes her head.

“Oh! I’m not pointing a finger at her. I haven’t forgotten that I was pushing that beam right next to her. But that doesn’t change that we were reckless… And we released two blighted gods on the world.” Neve’s voice trails off, until she is silent again. Everyone is. Lucanis sighs and begins to run his hand over the fabric of the chair beneath him. Ise always sits here when the team gathers. She was here, in this chair, less than a day ago, and her scent is still fresh. It’s wrapping around him much like a hug. The thought places heavy weight into chest; a feeling that makes his body tense, and ache.

“I…” Lucanis’ voice comes out tight and gravelly, “I will kill as many blighted gods as I need to. Once Rook is safe.” Neve stares at him with an unreadable expression, until she takes her eyes away when she takes another drink of her coffee.

“I know.” They’re all quiet for a bit. “Bell would be far better for this than I am… I want to help Rook,” Neve’s eyes are pointed at Taash, who purses their lips and looks away, ”but I can’t ignore the threat that Elgar’nan poses.” Emmrich’s head falls as he gives a somber nod. 

“Solas has the lyrium dagger.” Harding suddenly announces, bringing the rare burst of momentum they’d found to an abrupt halt. They sit in silence, occasionally taking a drink, occasionally plucking a bite from the assortment of food on the table, and occasionally sighing.

“Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain made their own dagger. We can do the same, right?” Lucanis suggests. Both Emmrich and Neve stare at the assassin, before they look at each other, considering.

“We could, technically… But the power we would require to make that…” Emmrich looks to Neve and shakes his head, and she only responds with a shrug of her own. “I’m not sure how we would come across that.”

“When the Inquisitor closed the Breach ten years ago, she had to siphon enough mana into the mark to do it… She recruited the rebel mages from Redcliffe… Could we do something similar to that?” Harding asks.

“It could work… I’m not sure where we’d find that many mages."

“We all know a few.” Harding says. “We have connections; let's use them. I should reach out the Inquisitor Lavellan and let her know how things have turned out… She might be able to help with the dagger and recruiting enough mages to help.”

"We should get in contact with Morrigan again… I imagine she’d have some good counsel right now.” Neve adds.

“I agree.” Emmrich has straightened considerably, like a flower that had been without sun for too long, and there's a new brightness in his eye. “In the meantime, I will reach out to Vorgoth and some other associates. I’m hoping I will be able to gather more insight into the fade prison itself.”

“And I’ll see if Isabela can get started on tracking down the materials we’ll need to craft the dagger. If one of you could give me a list, that is.” Taash looks between Neve and Emmrich.

“Of course.” Neve nods to her.

“Any expenses, the Crows will cover. Spare no expense.” Lucanis says to Taash. They grin in turn.

“Well, ‘course I won’t.” Lucanis nods and swirls the coffee in his cup.

"I'll check in with with the Shadow Dragons, see what sort of movement the Venatori have been making. Bellara said she kept notes. I’ll take a look through her things to see if she kept any on the dagger.” Neve sighs, a new sense of calm masking over her features again.

“She and I looked at the dagger extensively together. I have a very basic understanding of it, but Bellara truly is the expert of it all… Her notes will be invaluable” Taash stands slowly and excuses themself to go and clean up. Dread sags into Lucanis’ shoulders, and he rests his head against the back of the chair.

“You’re not doing anything.” Spite’s voice crawls into his head. “Do. Something. Find Rook!” Lucanis rubs at his temple. He’s going to do something alright… He nearly dreads this more than he dreaded taking his first shot at Ghilan’nain.

He must tell Viago.

[thewintersoldierdisaster]

William thought he could get away with being on the naughty list, but the reader makes sure he pays the price. With tensing tension and playful power shifts, you'll show him that being bad can be its own reward on Christmas night. He's going to be a little shit with his family there and testing her patience. A little slutty burb for the Christmas season.

oh he’s on the naughty list for sure 😈 merry christmas eve, lovelies! been a fun year and lots more fun to come!! (😉)

you live william’s family as if they’re your own. his sisters are your best friends and you call his mom ‘mom’ too. you love when they visit, but it’s three days into their extended christmas visit and you’ve never wanted them to go home more

william has been a massive tease the entire time, touching you just enough and flirting, but not giving you want you really need.

