#what is sap integration

[dragon-zena]

sora: im not really closer to learning the power of waking but i did help to save the world we were on

yen sid: god you are such a failure. die

sora: i am 16 years old

[sudarshannarwade]

https://www.elearningsolutions.co.in/sap-cloud-platform-integration-cpi-part-12-palette-functions-6-data-store-and-security/

In this post, we will explore SAP Cloud Platform Integration (CPI) Part 12 – Palette Functions 6 and delve into the standard range capabilities on data store persistence and the security features available in CPI.

[syluses]

separation anxiety

⤷ caleb experiences a rut after a long time, and it just so happens that you’re in his path.

cw. 18+ smut, hybrid! caleb, knotting, dubcon if you squint, breeding, obsessive/possessive behavior, perv caleb, fem human! reader, ruts, size difference, also a lil breeding, 3.5k words because i physically struggle to write smut without a preamble, reader is ovulating and it triggers his rut this time for whatever reason

an. saw this trope going around & wanted to try it <33 he’s got that DAWG in him 💪 also i cant decide if hybrid caleb gives german shepherd vibes or samoyed vibes…. that moments post lives rent free in my mind tho idk (>_<)

𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔, & 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅! (๑´ `๑)♡

Caleb would say he hates you for the time you’re gone, but it’d be a big fat lie. His love for you, big and bursting in his chest, deepens in the quiet windows where you’re present at work or running errands throughout Linkon before returning home to him.

There’s a permanence of you in his mind and being. He wants it no other way.

His devotion for you doesn’t necessarily drown him- no, you’re always there with a lifering waiting- but it certainly sweeps him up and threatens to.

He gets a bit ahead of himself sometimes, he’s aware of that; energetic, bulging at the seams with vigor; whether it’s an integral part of his personality or just a consequence of his breed, the pound he came from never quite knew. Your Gran never figured that out, either, and for as sweet and trying as she was, she soon realized she couldn’t foster him for long.

Because he was a big boy, hungry for attention and wired to please, well-meaning but oft over involved with personal space— and he brought a loaded package that your Gran just couldn’t sign her name off on, not after a few months, anyway. She tried her best before nudging him into your care, because she sure as hell wasn’t about to give him up to that squalid pound or the streets again- and besides, the mutt liked her granddaughter; all those visits she paid throughout the summer obviously endeared Caleb to her, and quickly.

You admit, it’s a mite difficult to juggle between long days at work, little tasks that drag you from point to point throughout Linkon, and your own personal life on top of caring for a hybrid stowed away in your shoebox apartment— but your grandmother was all but sapped of her energy then, turning to you for aid although she seldom ever did, and you’d always lend a hand where you could.

The mutt- Caleb, is his name (and you call it fondly even as he’s pawing at your thighs for attention or drooling on your collar)- has grown on you considerably in the past half year, anyway.

You won’t let him down or leave him at the curb. He’s yours. The red collar you bought him says as much, printed with your number on a silver plate, and he wears it not because you make him but because he’s proud of it.

He’s a good boy, he is. He always has been and for that you’re thankful.

Except, this week he’s… different.

As of a few days ago, it’s like he’s been testing the waters- and your patience- on just how far he can go before you tell him off or say bad dog. He must find them warm because he’s just been diving deeper as the week progresses.

You don’t know what to do. He’s oddly aggressive. It’s not rare at all for him to follow you all around your apartment, but he’s foregone the very last shred of respect for your personal space and nips when you try to push him away. Not hard enough to actually hurt- the yip you make is more surprised than anything when he pulls you back in and licks at the small red patch- but you look wounded at it.

Because Caleb doesn’t bite— he just doesn’t.

He wraps you up in seemingly endless embraces and breathes your smell in until he’s dizzy, laughing into your neck like a giddy child. He does this every time you try to leave for work and he’s made you late for it.

Maybe it’s just because you’re ovulating and a little hormonal, but it makes you quite sour and the mood stays even when you return in the afternoon. He’s never liked when you’re gone, sure, but he’s always been there to see you off at the door with a pout as you scratch behind his ear- more or less tame about it.

Your patience really frays at the odd uptick in his possessiveness, though. It’s hurtful.

You’ve always treated him less like a pet- a hybrid- and more like a friend, and you feel quite indignant for it when he growls and tells you that he hates the smell of other men on you, hearing none of your excuses that it’s ‘just coworkers’, glaring at you like some brainless extension of him. You feel less like a person and more like an object, a streetlamp in which he emerges from the shadows for just to piss on to show it belongs to him.

He’s touchy. Snippy. Glued to your side at all times. It’s concerning and frustrating and confusing all at once.

By the fifth day mark, on Friday night, you’re tuckered out by it and don’t question where he is when you return home early from a shift and he’s, uncharacteristically, not there to greet you.

A red collar however, laid on the floor, its tag glittering under dim hallways lights, strikes you as both curious and unsettling.

He never takes that off. No- says it’s his way of showing you and the whole world that he belongs to you, and— have you been too impatient with him lately? Brusque? Maybe you’re a little hormonal but it’s no cause to get short with him, even when he’s acting up, and what if he no longer wants you as his owner—

A gasp.

You find him in your bedroom, humping your pillow, yowling as he comes undone- unawares- and the walls spin as you nearly faint.

You drop your purse. “Caleb!” You shriek, and a visible shiver rolls down his spine as he turns around.

“Bad dog!”

✦

You sleep on it.

Well, you wash your sheet and your pillowcases- and then you sleep on it.

Maybe you overreacted. If anything, you should be grateful for what you walked in on because otherwise, he wouldn’t have known how to tell you he’s been going through a bit of a hot phase- the first of his you’ve experienced- and doesn’t know how to control himself.

You blush just thinking about it, shame knocking in your chest as your heart beats heavy. You feel awful for walking in on him for a number of reasons. One of them being he came all over your bed- and his tummy- and you had to clean both up through furious tears as you peeled your covers off the mattress and pointed him off in the direction of the bathroom, telling him to run the faucet and quick.

A pass of guilt, the fear of you being angry with him, made its round across his kicked expression but he held off on arguing.

For the first documented time in the whole week, Caleb appeared mellow- not agitated, restless, or tense- and rather crestfallen, and you noted it only vaguely as you irately turned on the washer.

Now, it’s in the forefront of your brain.

Well, if he’s been going through some kind of rut lately, it only makes sense he’d be all kinds of pent up, and that his release (albeit in an inconvenient way and place) would provide some relief.

It’s closer to noon when you finally exit your bedroom and meet him at the sofa- the same one you’d all but banished him to last night. He prefers to spend his nights with you, either curled up at your side or splaying his full weight over your back- a breed-relative habit, you’re sure. You’ve heard of some other kinds who enjoy a room to themselves or do just fine with the couch, on their lonesome— But not Caleb.

He looks tired but perks up when he hears you patter down the hall, violet eyes lighting when you timidly take a seat.

With a bit of hesitation, he inches closer until you sheepishly wave a hand and he barrels into your arms.

“Ah- Caleb-“

Before you can even apologize for your jumping the gun last night, he beats you to the punch. “M’ sorry. You don’t hate me for it, do you?” He sighs into your collar and you shiver, “I wish you could understand what it feels like- I wouldn’t have done it if it was somethin’ I could control, I hope you realize that.”

You swallow, digesting his words as you belatedly place a hand on his head to pet. He positively melts. “Y-Yeah,” you mumble back. “It’s okay. I actually wanted to say sorry too. I- I didn’t understand what was going on…”

A deep groan looses from his throat, his chest swelling with content as you itch that spot behind the furry ears say upright on his head. They give a few twitches as he leans against you and wraps his muscular arms around your middle, resting his chin by your shoulder.

“It’s my fault, though, not yours. I didn’t know how to tell you- I was worried you’d just end up scared’a me, or…”

His pause instills interest in you. Your fingers smooth back his brown locks, mussed from fitful sleep, and he sighs. “Or what?” You press softly.

You pull him back just enough to get a look at him, his cheekbones almost shiny with a dusting of pink. His thick brows furrow together.

“Or that you’d leave,” he whispers.

Your eyes widen. You lasso your arms around his neck and pull him to you, your head slotting above his shoulder as his fingers quickly move to support the position, one hand perched at your thigh and the other braced at your side.

“Nonsense,” you grumble at his ear, a bit angry at the suggestion. “I’d never leave you.”

Something hard, then, prods at your middle- too fleshy to be something in either of your pockets- and you stiffen at the realization as it comes a beat too late.

Caleb’s voice is breathy at your ear, low, his tail thumping on the cushion. “Yeah?” He murmurs, a pang of heat stirring in your belly at the sound. Suddenly aware, you gently go to push at his broad chest but he stops you with an imploring look- although the desire, brewing in dilated pupils, isn’t lost on you- and musters a pout.

It looks out of place, the wholesome gaze marred by hunger as it reshapes his puppyish look.

“Even when I am no better than a bad dog?”

Your brow quirks, “I didn’t mean it,” you whisper, wide-eyed as his eyes bore into yours. Every micro expression you make is being catalogued and noted with utmost care, his pink tongue darting out to wet his chapped lips as they grow dry.

“It’s okay if you did,” he murmurs back. “I’m just glad I have you around to remind me of my place…” Long, slim fingers reach up and you watch, unseeingly, as they stroke your cheek, his other hand creeping dangerously close to the waistband of your sleep shorts.

He chuckles, but the humor wanes quickly.

“Otherwise, I’d always be misbehaving. Do you even know what you do to me?” His voice is meaningful, torrid, as he draws in and the tip of his nose brushes with yours. You can’t find it in you to move as your thighs- the ones he slithers a singleminded hand in between- begin to roil with unexpected warmth.

You plant a hand to his chest, shying away, “C-Caleb-“

“Don’t worry,” he says sweetly, “M’ not gonna hurt you. I just….” He lets out a sigh, long and perhaps just a bit exaggerated- but it has the intended effect on you. You purse your lips and feel a trace of guilt twist in your heart.

“You drive me crazy. Y-Your smell- I don’t know why this is happening, either. Honestly? I haven’t had a rut in a couple years. But this…”

Caleb lets out a soft noise of pleasure, lending his full weight to you when he breathes you in and shakes.

When he speaks next, his words come out raspy and so low you hardly register them as his breaths grow labored- they’re all you can hear as the living room space shrinks down to just him and the knuckles that dare to dip into your panties.

“This is just too unfair. You won’t leave me hangin’, pretty,… w-will you?” Breathy. With an undeniable streak of need. You can’t miss the lust that usurps the softer parts of him and makes him look less puppyish and cheerful and more wolfish, calculating.

And, well, when he puts it like that, how could you?

✦

He doesn’t fuck you on the couch. He takes you to your bed and fucks you there like a lover would.

He fucks you deep and fast- to his credit, he doesn’t hurt you, staying true to his word, but the possibility of bruises becomes a nearer thing when he folds your legs back and his grasp becomes constricting, plunging in and out of your cunt with rapt focus. Indigo eyes glow with something feral, like you’ve given him no choice but to claim his ownership over you through sloppy kisses and clinking teeth as he pounds into you, driven him into a corner- but his touch turns worshipful when he presses his forehead to yours and moans.

“Ah- y-you feel so good, so tight,” he compliments, words almost slurred. His pupils expand and he looks no different than a drunken, babbling man, his cheeks a rosy red.

His murmurs are wet against your lips as they graze and mush with his, Caleb’s face so close to yours that his lashes tickle your brow as he gawks at you, so entranced by whatever it is he’s seeing to look away.

A fluffy tail sways unevenly behind him and touches your leg on occasion, almost like it’s trying to curl around you, prickling and eager. Every part of him gravitates to you. You’re the ground beneath his feet. Fertile land.

“And you’re all mine, okay? Nobody else’s. I want you to wear my scent- to carry me with you no matter where you go. You have to promise me you will- mmph- That sound good-?

“C-Caleb—“

You groan when he stuffs himself deeper inside and you swear you feel his length throb inside your walls, stretching. The veins running along his shaft carve out a new pathway in you, one special and just for him, as his balls- heavy and fat, with a hell of a lot to give- slap against your ass. Slick oozes out from the squelching seam of you, coating his thick cock but you still struggle to accomodate his size despite the lubrication.

He’s made to make you feel as if you’re losing your mind. You snatch your jaw with your own hand to keep the flurry of high-pitched sounds from spilling out lest they embarrass you, but he shoos it away and cuffs your wrists with a hand splayed over them.

“Nah- I wanna hear you, baby. You can’t keep holdin’ out on me like this... I’m giving you my all right now, so it should be pretty obvious that you can do the same, yeah?”

A mewl punches out from your lungs half a second later and he seems quite contented at that. He sighs, closing his eyes, saying,

“I’ve been good all along. Can’t you play the part, too? I just want you to see how much I really love you,” his confession is by no means considered casual what with the passion in which its conveyed, but you can’t help but feel it’s a little sudden, said a little too quickly, and you wonder if he means what he says or if the rut is responsible for all these novel, amorous feelings in him.

I mean, he’s probably too wrapped up in the moment to even contemplate his own admissions as they all spew out—

“Caleb, too big—“ you gasp, cutting him off, and he lets out a strangled kind of noise when your walls clamp around him.

Holyfuck holyfuck holyfuck do it again, he wants to say, suffocate me, but nothing comes out and he realizes after a long second that his vision has whited completely. He can’t see anything; he’s in a fuzzy, dazzling world with the blinders on and all he can smell and feel is you- your scent, sugar sweet and about as inviting as a barstool pulled out, envelopes him and he can’t breathe. Can’t speak.

He fucks into you with reckless abandon, huffs you in like it’s his final breaths, and then lets it all go without care for anything else. Far as he’s concerned, everything he knows is defined by you. This is a give and take relationship: he actually gives a damn about your opinion of him and takes all you have to offer.

He’s in love, puppyish and clumsy but fuck you lead the way and lead him on.

“Shh, I know,” he rasps out, steaming up your neck like a fogged window pane as he insinuates himself there. Your whole body feels like a furnace, burning up for him as he opens you up and tucks himself inside.

“I know it’s big, but you gotta be ready for-“ he clips his sentence short, thinking better of it.

He wants to warn you of his impending knot- the one that’ll no doubt leave you yelping and writhing away from him- you certainly deserve as much of a foreword to it, but part of him is just so terrified you’ll reject him or deny him the priviledge of shoving it inside you and fuck he can’t have that.

Caleb’s nothing if not loyal. He’s also nothing if not selfish. That’s always been a wriggling bug he’s tried to stomp out but it remains in the baser part of him, only amplified by the intense rut that came right out of the blue.

He wants you singing his name and bonded to him (or as much of a bond the two of you can form), and so that’s what he’ll get.

He’ll apologize later, and you will forgive him. So all’s fine.

“Y-You can take it,” is the simpler thing he settles on, and you let it pass, because between the fat cockhead splitting you apart deliciously and the sweet, somewhat perturbing nothings he gushes at your ear, you’re deaf to most of everything.

But when you come- unexpected and sharp, overwhelming your senses as your hips ruck up and he has to pin you down in place and ride it out with you as you cream around him- the scream you let out rings in your ears and so does his ferocious grunt. It’s loud and you’re so numb as seconds pass that feel like eons; pointed teeth teasing at the squishy chunk of your shoulder, invoking a buried sense of alarm.

And then he’s biting down hard- not just nipping- the pleasure thankfully driving off the pain as he ploughs inside, muffling a string of curses as he picks up his pace. Caleb gets sloppier and sloppier and then he’s burning white-hot inside you and moaning like a pornstar, pelvis juddering as he comes.