he’ll brush his hand against your ass when you walk past him, kiss the side of your neck while you cook dinner, wrap an arm around your shoulders and squeeze your breast casually, but he’s been holding back because “my family’s just down the hall, älskling, it would be rude”

fuck him

he’s got mistletoe hanging all over the condo and everyone thinks it’s funny. his parents press sweet kisses to each others mouths when they’re caught. and alex drops a dramatic, over the top kiss on ella’s cheek making everyone laugh

william though. every time he catches you under the mistletoe (which is too many times to be a coincidence) he dips you back in a dramatic kiss, tracing his tongue over your teeth and pressing his hips into yours so you can feel the bulge of his cock. when you’re brought back upright, breathless and wet, he just winks at you and kisses your cheek

he sits next to you on the couch, pressed tight against your side, and drags your legs over his lap, running his hands over your skin and drawing patterns against your inner thighs

you’re impossibly worked up and horny, cranky that you haven’t had a satisfying orgasm in nearly a week. so you concoct your own revenge.

on christmas eve, once everyone’s gone to bed, you take a little bit longer in the bathroom getting ready so william’s cozy in bed by the time you emerge in the bright red lingerie set - lace cupping your breasts and strappy thong crossing your hips. there’s barely anything covering your cunt and you make sure william can see just how soaked you are for him. the jaunty little santa hat on your head completes the look

“oh shit,” william grins when he sees you, reaching out automatically to get his hands on you. “early present for me to unwrap?”

“oh no,” you coo at him. “you’ve been so naughty all week. you don’t get to unwrap anything, mr. nylander.”

he cocks his head, confused, until you show him the length of shiny red ribbon you had hidden behind your back. “hands up,” you command sweetly

william’s grin grows and he complies, holding his hands over his head so you can straddle his lap and secure him to the headboard. you take the opportunity to grind over his hardened cock, breathy little moans escaping your lips. william leans forward and sucks one of your nipples into his mouth, laving over the lace-covered bud with the flat of his tongue. you shiver and whine at the touch, gasping when he bites down gently.

“no,” you gasp, nudging at the side of his head. “naughty boys don’t get to touch the presents”

“not even one little peek?” he pouts playfully, groaning when you secure the knot and roll off his lap, giving him a clear view of your soaked cunt

“not even a little one,” you tease, settling yourself between his spread legs, planting your feet on either side of his hips and propping a pillow behind your head. “now watch.”

you treat william to a show, pressing your fingers to your clit and moaning (maybe a little dramatically, but who can blame you?) as you bring yourself closer and closer to orgasm. his cock twitches behind his sweats, steadily leaking precome. with one hand you spread yourself open and make sure william can see clearly how your fingers disappear into your cunt. he groans and his hips jerk with every stroke of your fingers

“älskling, fuck, i’m gonna come just from watching you, shit,” he whines and you smirk at him, delighted

it doesn’t take too much longer to push yourself over the edge, your orgasm hitting quickly and with enough force that your hand is soaked in your come. william comes in his pants a few moments after you, the fabric of his sweats soaked and his chest heaving. his shoulders jerk, hands trying to break the knot.

“fuck,” he laughs hoarsely. “i haven’t come in my pants like that since i was a teenager.”

you crawl onto his lap and grind down over his softening cock, making him whine a little before you kiss him sweetly. “merry christmas, käraste, maybe next year you’ll be on the nice list”

“i’m a big fucking fan of the naughty list, if this is how i get treated,” he laughs, capturing your mouth in a kiss before wrapping his arms around your back after your untie him 🤍

[bananarrlele]

"A Study in Affection"

plot: “mr. silvair attempts to unravel the complexities of human affection for his human partner. struggling to understand love, he embarks on a series of clumsy, awkward, and sometimes failed attempts to bridge the gap between his scientific nature and the intimacy his partner craves." established relationship, living in the otherworld, couple issues, unrequited love, slow burn, emotional angst, introspection, miscommunication/language barriers, unconventional romance, dark athmosphere, suggestive, but no actual sex (no smut). everything written in bold refers to the otherworld language. word count: 5k+.

The cold little room that served as Mr. Silvair's laboratory could easily be described as grotesque. The environment seemed more like an extension of his cold and methodical mind than a space dedicated to medical practice. The stained tiles on the walls, once bright, reflected the pale light from the slightly flickering overhead lamps. Chains hanging from the ceiling adorned the room's edges, standing out as silvered, rusted threats. Moreover, the ceiling resembled a web of deteriorated pipes and conspicuous marks of grime, far from ignorable to the eyes.