“Mmh- f-fuck- Good girl!” he rewards with half a brain, fucked out into perfect oblivion, and for a second you wonder why his voice sounds more meant for comfort than praise- until you expect him to pull out but he doesn’t, something big and round forming at the base of his cock that has his eyes fluttering back as it pops in. He goes boneless on top of you as every limb of yours stiffens and coils around his broad back.

You scream his name. He shivers.

It feels enough to shatter your mind- the pain searing you, but the ghost of pleasure that creeps up along your nervous system makes you go like jelly beneath him, helpless to whatever he’s got planned for you.

“C-Caleb, you-!”

“Yeah, a bad dog, a bad dog,” he stammers, whimpering at your earlobe, “I know, baby, I know. Just- don’t shut me out, okay? I- It’ll be over soon, just- ah- loosen up around it, okay? It’ll feel so much better that way. Just… hold on to me.”

“I-It hurts-!”

“Ngh, shhh…” He trembles out, shifting to sample a broken mewl from your lips, cupping your jaw with all the love in the world and staring at you as if you told the sun to rise this morning. “Be a good girl and take it, mm? Your pussy’s squeezing me so tight, I think she wants it too, but she has to relax a little first, yeah? Mm… I could give you a whole litter of pups. Give your Gran a bunch of cute lil granbabies to drive her crazy.”

You choke on your own spit, the brunet letting out a near delirious chuckle at the idea and your reaction to it before his brow gives a wince, your walls instinctively trying to push his swollen knot out.

“Wha- Caleb, is that even-?”

“I don’t know,” he kisses your forehead tenderly, his tail giving a heavy, excited thump behind him on the bed as you grab the sheets for dear life and they wrinkle, pinched like your conflicted expression.

“But I’ve been dyin’ to try it out for myself.”

[valtitude-forecast-pro-trac]

VALTITUDE DEMAND ANALYTICS

Under the six-sigma DMAIC approach, measurement of your current state is a key requirement for diagnostic, design and implementation of the process.  Even for on-going process stability, measurement is critical.  

The Demand Analytics module provides key insights on your planning performance and provides an insightful view of demand volatility, demand visibility and product mix analysis.  It also provides additional insights on comparisons to the budget and annual plan. 

Our Clients have reported improved Demand visibility, forecast accuracy and higher adoption of the S&OP process throughout the organization.

To know More, Visit Us:

[revelboo]

Give us Tfp Ratchet and my life is yours Revel 🙏 he'd be such a sap for Valentine's Day I just know it

Belatedly finishing up the Valentine’s requests since I crashed last night and there’s even more this morning. Once I get those done, I’ll go back to my story updates

Valentine’s Oneshot- Ratchet

TFP Ratchet x Reader

• Walking past where the kids are clustered on the couch, he frowns watching Miko cutting up red paper. ‘I mean, it needs to look mature,’ Jack is muttering. ‘Valentine’s is a card company scam anyway,’ Miko counters, sticking the little red shape she’d cut out in Raf’s hair, the boy frowning at her. Does he even want to know what they’re up to? “What exactly are you three doing?” Ratchet asks out of morbid curiosity. Grimacing when they all start talking at once. Jack has a crush. A machination of the evil corporate machine. Candy and flowers. Love. Their rambling explanations not really clarifying much. What he does get is that it’s a human holiday for lovers where gifts are exchanged. And that he has nothing for you, his expression twisting. ‘Hey, I can help!’ Miko yells, jumping up and- he doesn’t like that grin at all.

• Humming to yourself as you cook in the modified kitchen Fowler had begrudgingly requisitioned and the bots had integrated into the base, your head lifts when you hear peds. Turning, you cover your mouth laughing. Not expecting a mass displaced Ratchet or the fact that he’s plastered in tape and crude paper hearts. “Miko attack you?” You ask, turning off the stove eye and setting the skillet aside. “Look at you all festive, doc.”

• “I didn’t make a gift,” he mutters, venting tiredly. “So I’m apparently the gift.” Lips twitching into a wry smile when you reach out to tap a little paper shape over his spark. “Miko claims they’re hearts, but I can attest that human hearts don’t look like this.” You’re smiling up at him, though to make warmth spread through his spark. Especially when you laugh again. Feels guilty for not finding you something proper, something that shows how much he cares for you. Needs you. “Do I get a present?”

• Imperiously crooking a finger at him to bend down, you cup his face in your hands and go up on tiptoe, mouth warm and unhurried against his. Leaning your head against his, those eyes look up at him making heat and need spill through him. “You have to wait until after dinner for your present,” you whisper. Hand gripping your hip, he tugs you more firmly against him to make you laugh.

• Looping your arms around his neck, you let him lift you and wrap your legs around his waist. His mouth hungrily claiming yours again. “Ew. There’s kids present.” Miko’s voice startles you, face heating guiltily when you look up. It’s not like you were actually doing anything, but you’re still mortified at being caught tangled in Ratchet making out. Hear Ratchet growl under his breath, optics narrowing as Miko walks past both of you to snitch a cookie from the jar on the counter. ‘Do you mind?’ Ratchet snarls when she just leans against the cabinet to eat it. Openly staring and you snort as the medic vents in frustration and reluctantly lets you down. But you’ll make it up to him later. You’d gone shopping.

[souliebird]

[[and then I met you || ch 26]]

Series: Daredevil || Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader || Rating: Explicit

Summary:

A one-night stand years ago gave you a daughter and you are now able to put a name to her father – Matthew Murdock. Everything is about to change again as you navigate trying to integrate your life with that of the handsome and charming blind lawyer’s and Matt realizes he needs to not only protect his new family from Hell's Kitchen, but from the world.

chapter masterlist

Words: 3.6k

ao3 link

Depression is a funny little emotion.

It starts as a seed planted in your stomach by some inconsequential action that slowly grows throughout the day until it is strangling you. Tendrils sprout and creep up your sternum, creeping through your airway and constricting your lungs, making it just a little harder to breathe. Your chest feels tight and no amount of closing your eyes and counting slowly will make the feeling go away. The vines go for your heart next - weaving between the arteries and veins and squeezing until you are hyper aware of every beat it makes. 

You know you cannot let anyone know what germinates inside of you, so for hours and hours and hours do you pretend you can function properly. You ignore how heavy your heart feels or how much your throat stings. You turn off the urge to cry and scream and beg because you know there is no point to it. There is no relief. No amount of comfort will free you from the jungle forming inside of you. All you can do is wait.

Wait until you are finally alone, and the growth is finally allowed to bloom in your brain. Thorns pierce you, pumping their poison into your thoughts. Sap leaks from your eyes as stems force their way up your throat until leaves sprout from your mouth. You are consumed from the inside out until you are a hollow husk of a person.

And who would want to be around that?

Who would want you?

No one is the answer.

 It has always been no one. 

Your parents were the first to show you the truth. There was no care or comfort in your childhood - you were set aside and ignored.

You’ve never blamed them for this. As much as it hurt and as much as it messed with your self-worth, you’ve always understood they were not meant to be parents. You are sure they loved you in their own way, but the lack of affection left your soul to wilt.

College was no better. You made a few friends but quickly learned the meaning of superficial. They did not have time for your awkwardness and personal issues - this was their time to grow and blossom. So, you buried yourself in your studies and were always grateful when they were kind enough to invite you somewhere. 

When you started having romantic relationships they warped your mind even more. A few sweet words would lure you in, then you would become a caretaker and a warm body. Their needs were always top priority and yours were never to be acknowledged. You were strung along to a breaking point or told you were no longer needed, even when you were still heart eyed over them.

A few rounds of this showed you your niche in the world. 

You’re a background character. A friend of a friend’s girlfriend. A one-night stand. Minnie’s mom. 