In the central part of the room stood a metal table, marred by scars: cuts, scratches, and stains whose origins were better left unquestioned. On that table, the instruments of the monstrous doctor reigned supreme: scalpels, too sharp like ruthless razors, tweezers and hooks in unusual shapes, and syringes ranging in size from practical to utterly questionable. The jars and flasks on his shelves were disparate in coloration and aspect. Some were nearly translucent and strangely pleasing to the eye, while others were as dark as the pitch-black of a cursed night. Some housed creatures, or fragments of them, floating in viscous liquids that emitted a ghostly glow. Moreover, faded and aged papers lay scattered across the laboratory bench, like petals fallen from a withered flower. Their yellowed, fragile edges seemed on the verge of disintegration at the slightest touch, yet the hurried scribbles in black ink remained clear, implacable in their precision. Mr. Silvair’s handwriting was fine, almost ethereal, but hasty, as though every thought had to be recorded before it vanished into the chaos of his analytical mind. Anatomical diagrams, sketches of strange tools, and the flow of liquids in organic systems followed one another, interspersed, suggesting the persistence of carefully laid plans for convoluted practices and experiments.

These convoluted experiments were far beyond your comprehension. They had always been so, and would always remain, no matter how distressed a human heart might feel. Cold, sterile, devoid of sentiment, and strangely fascinating in its functionality. The space was an exquisite portrait of his mind and his nature, so distressing in certain lights yet profoundly intriguing. Undeniably, loving him was a painful dichotomy. The brutal precision of his mind was as admirable as it was overwhelming. How many times had you admired him, standing with his back turned, his long pale hair flowing gently like veils across his back, moving majestically as he traversed the space, immersed in his experiments? His slender, weathered hands, at times healing, at others injurious, were the object of your desire, evoking an incessant yearning that transfixed your chest. Whether watching the doctor dismember pieces of a low-sentience monster or performing sutures with an almost frightening calm, sewing living tissues and intertwining remnants of life as if it were an art, there was something about him that left you in a state of near avidity. He was there, within arm’s reach, yet he seemed so distant. His touch seemed cold and nonexistent, like trying to grasp mist. His presence was a contradiction — solid and unyielding, yet intangible, as if he occupied a space you could never truly enter.

You often wondered whether he noticed the painful chasm between you, a gap carved not out of cruelty but by his very nature. The way his sharp, attentive gaze slid over you as if examining one of his experiments was a lasting reminder of his habitual coldness. Yet still, in fleeting moments like the beat of a heart, there were times when he lingered just long enough for your senses to string together his gestures as fragments of a demonstration of his love.

But Mr. Silvair did not understand the meaning of love. Perhaps love was one of the most meager concepts capable of transcending the doctor's capacity for comprehension. He could not grasp it and would likely never manage to assimilate its ephemeral and unfathomable nature, being so obsessed with cataloging results and his own experiments.

A weary and restless sigh escapes your lips. "Such selfishness of mine. To demand that a ghost like him understand the complexity of love and the relevance of physical touch to human beings. I should be content with the fact that he likes me enough to keep me around — and I wouldn’t trade that for anything in the world." That’s what you thought, your lips twisting in consternation, as you watched him meticulously suture a cut on Mr. Chopped's brow, his precise, impassive hands closing the wound without the slightest tremor.

But deep down, you yearned. You yearned for his touch, for even a single word, something to escape that clinical silence and confess that he loved you. Something to prove that he liked you, not as a domesticated experiment or a laboratory pet, but as someone real, someone who mattered.

The sigh does not go unnoticed by the doctor. His fingers, stained with dark remnants, finish the suture with an almost inhuman precision before resting Mr. Chopped on the cold examination table. The monster, inert and stitched, seems as insignificant as any of his other experiments.

Silvair straightens slowly, the subtle sound of his movements filling the sterile silence of the room. When he turns to face you, his scrutiny is calculated, as if analyzing an anomaly in a body. But this time, there’s hesitation. A minor, almost imperceptible detail suggests that he notices.

“Something wrong.”

He murmurs in his flat voice, devoid of any exceptional emotion. A simple statement, almost scientific, as if identifying a fracture or an irregular heartbeat in some random creature. Yet, for some reason, the way he says it makes your throat tighten.

It was so typical of him: noticing that something was out of place, but never understanding what it was or why.

Then, without warning, he somberly turns on his heels and picks up Mr. Chopped with indifferent ease. The sound of his footsteps echoes briefly before being lost in the silence, leaving you alone in the cold laboratory, enveloped in your own thoughts.

When he returns minutes later, the absence of the bubbly head in his arms only makes the focus of his attention more evident. Silvair stands still in a particular spot in the room, slender and upright like a somber tower of an abandoned abbey, with his hands clasped behind his back in an almost theatrical gesture, and his gaze fixed unmistakably on you, so much so that you feel your own skin burn in anticipation. His posture was clearly inquisitive, as if seeking invisible cracks he might examine and decipher.

But the uncertainties of your heart were superficial and easy to find. It was as though your chest refused to be secretive, or perhaps it was your human nature that contributed to that piercing sensation, like an unending hammer, which made you so vulnerable in relation to the doctor.

“You not well.”

He attempts to approach, his slender, angular silhouette stepping into the dim light illuminating the room.

“Something bother you.”

“Something change.”

He furrows his brow minimally. His expression remains essentially unchanged and impenetrable, but there is a shadow of discomfort there, as if being confronted with a situation beyond his control was something inexorable, distressing to him.

You don’t respond, your throat caught in a strange combination of fear and hope. The desire for him to approach and truly see you, as someone real and complex, almost hurts.

“You different. Me want know.”

The statement sounds like a challenge. An awkward silence then persists for a few seconds, long enough for him to tilt his head slightly. That was a gesture that often accompanies moments of genuine curiosity.

You try to find the right words, but the truth is you don’t know how to tell him that you want something more, something beyond the platonic and scientific care he offers. Furthermore, the language of monsters was insufficient to express what you truly felt and yearned to release. Although Silvair had learned multiple words of your natural language almost flawlessly, it was as if the vocabulary in both expressions was lacking to convey all your frustrations. You take a risk, anyway, the words spilling out like an unrestrained, dragging outpour, alternating between the two languages.

“I just wanted…” — You begin, but feel an unbearable knot in your throat, like tight vines. Silvair remains waiting for your voice, curious to dissect the cause of such profound anguish.

After a long moment, you finally let out, almost like an exasperated sigh:

“I just wanted your touch. I want your care, not just for stitching wounds or manipulating medicine. I don’t just want to be near you. Me want touch. Me want feel loved.”

The impact of the words falls like a hammer between you. Silvair recoils, a fleeting shock passing over his usually relaxed features, as if carved in marble and immortal in their imperturbable beauty. He had never heard anything like this before. For him, touching someone was merely a means to an end — a technical necessity for healing wounds or maintaining control over a specimen. Never to express anything more.

“Me confused. Me not understand love.”

His confession is almost inaudible, as if he were finally admitting his inability to understand anything beyond the boundaries of the rational.

You shrug, trying not to show how painful it is to hear those words from his mouth, even though he didn’t say them with the intent to hurt.

“I know. That’s why it hurts.” — You whisper to yourself, drawing in your lower lip in consternation in a futile attempt to maintain your composure, while those treacherous blue shards escape your eyes like tiny fragments of crystal falling from a cracked stained glass. At that moment, the fissure in your chest, opened by Silvair’s words, felt deeper than the crack slicing through one of the aged laboratory walls, where so many strange things found their way.

The doctor’s gaze drop to the ground for a moment, as if he were genuinely trying to understand, but failing. He seems lost, his hands restless before his body, and you feel a wave of compassion and frustration mixed together. He would never be able to fully understand, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t wish for something more from him.

Then, as if an internal switch had been flipped, Silvair withdraws, the sound of his heavy steps echoing through the room. The door creaks as it closes behind him, leaving you alone with your thoughts and an unexpected emptiness. For a moment, you feel a deep sadness, as if he had taken a part of you with him — something you had never known you expected to receive from someone like Silvair.

The rest of the day was irredeemably dull and dragged on. You sat on the sofa in the small antechamber outside Mr. Silvair's medical inspection laboratory, absentmindedly fiddling with a Rubik's cube that Mr. Masque had given to Mr. Crawling, the latter having generously offered the artifact to you, the one he affectionately called his "favorite human." But nothing could lift your sullen mood.

You turned the cube between your fingers, rotating its colorful faces without focus, as if it were a meaningless distraction. Your mind wandered between the pain of your conversation with Silvair and the endless hours during which he vanished into the vast, gloomy corridors and pathways of the ghosts' apartment. Where might he be now, with his measured steps, the smell of formalin clinging to him, and the crimson metallic richness of blood lingering on his skin, his long locks streaked with dried, vital fluid? His scent, mannerisms, and even his voice were like precious gems in your memory — existent but not within your grasp. It was disturbing how he seemed to occupy every inch, every corner of your mind.

You tried to imagine: had he completely ignored your complaints, shrugged them off, and returned to his pragmatic experiments elsewhere? Was he perhaps even more focused than usual, desperately trying to understand what love truly meant? Or was he simply sitting, lost in some thought you couldn’t conceive?

Your gaze swept across the room, now empty and shadowy, lingering on the shelves filled with jars, scalpels, and preserved specimens. Each one seemed to carry a story, a small piece of the enigma that Silvair was. At the same time, however, the ache in your chest only grew. You had never met anyone like him — so complex, yet so incomprehensible. Silvair was the embodiment of mystery, a cold enigma you longed to unravel but always seemed just out of your understanding.