You don’t matter in the grand scheme of things. You are meant to assist others - meant to raise your daughter to her full potential. 

You’ve long accepted this, which makes it all that much harder when Matt smiles at you like he does. 

You believe he cares for you - he is full of love - but you know there isn’t anything deeper in it. 

You are the mother of his child, a child he is head over heels for - it is natural for him to grow affectionate towards you. He finds you physically and sexually attractive and you yearn for that.

But you know you are nothing but a placeholder.

You have his attention now and you want to bask in it, but next week, next year, or maybe in two years, that attention will move onto someone who deserves it. Someone who is exciting as he is - someone who is smart and passionate. Someone who understands his life and what being Daredevil entails. Someone who cares about the injustices on the streets and does something about it.

Someone who isn’t broken. 

Someone who isn’t a shell going through the motions. 

Someone who isn’t you.

You want to cover your ears and pretend you don’t know the truth. You want to bury yourself in the three little words you thought you heard, but you know you can’t. 

You can’t do that to yourself again. You can’t handle another heartbreak. Another disappointment.

Another reminder you are Nothing. 

You can allow yourself to enjoy your time - enjoy the touches and kisses and moans - but your heart must remain locked away. 

Matt can have all of you but that. If you allow yourself to have hope it will hurt all the more when you have to let him go. 

And you’ll let him go easily when that time comes. You’ll step aside without a fight because his relationship with Minnie is more important than you will ever be, and you are not going to be the reason for a rift between them. You are not going to deny Matt time with his daughter because his destiny is with someone else. 

It will hurt, but it has never mattered if you hurt.

You just want them to be happy.

----

The progress bar on your screen is finally full and you now have the option to select ‘continue with install’. You click on the button, then warily eye your laptop as new windows pop up with technical information you do not care about. 

Work is pushing a bunch of new updates through their system, and because you are remote, you have to play IT to get your machine up to spec. They sent you an email with everything you need to do, which is to sit back and click a few prompts, but they failed to mention the process would take hours and that your laptop would be useless during that time. 

It is nearing two in the morning, and you are starting to run out of steam and patience. 

Between installs and reboots, you have cleaned pretty much everything in your apartment that you could without risking waking Minnie up. You did dishes and dusted. You cleaned out the pantry and washed the windows. You even swept the carpet to get out any lingering dog hair.

You’ve tried to sit and watch something, but it left you fidgety and you couldn’t pay attention to what was being said and you had no chance in hell of following a plot. You attempted to play around on your phone, but you became angry at yourself for not having the funds to buy things that were advertised to you. After Minnie’s birthday and your hospital bill, your bank account was getting dangerously low.

You want to turn off your brain and do your job. You don’t have to Think when combing through orders and producing invoices. 

You don’t want to Think anymore. You are so tired of Thinking. 

You slump into your chair and bury your face into your hands. You’ve got no way to calculate how much longer all this technical setup is going to take or how much longer you are going to have to stay up. The only relief you have is knowing you are being paid for this time, since the email specifically told you to be on the clock while running everything. 

You debate going over to the couch and trying to nap. You could set an alarm so you can periodically check on your computer, but you might disturb your sleeping toddler. The alert could be set to vibrate only, but would that wake you up if you really fell asleep?

Your only solution is to stay awake and try to find something to do to distract yourself. 

As you start to consider deep cleaning the linen closet, your phone lights up with a call from an unsaved number. It takes but a moment for you to recognize the sequence and your heart leaps into your throat as you answer.

“Hello?”

“You’re up late,” Matt teases as a greeting, his voice a few octaves lower than normal and sending a delightful sort of chill up your spine. “Working hard?”

“Hardly working,” you groan in response, but the mere fact he is calling has your lips turning up into a small smile. “My computer is doing updates and I’m waiting for it to finish. It’s been going for hours.”

Matt hums in sympathy and you wonder if he is just getting home. The fact he is a superhero is still very hard for your mind to wrap around. Sweet Matt, who lets his daughter put star stickers all over his face, is the same man who so routinely breaks people’s arms that local ER staff have a monthly betting pool about it - a little fact you learned from Karen. The man in videos dangling someone off a high rise or a bridge is the same man who becomes a clingy octopus when asleep. 

You understand his need to protect the city and you admire it, but fear and uncertainty gather in your belly when you think about Matt out on the rooftops. You are terrified of him getting hurt, despite the fact you trust him and his abilities. You know there is always a bigger threat out there as well as the possibility of an accident. Matt may be amazing, but he can’t fight a random act of God.

Three light knocks from behind you rip your thoughts and you turn in your chair to see Daredevil, in all his red suit glory, standing on your fire escape. He cheekily waves at you as he snaps his flip phone shut and stores it in a hidden pocket. You scramble up and over to the window, yanking it open. He waits patiently, though a bit smugly by the smirk on his lips, as you figure out how to remove the screen. He climbs through with ease and once he is inside, he starts removing his gloves and helmet.

“What are you doing here?” you ask as you close the window again. You aren’t opposed to him coming by, but this is the first time he’s done so, and you aren’t exactly sure of the protocol. Is it a social visit? Does he have some Daredevil news to share with you?

Before he replies, he shakes his head much like a wet dog would. His hair is damp with sweat and the skin that was previously covered is glistening. There is a slight tint of red to his usual paleness and you wonder if he is hot to the touch as well. You try not to squirm at the thought.

“I always check on you before ending patrol,” he finally says, like it is the most obvious thing in the world. He sets his helmet, gloves, and batons on the window-blocking table, then steps to you, reaching up to cup your cheeks when close enough. “I need to make sure my girls are okay.” 

The words come out of him so easily and you want to melt into them like you do with his touch, but your mind is quick to remind you that you’ve given him reason to have to check up on you. This isn’t him being sweet - it is him making sure you haven’t somehow managed to kill yourself. 

Before you can mentally chastise yourself and pull away, Matt is closing the distance. He brings you into a sweet and slow kiss and for a few wonderful moments, your mind goes quiet. His lips are so soft against yours and you can just barely taste the salt from the sweat that has dripped down his face. It ends far too soon, and you try to tell yourself you are not disappointed.

Your thoughts kick back into hyper drive, and as you notice how damp Matt’s hair really is you imagine he would appreciate some cold water. You gently pull away from him, turning as you do to head towards the kitchen. 

“Did anything interesting happen tonight?”

“Nothing out of the usual,” he answers as he moves to follow you. “There was a kid breaking into cars that stuck out, though. He should probably be on his school’s track team if he isn’t already - he made me work to be able to catch him. It was actually a little impressive.”

That would explain the sweat then. It is already warm out and racing through the streets in leather sounds exhausting. It makes you want to shower just hearing about it.

You find Matt’s designated cup and fill it using the pitcher in the fridge. As you pass it over to him, you question, “what did you do once you caught him?”

He doesn’t answer, instead taking the water and downing it all in just a few gulps. Since it is clear he is in need of it, you quickly refill the glass.

“I gave him a warning and let him go,” Matt says after taking another sip, “He seemed like a good kid just getting into the wrong things. I think being chased by the Devil will scare him off crime, at least for a while.”

That warms your heart a little - you like Matt’s sense of justice and how he does not have a hard stance on what is black and white. He truly wants to help the community and not rule it. 

You have to turn away as he drinks his second glass of water. You want those brief moments of mental silence back and watching his throat work only makes you want to kiss him again. You think he wouldn’t mind it if you threw yourself at him, but it isn’t the time or place, and honestly you are a bit scared of the idea that has that kind of effect on you. 

It is something to crave and ask for and get addicted to. If he can turn off your brain so easily, all you will want to do is touch him.

Ever on high alert, you see Matt roll his neck and shoulders as he goes to put his glass into the sink. The movements look a little stiff and anxiety takes hold as you hyper analyze every movement he makes, “Are you alright?”

He pauses at the question, clearly confused by it. He tilts his head back and forth in minute ways like he does when he’s searching for something before answering you. 