You sighed, clutching the Rubik's cube in your hands more tightly until the colors began to blur. And once again, you asked yourself: What was he doing now?

While you were engulfed in creeping melancholy for hours and hours, in another dim and desolate room, its walls as cold as a stone embrace, Mr. Silvair idly sifted through a pile of abandoned objects. It was a tolerated habit for the doctor, even though he considered most of these items irrelevant. Among organic samples and scribbled notes, he stumbled upon something unusual: a worn magazine cover with vibrant colors and an eye-catching illustration of two humans in what he vaguely recognized as a kiss.

He approached it, his pale, elongated hands reaching for the booklet with a mix of curiosity and reluctance. It was obvious who had left it there — Mr. Gap. The fissure monster was a sporadic but unforgettable presence. Gap had a habit of appearing with all sorts of items: newspaper fragments, festival pamphlets from non-existent events, and now, a human magazine titled The Secrets of Passion.

There was a small note scrawled in the corner of the cover in messy handwriting, as if Gap had struggled considerably to hold the pen:

“Kiss seems to say heart. I want heart. Give me heart. Kiss like.”

Silvair read Gap's words in silence. The figure of the fissure monster, who would occasionally appear with clippings and fragments of newspapers on the most varied subjects — ranging from trivialities like cookie recipes to stories of a serial killer wreaking havoc — was now immortalized in a curious observation about kisses and human desire. Silvair frowned. What was a kiss, after all, to someone like Mr. Gap? What did the other monster know that he didn’t? Silvair knew his studies had not prepared him for such a question. He had studied anatomy, human behavior on a physical level, hormonal responses, everything that could be analyzed and understood. But love?

He closed the magazine, his rigid hands gripping the cover tightly, trying to make sense of what was stirring inside him. Something moved within his being. Mr. Gap had once again managed to plant a seed of discomfort — or curiosity — in the doctor’s essence. For a moment, he found himself wondering if he could learn the art of kissing, or at least understand why humans seemed to find this gesture so important. And more than that: if the kiss was the key, could it be the gateway to love?

Suddenly, with a faint, restless twist of his lips, Silvair shut the magazine, holding the piece of paper in his hands as though it were a precious object of study. Deep down, he felt that something was about to change. Drastically.

Silvair had isolated himself in recent days, immersing himself in meticulous studies and attempts to understand human gestures of affection. He spent hours poring over those magazines and fragments brought by Mr. Gap, consumed by an unrelenting search for something beyond the physical, something that could truly touch the complexity of love and human relationships.

The magazine he had found held much more than scientific explanations about kisses and touches. As he delved into its pages, something else captivated him: the images. There, on the yellowed paper, he found photographs and illustrations of couples in moments of such intense affection that they seemed to transcend simple physical contact. Bodies intertwined in a way that felt almost mystical, as though they were on the verge of merging into a single entity. It was more than just a kiss, more than a loving embrace. It was an intimacy so profound, so visceral, that he could hardly comprehend it.

The images left him stunned. He observed them, analyzed every detail, every touch, every curve of skin and movement, but he could not grasp the reason behind that energy. He stared at the figures repeatedly, as if trying to decode them.

"Strong contact. Not medicine explain. Me not understand..." he muttered, running his pale fingers through his light hair, visibly frustrated.

Dr. Silvair’s Attempts

PROCEDURE I: “The Mannequin”

The mannequin stood before him, its cold and rigid structure serving as a substitute for human flesh. His sharp gaze scanned every detail of the object, with his fingers firmly positioned to replicate the gestures described in the magazine. His lips slowly approached the mannequin’s face. He pressed them gently against the plastic surface, attempting to emulate the act of a kiss. There was no warmth, no response. The chill of the plastic was a stark reminder of the distance he still had to traverse.

Observations: "Objective: Simulate a kiss on a non-living object to observe physical responses. Result: No emotional reaction observed. Conclusion: As suspected, reciprocity seems to be a crucial factor in human interaction, something that cannot be reproduced without an active second party."

PROCEDURE II: “Self-Imitation”

After failing with the mannequin, Silvair decided to try a different approach: he would be his own test subject. Sitting in front of a mirror, he repeated the motions he had seen in the magazines. His lips touched his own with almost scientific precision. He observed every micro-expression in the mirror, analyzing his own eyes, the way his facial muscles reacted, trying to detect some emotional response in his body. But again, all he felt was the absence of something. The touch generated no internal reaction, no change.

Observations: "Objective: Attempt to experience the act of a kiss in a self-conscious context, observing facial and bodily reactions. Result: No observable changes in physical or emotional responses. Conclusion: The emotional response to the action is not triggered by the mere repetition of the act. The emotional factor appears crucial to eliciting a genuine reaction. Reactions cannot be replicated without a real connection."

PROCEDURE III: “The Monstrous Rose”

Inspired by the magazine’s mention of simple yet symbolic gestures of affection, Mr. Silvair recalled his collection of monstrous flowers — his own creation, with black petals and iridescent edges, exuding a sweet and peculiar aroma that was almost hypnotic. He believed that the symbolic gesture of offering a flower could elicit a stronger emotional reaction, as humans often associated gestures like this with affection.

When he finally entered the little room where you were, half-asleep on the sofa, he observed your figure curled up like a bird with battered wings. The Rubik's cube had already rolled to the floor, having slipped from your hands. When he approached, you looked up at him, surprised.

“Me offer gesture.” — He said, his voice tinged with an unusual softness, extending the flower to you.

You raised your eyes, somewhat startled, but accepted the flower. The fragility of the gesture made your heart leap slightly, and for a moment, the smile on your lips seemed genuine.

“Thank you, Silvair.” — You murmured in your native tongue, bringing the flower close to your face, inhaling its scent of burnt caramel and polished copper. — “Beautiful. But why you bring this to me?”

He watched your reaction carefully, registering every micro-expression. He stood poised and expectant, like someone awaiting immediate validation.

“Me test affection.”

You furrowed your brow slightly, nodding. “Of course, you test. Gestures like this need come from heart, not through testing, Silvair.” You spoke in a tone of gentle reprimand, your voice tinged with lingering frailty. He captured a considerable part of your message, his expression tightening slightly.

He blinked slowly, as though processing your words. “Heart… not functional in this context. Me try again.”

You sighed as he retreated, taking the flowers with him, which now seemed like a failed experiment.

Observations: “Positive reaction observed: increased heart rate, pupil dilation. Receptiveness to symbolic offering generates some level of emotional bond but is insufficient for deep or intimate engagement.

Additional Consideration: “The symbolic significance of a gift may generate an emotional response, but it does not equate to a deeper or more intimate interaction. The flower functioned as a marker of interest but not as a gesture of complete emotional surrender.”

After the episode with the monstrous flowers, the night dragged on in silence, filled with a quiet tension that lingered in the air. The laboratory was illuminated only by a soft light that fell over the notes scattered across the tables and the flasks containing mysterious substances. Silvair was engrossed in his thoughts, the tip of his pen furiously scratching paper, his focus fixed on his observations. You watched him while lounging carelessly in a chair, your legs hanging over its arms. You bit the tip of your thumb absentmindedly as something churned within you, responding to his dissociated behavior. The silence had become nearly unbearable, as had his repeated absences. If before it was agonizing to witness him steadfastly preserving his immutable exteriority, never attempting any kind of affection, seeing him obsessively conducting literal and absurd experiments to determine love and turn affection into a performative, perfectly calculated act was an even more tormenting experience. You felt excluded — and more than that, you felt an ever-growing need for something more between you two, something beyond studies, the clinic, and his cold behavior.

The suffocating silence between you was unbearable, and the impulse overcame reason. You approached him cautiously, positioning yourself behind him and wrapping your arms around his waist. Your fingers, hesitant at first, slid across his cold torso. Your touch was gentle, a silent invitation for something more intimate.

He finally stopped writing but did not move. His body remained rigid, motionless like a statue.

“Why so distant?” — You asked, pressing your face against his shoulder, seeking some sign of reciprocity.

“Me busy.” — He replied, his voice as cold as ever, but there was something else there — perhaps a note of uncertainty that didn’t escape your notice.

Your frustration grew heavier. You slid your hand lower, attempting to draw his attention, but he caught your wrist, halting any further progress. He wasn’t harsh, but his grip was firm enough to make it clear he didn’t want this.

“Not now.” — He said, releasing your hand and returning his focus to his notes.

You stepped back, hurt. The words were simple, but they carried a devastating impact. He didn’t lift his eyes to you, didn’t notice the gleam of tears threatening to escape as you walked away.

“Alright." — You murmured, your voice trembling. — “Sorry.”

When you left the room, the sound of the door closing echoed louder than it should have, as if sealing an abyss between you two.

Mr. Silvair remained still for a few moments after your departure, the pencil suspended in midair. His mind, normally so focused, seemed scattered.

“Intimacy…” — He murmured to himself, recalling the figures from Mr. Gap’s magazine he had examined days earlier. Images of intertwined hands, deep kisses, and bodies so close they seemed symbiotic. He remembered a note written in Gap’s erratic handwriting:

“Love strange. Bodies together, mind too. Sex? Kiss? Very strange. But good?”