“Why do you ask?”

You feel yourself start to flush at the counter, feeling a little silly. If there was anything actually wrong with him, he has a competent nurse on call, but you can’t stop your worry. It courses through you like your blood and you know it will fester and nag if you have any doubt. But you are still hesitant as you vaguely motion to your own neck, “I don’t know, you were out all night. I just…I want to make sure you’re, okay?”

You know that Matt is analyzing you, listening for something you’ll never hear. His lips dip into a frown for a microsecond before lifting up into that soft, beautiful smile you are becoming so fond of. “I’m fine, darling. Just a little stiff is all. It’s hard to have good posture when crouching on a rooftop.”

You take in the words, and you can easily picture Matt on the edge of a building, sitting like a gargoyle. It does ease your own tension that he isn’t injured, but your head just keeps spinning. 

Matt came all the way into Chelsea to check on you, the least you could do is make it worth his while. Offering yourself up for sex doesn’t feel appropriate at the moment, but you have more up your sleeve than just that.

The words tumble out of you before the idea is fully formed, “Do you want a massage?”

The shock on Matt’s face is nearly priceless. His brows shoot up his forehead and his mouth parts just slightly and a small voice in the back of your head wonders if anyone has ever offered him one before. You know his upbringing was as barren as yours, but given he is a fighter, you would have guessed someone would have given him one. 

Finally, he nods, his smile starting to come back, “That sounds amazing. If it’s okay with you - I know it’s getting late.”

“I’ll be up anyways,” you tell him quickly, not wanting him to think it is any inconvenience to you. “And it sounds more enjoyable than more cleaning.”

“Okay.” His boyish grin gets even bigger, and your stomach does a funny twist. “Where do you want me?”

You direct him to sit in front of the couch, on the ground, and as he removes the top half of his armor, you go to fetch wet wipes and lotion. You do not want to be rubbing Matt’s sweat all over his back - you are going to be trying to help him relax and that is a little bit disgusting. 

As you come back to the living room, you have to remind yourself you aren’t supposed to throw yourself at him. It is not fair how good he looks shirtless - he’s well defined and muscular, but not so overly buff it is gross. It’s clear his muscles are for athletics and not to show off how cool he is. His scars only emphasize that. You have no idea how he got them all, but you very much want to lay him down and run your tongue over each and every one. 

Your view changes as Matt plops himself down in front of the couch, seemingly unaware of your various mental crises. You tell yourself to Behave before your feet start moving again. When you get to the couch, you maneuver yourself to be behind Matt and have to bat away all your thoughts again at the sight of his shoulders.  

You force yourself to focus on the task in front of you. As you grab the wet wipe to start cleaning off Matt’s back, you advise him, “Let me know if I go too hard or if anything starts to hurt, okay?”

Beneath your hands, he huffs, “Darling, I don’t think you’ll be able to hurt me. If anything, the harder, the better.”

Your face heats up a little at his words. You remember he said something similar when over you on the couch just a few nights ago. He likes things a little rough. 

Once his shoulders are mostly sweat free, you get to work. 

You start with smoothing your hands down his neck, then fanning out to the edge of his shoulders and back. You aren’t exactly an expert at this, but long ago in college, one ex liked to play video games while you rubbed his shoulders and you had done your fair share of research to make sure you were doing it right. You still remember most of the tips. 

You add some of Minnie’s scent free baby lotion to your hands, then dig your thumbs into Matt’s neck. The muscles are tight and as you begin to push and pull at them, a deep, pleased groan comes from the man under you.

“Mmm, that feels so good.”

You can’t help but smile at the praise and it only encourages you to make sure the entire experience is enjoyable. 

It is surprisingly easy for you to get completely lost in the massage. You focus in on one area and mentally picture different little arrows telling you to rub up this way or swirl your thumbs in a certain motion. Matt’s shoulders quickly become a grid for you to complete and not a laborious task of trying to bond. 

Under your unskilled fingers, the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen melts. Whenever you find a knot - and there are many - he grunts and sighs and you can tell he is starting to relax. The tension in his shoulders fade and you actually get to see the moment his jaw unclenches. He opens his mouth and scrunches his nose, making the apples of his cheeks plump up. You peek at the television to catch his reflection and your heart warms at the pleased look on his face.

You wonder if it would be possible to get him to fall asleep like this and decide that is a challenge for another day. Right now, you want to pamper him. 

You slowly work your fingers back up towards his neck, then decide to take a chance based on what you know he likes. 

As you reach his hairline, you tilt your fingers forward so your nails are against his skin, then begin to slowly scritch at his scalp like he’s an overgrown cat. 

The results are instantaneous. Matt pushes his head into the touch, a low guttural moan coming up from his throat. 

It is Filthy. It goes right to your core, making you clench around nothing, and you can’t stop yourself from asking in a soft, teasing voice, “Feel good?”

He hums in an affirmative, tilting his head back far enough that he needs to lean against the couch for support. You keep your fingers where they are, as it's clear he is trying to direct you to where it feels the best - the top of his head. You scritch there, smiling as you fluff up his hair even more. 

Matt looks absolutely blissed out - his eyes are closed, his lips are parted, and you are pretty sure if you keep at this, he might just turn into Jello. 

Which is exactly what you want. 

He works so hard for everyone, running himself into the ground to bring justice to Hell’s Kitchen, and you think he needs some time to just relax. 

So, you begin to plan.

As you gently drag your nails through Matt’s hair, you let your mind begin to think up ideas for a nice family spa day while your laptop and dark thoughts sit on the dining room table, forgotten about.

---

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[ruined-strawb-cakes-in-arcane]

Shimmer thoughts - Analysis on Shimmer Purpose > Creation > Variants

♡˚ crediting people from twitter who helped me so much with this : @omniscient_she @ethnicallymoral @hartbrekprince @Darkroastdreams

Purpose

Initial goals of Shimmer ⤷create a substance that could provide strength and power ⤷Become a superior medicinal-healing drug

Later goals of Shimmer as the story progress: ⤷permanently enhance the human body and mind

Creation:

Shimmer was created by Singed using glowing purple flowers and biological experiments, including a rare regenerative creature named Rio. ● Flower ⤷Observed to grow in a cave and seen to be growing in Silco/Singed’s hideout in the canary as per S1E1 (could be the cold, dark, damp nature of the location) ⤷combustive when it comes to contact with fire

● Rio ⤷a unique, rare creature that possesses remarkable regenerative abilities (ArcaneWiki) Singed stated the following about Rio: S1E6 mark: 39:28 - “she’s a rare mutation I cultivated” S1E6 mark 31:52 - “The mutation must survive”

There’s no concrete evidence if Shimmer is made solely from either Rio or the flower, only that they are alluded to as the base foundations of the drug. Singed, with the help of young Viktor, was initially feeding Rio the flowers which may be the cause of mutation, therefore Rio is technically “man made” and not an organically occurring mutation. 

Still with the tubes tied to Rio glowing with the same purple essence of the flowers on the later part of the show, we can infer that Shimmer may be made by glowing flowers passing through Rio’s DNA system. 

“Shimmer could have been made by passing nectar (or a form of transformed sap) from the flowers through Rio's organs. Through the organ's natural processing (stomachs digest, kidneys remove waste and extra liquid, livers produce bile and pancreas store insulin...) the sap turns into shimmer. Or at least a proto-shimmer that is then refined by Singed  Perhaps also the Waverider microbiome within their body contains specific bacteria that break down the proteins and such contained within the flower in a different way. So it's not only the mechanical function of the organs but also the chemical function of the microbiome”

Naïa, First Chancellor's Archivist @omniscient_she

Variants:

As revealed by Singed he developed Shimmer variants, some of which are more advanced than others.v. ArcaneWiki

The existence of different variants and purity levels (even expiration) as per @Darkroastdreams thread could mean Shimmer divided as:

Variant A - For productions and distribution

Street Shimmer • Who uses it: Silco’s foot soldiers, goons, thug enforcers. • Effects: Enhances strength, pain tolerance, durability, tissue regeneration, possibly nervous system repair, resuscitation from near-death cases (makes you a walking tank) • Side effects: . Short-term: Mutations, temporary growth in size, cognitive degeneration, and aggression. Long-term: Highly addictive; physical deformities such as large tumors protruding from the skin; progressive degeneration of skin and muscle tissue. • Distribution: Mass-produced. Cheap. Dangerous. This is the version running Zaun’s black market economy.

Chembaron-grade • Who uses it: Sevika, Silco, Silco’s inner circle, possibly Singed’s own test subjects. • Effects: Similar to street shimmer, but targeted—such as enhancing strength, regeneration, durability—without major side effects (e.g., physical mutation). • Upgrades: Combined with technology (e.g., Sevika’s arm) or delivered via implants to ensure the user receives the proper dosage. • Side effects: Still risky, but shows longer-term integration.

Quoting from thread : “There are likely different purities of shimmer available for purchase on the streets of Zaun, with the highest purity coming directly from Singed (such as the type used by Silco and to revive Jinx as well as what Viktor was most likely given) and lower purities sold on the street as an illegal drug.”

DarkroastDepresso @Darkroastdreams

Note : The testing phase from S1A1 looks more like Street Shimmer as it caused Dekard to physically change, if a several drops caused physical and increased aggression to a rat then application must be equal to body weight of the user? several drop: rat/1 bottle: teenage human. We can then reason that when Caitlyn used Street Shimmer on Vi, the single drop administered was a low enough dose to mitigate the usual side effects.

Variant B - Singed’s personal research, produced personally on his lab

Prototype • Who uses it: Jinx, speculated: Singed and Warwick during his hibernation phase. • Effects: altered physiology, strength, longevity, total body mutation, heightened senses. • Thoughts : we can speculate that Jinx is the first successful human test when Singed was trying to resuscitate her.

“This appears to be a mix of variants that made Jinx the most successful experiment, preserving her through near-death resuscitation while incorporating a controlled combat strain. It aligns with Singed’s goal of reviving his daughter in a stable, powerful form. The idea that she “became Shimmer” suggests a perfected biological mutation: a proof of concept for a sentient, controllable Shimmer being without the side effects seen in Warwick.”

@ethnicallymoral 

Beta (used to combine with Hextech) • Who uses it: Viktor and speculated: Warwick during his hibernation phase. • Effects: Catalyst, longevity, pain suppression, durability, tissue regeneration, possibly nervous system repair • Goal: sustain Viktor's life to continue his research, by accelerating assisting a fusion of Shimmer and Hextech

Apex shimmer • most advanced and potent form of Shimmer—refined beyond the unstable • Who uses it: Singed and Warwick • Effects: Physical enhancement (boosts strength, speed, and resilience), life preservation (slows or halts degeneration), biological evolution. • Used for: stabilizing Warwick enough to be able to awaken him, slows degeneration by using it on Oriana and Singed • Risk: Unknown however it seems to only be suitable for individuals with strong willpower, intellect, or specific biological conditions.

Variants structure provided and assisted by @ethnicallymoral // els 

< END PERSONAL THINK THOUGHT AFTER THIS >

Is a drop enough to mutate only Silco’s eye? 

Unsure, we can speculate that he must have had other side effects aside from his eye. I’m inclined to believe that Silco must have had other changes in his body, which could be his lungs being able to withstand a greenhouse filled with a leaking tank of the Grey. Not only is Silco a heavy smoker but he also worked in the mines infested with the Grey, which could have caused long term lung damage, but we never see Silco cough nor does he exhibit any lung issues. 

Also, we first have to know what variant he had been dozing on and if he switched to the purified healing variant once Singed is able to concoct other variations of Shimmer.  

Have we ever thought of the possibility that silco is the first human test of Singed due to the nature of his injuries? I have.

Does it affect Silco’s cum quality? I.e. taste, potency, color A: Because Silco seems to have been using the Variant A - street shimmer from s1A1 and could have been using it since the prototype version we can guess that there maybe changes to his body, if not externally like his eye then internally. We can also see Silco's tear as violet in here.

2. Does it help with his bedroom performance (Physical endurance during sex AND Shorter refractory period) Again Again there maybe changes to his body if not externally like his eye then internally. Despite his age, injuries and past history (starvation, exposure to the Gray) we can see Silco crashout as him having exhibiting strength, this could point out that : Yes, Silco does have stamina No proof in regards to refractory period

3. Does Shimmer give him erectile dysfunction? Given that one of shimmer's main goal and coveted effects are tissue regeneration, possibly nervous system repair, AKA HEALING AND SLOWING/HALTING DEGENERATION and Silco's long term use, then we can reason that he has no erectile dysfunction

[zyxoxox]

Hehehe another victim of my request. Just saw your post and im in love with your writing. So i want to request Wise x fem!reader who secretly a Hollow Raider (no one knows except the phaetons.) who get hurt after returning from the Hollow. Wise tent to their injuries and give reader kisses and cuddles after :)

They're dating btw.

Expect to here more from me (⁠ ⁠ꈍ⁠ᴗ⁠ꈍ⁠)

~A🦚

note : hello anon!! i don’t think you’ll ever see this, considering you sent this last december, but tyy! i love this idea for wise so much. if you do see this, hope you enjoy! and sorry for the wait 😭

> wise x gn!reader.. tw descriptions of injury, mentions of blood

tending sores.

in which he finds you hurt in a hollow.

the fissure was right in front of you! you just needed to get a bit closer-BHAM! an ethereal integrated out of nowhere, landing a square blow to your face. your vision grew doubled until it blacked out completely; your body fell lifeless upon to cold ground.

“[name]. [NAME]!”

with a shock, wise fell back, abruptly disconnecting with the hdd.

“wise! what happened, why’d you disconnect?” concerned, belle rushed over.

he shook his head, frantic. “there’s no time! belle, take over eous. i’m heading over to the hollow myself. [name] passed out, there’s no time to lose!”

with that, he grabbed his jacket and ran over to the hollow.

..

“okay, wise, i’ve got eous to drag [name] near the entrance of the hollow. sent you the coordinates right now.”

before wise’s feet stood a plane of crumbling buildings. his human body had never been so close to a hollow before. “got it. i’m heading that way.”

“wise,” there was a pause. “[name]… is not in great shape. just… try not to freak out. the sooner we can get them back home, the sooner they get better, alright?”

wise sucked in a breath, steeling himself for what was to come. the little red dot that marked your location beeping on his screen grew closer and closer, and wise couldn’t help being overwhelmed with a sense of dread.

fairy: target within fifty feet.

and there you were. lifeless and still, the air filled with the rustic smell of your blood.

wise’s heart dropped. he ran towards you as fast as he could, kneeling by your side. “[name]? can you hear me? [name]!”

he tried to shake you, but that just made blood gush out of your wounds even faster. there was no use, you were out cold. helpless, wise put his arms around your body and lifted you up. then he ran out of that hollow as fast as he could.

.

the world seemed to come back to you with a gentle buzz, a whirring in your head you couldn’t tune out. your eyes were still closed, but you could sense an unmistakable fragrance of cinnamon and old parchment.

slowly, you willed your eyelids to part. it felt like they were melded together, but with a bit of effort, you could manage a half-hearted squint.

in front of you, with your blurry vision, you could make out an unmistakable grey blob.

“….awake? are…. awake? belle….. awake!”

the voice coming from the blob was muffled, but you could just barely hear it over the ringing in your ears.

“…wise?”

your voice was a little above a croak, and the simple word seemed to sap you of your energy. nevertheless, you tried to sit up- only to be met with a sharp pain all over your limbs.