Intimacy and sexuality echoed in his cloudy mind, interweaving uncomfortably. At the time, he had dismissed Gap’s erratic scrawlings as a disconnected ramble, but now, recalling your pained expression, something inside him began to shift.

“They try. Me fail?”

He shut the notebook forcefully, the sound reverberating through the empty room. For the first time in a long while, he felt something that could be described as regret.

A few days had passed since Silvair’s initial, frustrating attempts to comprehend the complexities of human nature. The tension between you had reached a silent breaking point, like a rope stretched beyond its limit. He spoke little, and you even less. But his silence always felt calculated, while yours was laden with emotions that could not be translated into words.

That morning, an unexpected accident occurred during what seemed like an innocent game with Mr. Machete — a friendly duel of blades and laughter, a competition of skill, escalated beyond what it should have. The playful match resulted in a deep cut on your left thigh, far more severe than anything reasonable for a mere game. Mr. Machete’s blade had slid more smoothly than anticipated, slicing through the skin and leaving a wound that stretched across a considerable portion of your leg.

Silvair acted quickly, faster than usual. He did not show panic, but his movements were swifter and more precise than normal. With you seated on the inspection table, he brought his tools and began cleaning the wound. Despite the pain, you noticed something different about him. His hands, which always moved with unwavering firmness and methodical precision, trembled slightly.

“You scare me.” — He murmured as he applied antiseptic, his eyes fixed on the wound as if avoiding your face. There was an irritation in his tone that you couldn’t quite define, a discomfort that spilled into his voice. — “You not should play like that.”

He sighed softly, the sound barely audible in his reprimand. “You stop this need. Not do again, not with them.” — He seemed to hesitate before adding. — “Not with machete man. Careful you must be. Should.”

“Don’t worry so much!” — You said, offering him a soft smile to ease his indignation. — “Me know you try care for me.”

“Not just about the cut.” — He murmured, more to himself than to you.

His fingers, in an involuntary movement, touched the edge of your thigh, the skin around the wound. The sensitivity of the area, paired with his gentle touch, made your body flinch slightly — but not from pain. It was his proximity, the way he seemed to feel the suffering you were enduring without truly knowing how to handle it.

Suddenly, Silvair’s hands moved up to your face, touching your cheeks with an unexpected delicacy. His fingers, cold and trembling, traced the lines of your face as if trying to understand every contour, every expression you offered, like an impossible equation to solve.

His closeness made your heart race in anticipation. His presence was intense, as though he were on the verge of doing something even he didn’t know how to accomplish. You felt the tension between you rise, charged with something ready to reveal itself, though neither of you knew how to act.

He hesitated, perhaps unsure, but his focus never wavered from you. Silvair seemed unable to withdraw, unable to let go of you, and this was unexpected. It was a fine line between desire and hesitation, between human impulse and his incapacity to comprehend it. When he finally leaned in closer, his face coming dangerously near yours, his touch against your skin seemed to dissolve the barriers between you.

The air was thick with hesitation, but without warning, he leaned in further, his lips brushing against yours softly, as though trying to understand something he still could not define. The kiss was uncertain, hesitant, reminiscent of the first time he had tried to mimic the gesture with the mannequin. Yet there was something profoundly human about it, something he, perhaps unknowingly, longed to grasp.

But this time, there was something more. A shiver ran down your spine as he deepened the kiss, his lips moving with increasing firmness, as if trying to unravel the mechanics of a gesture that had now become part of him. He explored the softness of your lips with the tip of his tongue, touching them with unusual gentleness, yet also with an impulse that spoke louder than words. Silvair tasted you, and something stirred within his chest, something he could neither name nor explain. He pulled you closer, his touch assertive, strong, commanding — yet his hands moved to cradle your face delicately, soothingly, as though he feared breaking you. One hand traveled further, gripping your waist firmly, as if to show you the depth of his desire, which he could barely comprehend himself.

The kiss grew more desperate, less measured, almost voracious, with the caresses reaching a peak of urgency. He felt your breath, ragged against his skin, quickened to match his, and with slow, deliberate movements, he lifted you effortlessly, placing you on the cold surface of his inspection table. His hands never left you, lingering near, almost possessive, as he leaned over you, his features focused and intense. His hand traveled over your skin with more confidence, touching places where he felt the vibration of your body beneath his fingers.

His tongue intertwined with yours, now bolder, yet retaining the same careful attention as if deciphering the meaning of every touch, every movement. His fingers glided smoothly, exploring the curves of your body with reverent silence but an intensity that grew, as though trying to absorb every fragment of warmth you emitted. He touched you with a tenderness that concealed a quiet hunger, as though it were his first time allowing himself to feel the warmth of affection, the discovery of care, and the growing desire for something deeper, something genuine.