“ah!” you winced, falling back.

“hey now! careful, belle’s still bandaging you up,” a firm hand caught your back, leaning you back against the bed frame. you could finally open your eyes all the way, and your newfound gaze was met with a very worried wise, face in close proximity to yours.

he stared at you intently, as if doing an inspection. “do you think they have a concussion?”

“hmm, they might- i can bandage up all the cuts, but if there’s anything internal we might have to go to the hospital. i hope not though- i don’t know how we’d explain all the ether damage to them.”

you tried to turn to the sound of the other voice, but the sudden moment brought back the surge of pain. “belle- ow!”

“[name]! don’t move okay? everything’s okay now, i’ve bandaged you up.” she took a glance at her brother, who was still looking at you like you might fall apart any second. “i think i’ll be downstairs. wise looks like he has something to say. call me if you need me!”

before either of you could say anything, she headed out the door with a wink.

there was a brief silence. just what had happened to you?

“wise, what’s going on?” you looked at him, worried. none of your limbs would move without a debilitating sting.

your boyfriend’s eyes widened. “[name], you remember me, right? what’s the last thing you saw? who is-”

“i remember all that, wise. i was in a hollow, and then got knocked out by an ethereal.” and if you remembered, it was way out in the open. so how were you here, and not dead?

wise took a towel to wipe away some of the sweat on your forehead. “belle took over eous, and dragged you all the way to the hollow entry. then i carried you here.” he paused. “don’t worry about everything else right now. we’re really lucky things went the way they did.”

you tried to nod. it truly was pure luck you survived all that.

wise opened his mouth to say something, but then decided against it. he sighed, moving behind you and propping you against his chest.

“are you mad, wise?” you asked meekly. he’d warned you several times against going into the hollow alone- but according to fairy’s data, the ethereals were pretty weak. you thought you could handle it! how were you supposed to know they’d merge into a giant mega boss?

wise shook his head, gently burying his head into the crook of your neck, careful not to move you too much. “not angry. just… guilty. i shouldn’t have let you go in all alone. i’m never letting you in a hollow again.”

ah. somehow, that felt worse.

his face was still deep in your shoulder blade, gripping onto your waist like his life depended on it- but you could still feel the pout on his lips.

“i’m sorry,” you said, leaning against him. innocently, you kissed the back of his ear, letting all of your muscles loose and your weight onto him. his ear turned pink and he looked up to meet your eyes.

suddenly, the back of your head in his palm, he gave you a peck on the lips.

“you-” kiss! “-got me-” kiss! “-so-” kiss! “-scared!”

you giggled. even though the pain from all your wounds stung, his kisses somehow seemed to electrify it.

“i think you need to kiss all the pain away, wise,” you teased. “it’s the only way i’ll get better, i think.”

you’d said it jokingly, but wise didn’t skip a beat. gently, he worked his away around all your wounds, kissing the skin right beside your bandages.

“better?” he asked, landing a final peck on your nose. he frowned at the taste. “you are sweating up a storm. wait, i’ll get some ice.”

wise took the towel and ice pack, alternating between wiping off your sweat and putting on some ice.

“this feels nice,” you mused, “i should go into hollows more often, if this is what follows.”

he shot you a glare. “don’t you dare. i’d much rather spend quality time with you taking you on a date with coffee, not with death.”

you laughed again, finding enough strength in your arm to pull his neck down to your level, face to face. “alright, enough of that. come here, sleep beside me a little.”

and so, at your wish, wise propped himself beside you on the bed, soothingly scratching your scalp with one hand, gaming on his phone with the other. ever so often he’d plant a kiss on whatever part of you was closest to him, humming a soft tune.

in the comfort of it all, you couldn’t help but drift off into a peaceful sleep.

[serpentface]

What are each of the main cast’s favourite foods, and how to they reflect what they grew up eating/their background/broader cultural trends?

Key for the constructed foods that come up in this post:

Nara: a type of citrus fruit, comparable to a lime in sourness. Peledyo: a type of fermented fish sauce used as seasoning in of itself or a base for other sauces. (This is a knockoff of irl garum). This is FUNDAMENTAL to Imperial Wardi cuisine, and closely analogous/connected variants are produced by all the peoples of the Viper as well as across most of the Lowlands (southeast of Imperial Wardin). Magah: a type of tuberous root vegetable. Similar to a potato, but coming from a wholly different plant and more strongly flavored (notes of cabbage) with yellow-orange flesh. Heavily cultivated in the Highlands and considered more of a famine food elsewhere in Imperial Wardin. Yute: a cultivar in the same species as magah with purple flesh and a sweeter taste, a staple in the mountainous parts of Kosov and some other parts of the Burri Republic. Gaiyi: a brassica cultivar used in Kos cuisine, resembling broccolini. Completely absent in Imperial Wardin. Yamnina reyla: the premier spice blend used in Wardi cuisines, it has some regional variants but its core ingredients are crushed chilis, coriander, cumin, and firebug (imparts little flavor but significant reddish-orange color that gives this mix its name), all ground together. Camiche: an edible seed, eaten as a nut. Kolis: a cactus-like plant with edible fruits and young shoots. The fruit tastes like watermelon and is very sweet, but has more sour notes. Anuje: a sap extracted from one of the region's few native palms, has a sweet, molasses-esque flavor. This is the staple sweetener and culturally favored over honey in most provinces, consumption of honey is generally seen as a 'rural' thing]

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Tigran spent the first 11 years of his life in pretty extreme poverty as an agricultural laborer so did not have a lot of exciting food. His family is Ubiyan-Wardi (pretty rare ethnic minority in the region, mostly descending from people hired or enslaved as war captives and/or indentured servants for labor by Imperial Bur at its height). Many of these people formed communities that retain their cultural identity to this day, but these largely occur in the north and in the province of Lobera. Most people with Ubiyan heritage in South Wardin come from more isolated lines that fully integrated and intermarried with the Wardi(nae) population, and are heavily 'Wardinized' in the present day.

Tigran's family is an example of one with this cultural heritage being largely lost- they know that much of their ancestry comes from far northeast across the Viper but they don't know from where exactly. They are culturally South Wardi but with some traditions (and names, 'Tigran' and 'Otto' are both Ubiyan given names in origin) that have survived passed down from parent to child. To the point of this post, a lot of these traditions involve food.

He mostly ate a pretty typical South Wardi agricultural diet with the majority of his meals being variations on maize and lentil porridge, yams, onions, dairy, and foraged plants. His village also reared horses for milk and wool and ducks and fowl for eggs (and occasionally meat). He lived right on the Brilla River so would get the benefit of meat from fish or the occasional wild duck or goose. When he was 5 someone in his village killed a bull crocodile that had been eating their horses and they all had a big pit roast with it to celebrate, but he barely remembers this.

A major Ubiyan cultural element that he experienced in his childhood diet was a form of pasta. His mother and grandmother would make pasta out of maize dough in the shape of a cowrie, which they just referred to as 'little shells'. They had a secret ingredient used to toughen the consistency of the maize dough to hold the shape but wouldn't tell him, since this was apparently only for the women to know. His mother planned on teaching his future wife to make these little shells, and made it very clear she wouldn't let him marry any woman who couldn't get the technique down. To celebrate the new year, they would make a larger variant stuffed with soft horsemilk cheese, explaining that it was for good luck and abundance in the next year. This was never a Favorite food of his as a child (his favorite was the joyous occasion he got to eat fatty, non-gamey domestic duck), but he's never been able to find these little shells anywhere else, hasn't seen his family since he was 11, and misses it.

His FAVORITE food is duck. The best meal he's probably ever had was roast duck glazed with date wine, dried nara, chilis, and a little bit of peledyo. Duck is central fare for a holiday that is timed when the reed ducks return to the region and start to breed. This moment is recognized as the transition from a period of seasonal barrenness to abundance (the mid rainy season through mid dry season span in which plant life flourishes, ends with the last harvest periods for most staple crops). It involves a feasting day in which most people make meals based around preserved fruits/vegetables, early wild forage, and duck (hunted or slaughtered).