As your lips parted momentarily, just long enough for him to catch his breath, Silvair kept his forehead pressed against yours, his manner captivated and almost possessive. His breath was heavy as he whispered, more to himself than to you:

“Fascinating...”

He lifted his gaze, the movement delicate, almost attentive, as if he were trying to decipher the rhythm of your breath, the scent of the air around you, every minute detail in his surroundings. The blindfold that covered his eyes was no impediment; on the contrary, it seemed to heighten his perception, creating a sharper sense of closeness, as if he could feel every beat of your heart, every soft sigh you let out. His hand slid to your waist, the touch firm yet purposeful, as though mapping your presence through the sensation of your skin.

With a slow but resolute motion, he tilted his face, planting a kiss along the line of your jaw, then down the curve of your neck, with the same curious care as before. Yet this time, there was something more deliberate in every touch.

“You make me curious. Me want… discover more.”

And without saying anything further, he leaned in again, his lips capturing yours once more, this time with an intensity that promised he was far from finished with his exploration. The promise of something more lingered in the air, carried in his touch, in the force of a desire he seemed to still be struggling to name — a desire he now seemed determined to unravel, piece by piece, like an enigma he was unwilling to abandon.

“Tell me, is this… what you wanted? What you have been waiting for?” — He asked quietly, brushing his thumb over your lips gently in an electrifying motion. “This human desire mean, yes?” — His voice, hoarse and intense, reverberated like a promise of a lost paradise, echoing in your ears as he struggled to murmur the words in your language.

You arched an eyebrow, letting out a soft, provocative laugh.

“If you have to ask, perhaps something is still missing from your research, doctor.” — Your voice was low and measured, careful to ensure he caught every meaning and syllable, but tinged with mischief, as your fingers slid to his neck, tracing short, almost electric touches. It was a gentle but daring gesture as you pulled him closer. — “Me demonstrate, yes?”

Silvair’s lips curled into a faint smile, despite being unable to see, as though he already knew exactly what you meant. He tightened his grip on your waist, his fingers firm but still containing an unexpected gentleness.

“Demonstrate?” — He repeated slowly, as if savoring the idea, his tone deeper now. — “Me think good. But you not expect me gentle all the time.”

Before you could respond, he acted. His hands, which had rested on your waist, slid to the middle of your back, pulling you against him with determination. His lips, previously hesitant, now gave themselves fully. With an almost cruel tenderness, he traced the outline of your mouth with his tongue, as if issuing a silent invitation. Each touch was a promise, a wordless request for entry. His fingers traced a slow, suggestive path along your thigh, gradually climbing toward the center of your body. Each touch, every subtle caress, sent shivers throughout your entire being, and you felt as though you might melt under his dissecting hands, arching gently like a flower unfurling in the sun on his inspection table.

Between kisses, you drew a deep breath, a faint whimper, and a slightly tense laugh escaping against his lips.

“Not bad for someone who’s learning. Fast learner.”

He paused, the laugh escaping his lips a small victory.

“Then, teach me.” The command was clear, but the accompanying promise was even more enticing. With a firm motion, he leaned you back, your body becoming an instrument in his hands. The intensity of the moment overwhelmed everything, and you realized, with a mix of surprise and satisfaction, that he had finally let himself go.

Thin, translucent tears of joy adorned the corners of your eyes, inevitably. In that moment, you finally understood that what he sought wasn’t merely understanding but surrender. And in that moment, you knew: he was learning how to love.

phew. this was laborious, but so much fun to write. giggling, kicking my feet, and twirling my hair for this man, no lie. it's really interesting to write for silvair, and I've been wanting to do so for weeks. he’s so complex, and his inscrutability and unusual gentleness are captivating. i’m sure these traits would leave anyone confused in a relationship. mr. silvair would be kind in terms of care and service, but terrible when it comes to communication and effective displays of affection, so I wanted to explore this issue in this long text. the ending is suggestive because I think that learning would inevitably lead to situations like the one narrated. who knows... maybe I’ll write more. my thirst for mr. silvair never ends :) it's christmas eve in my homeland (brazil), and for those who are reading and are in the same territory as mine, or at least on a similar rhythm/time zone, merry christmas eve! to the fans of mr. silvair out there, consider this text a gift. we urgently need more stories about this man, like, ASAP. thank you so much if you read all of this, and have a lovely day or night! ♡  (this text is open to corrections and edits. english is not my native language, and the original was entirely written in portuguese. time for some sleep, finally.)