Tigran completing his initiation as a Galenii monk (which involves a year of only taking food received via begging) timed itself very close to this festival occurring. So not only did he Finally get to eat regular meals, but he had never in his entire LIFE tasted anything so good. He was 12 years old and was guided by his mentor into an epiphany that like, 'this IS what it's all for, guaranteeing that we have the season of abundance year after year. AND more importantly I get to eat really really really good meals provided by the temple'.

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Palo grew up in the very cushy end of the mercantile commoner class with his father being a guild glassmaker, and lived in the province Odkotonnos (one of the more agriculturally rich) and city of Godsmouth proper (THE center of trade), so he had regular access to a decent variety of pretty good food. He and most of his family are first generation immigrants from Kosov (a province of the contemporary Burri Republic, occupying the same latitude as South Wardin). He moved as a baby and grew up eating a lot of Kos food in addition to the general western Wardi diet (which itself has a heavy Burri/Kos/Titen influence).

(The most immediately distinctive difference between these and Wardi cuisines is staple grains/starches often being eaten in the form of noodles, which is more broadly a characteristic of a wide span of the Inner Seaways peoples west of the Mouth. The other big difference is a fermented corn sauce (functionally similar to soy sauce) being the foundational umami flavoring, rather than the peledyo fish sauce that is a staple in Wardin)

He also spent a cumulative few years of his life in Kosov and there had the favorite thing he's ever eaten, which is a mung bean noodle dish with catfish, yute, gaiyi, spinach, onions, and a chili-olive oil sauce. Some of the core ingredients are rare if not absent in Imperial Wardin (magah is generally considered a famine food and not widely cultivated outside of the Highlands, gaiyi grows in the humid montane conditions found in southwestern Kosov, and this particular kind of catfish was notably tastier to him than commonly eaten Wardi species) so he's never had this exact dish or a close equivalent since.

Otherwise his diet throughout most of his life was very seafood heavy in addition to staple grains, starches, and legumes. He dislikes most non-fish meat and hates the texture of fat, so eats a lot of whitefish when given the chance.

One thing that actually like, comes up in canon as a thing he really loved is seabass he ate at social events with his family. The bass is roasted whole and (along with other elements of the meal) surrounded by dips and condiments. You pick up the fish meat with pieces of pounded yam and dip/scoop up condiments before eating it. On a really nice occasion, condiments could include fermented corn sauce in plain and semi-sweet form, Basically Aioli (a blend of mashed garlic and olive oil), several types of peledyo (sweet anuje-wine peledyo, bitter vinegar peledyo, plain salty peledyo, etc), several hot sauces (the typical formula here is different kinds of chilis mixed with olive oil, cumin, coriander, garlic, and citrus juice, all mashed into a liquid paste), a sweet anuje-garlic sauce, chopped onions/parsley raw in citrus juice, a mash of peas + onions cooked in duckfat, fermented salted crab roe, plain olive oil, chili-olive oil, etc.

This style of eating is an aspect of the Burri cultural sphere (and the Odkotonnos provincial subculture by extension), utilized for meals during intimate social gatherings. A main course of meat cooked minimally (or wholly un-)seasoned and served with a variety of sauces and seasonings to be sampled independently aims to bring out and emphasize each component's unique qualities. A palate cleanser (usually a weak wine infused with a citrus fruit's juice) is sipped in between. This also had/has levels religious function; the traditional condiments in this meal (most of which aren't represented here) are connected to major deities of the Burri pantheon, and the diversity and abundance of the meal is recognized as the gods' many gifts made manifest (and some of each are left as offerings in a home shrine).

Palo and his family are practitioners of the Faith of the Seven Faced God (a sect of which has spread into the Burri Republic, where it is currently a very significant religious minority) and have been for several generations. So the religious aspects were framed differently in his experience, but have similar functions in representing the great abundance that God provides. (He was also brought up instructed to leave some of the corn sauce Specifically as an offering in the household shrine. This sauce is a staple across cuisines in the Burri sphere and a key offering to Vazhirum, the goddess of maize, patron of the city Titenegal, and functionally the chief agricultural deity of the pantheon. Offerings of the sauce to agricultural Faces is retained as a practice in Burri sphere sects of the Faith).

Anyway Palo mournfully thinks about this delicious seabass meal with his extended family while sitting in an alleyway with Tigran and choking down unseasoned boiled pigeon (that the guy literally caught by hand) with pounded yam, not a condiment in sight.

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Brakul was raised in a low cattle-wealth clan in the West Rivers region of the Highlands. He lived in the Urbin river valley, which is one of the largest and most agriculturally fruitful (though his clan itself was located upland and could not grow a lot of this themselves). The West Rivers Hill Tribes have an amicable trade relationship with the province of Ephennos, so he had a fair deal of exposure to Wardi trade goods, but this didn't affect his diet much. He grew up eating an everyday diet consisting of the core staples of barley + amaranth + magah + LOTS of dairy products, in addition to some hunted/fished meat and foraged wild plants.

Crayfish was his favorite food growing up. He lived in immediate proximity to several creeks, so freshwater food (crayfish, trout, mussels, frogs) could be a pretty major portion of his diet during the summers. On some occasions, crayfish and mussels would be boiled to make a broth with chilis and onions, then served in a soup with yogurt, barley, butter, fennel, and magah. This was his absolute favorite meal and he particularly liked the crayfish themselves (his brother didn't, so would trade his crayfish for Brakul's mussels).

Living in a coastal city and being introduced to the concept of Crabs and Lobsters (it's like a crayfish but HUGE) later in life was lifechanging. Crab meat is now his absolute favorite food. He sometimes attempts to recreate the crayfish boil dish with crab (he does a pretty solid job but the yogurt always ends up curdled). He's also a fan of a dish where a softshell crab is fried and then coated with a concentrated sticky sweet peledyo sauce.

He's pretty enthusiastic about trying new foods (and benefited tremendously from having a rich boyfriend who can facilitate this) and has decided that anara is the best game the lowlands has to offer. Their tails are VERY rich, tender, and fatty, very good roasted with a sweet+spicy sauce. He first experienced this at the wedding of one of Janeys' cousins and now insists on eating it regularly/pursuing anara on hunts over more favored game like gazelle and nechoi. There's also a greater variety of alcoholic beverages available, and he's become fond of the a very decadent form of date wine sweetened with anuje and imported cardamom.

He also likes + misses a dish composed of feydhi (highlands khait) fat which is rendered, mashed with dried berries and a little honey, left out in the snow to chill solid, and then sliced and eaten on bread. This is a staple in midwinter feasts and a special treat. Its considered an obligation for each tribe's chief clan to fatten some of their khait on grain and then provide their fat to their constituents for this feast (the ability to Afford to give this gift effectively demonstrates + reinforced their power). Young children and pregnant women get first dibs/the biggest helpings (regarded as good for a growing body, helps pack fat on for the lean season) so there's a childhood nostalgia aspect to it. It's something he would look forward to every year.

He hasn't had any access to this dish whatsoever in South Wardin, as khait are virtually never slaughtered except as an act of desperation (culturally considered to be poor meat in general) and the Coldest winter temperatures average in the high 40s F (sub-freezing temperatures and snow Happen but not predictably or regularly) which is not adequate to cool fat to the desired consistency. This is particularly torturous because feydhi are actually quite common in South Wardin as pack animals and have a tendency to get VERY fat on the seasonal abundance of grass (being an 'easy keeper' landrace adapted to having nutritional needs met by much poorer mountain forage). His khait She-Bites is a feydhi and was sold to him cheap (on account of behavioral issues), he was originally intending to have her butchered but got too attached.

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Etsushir grew up in a clanless Jazaiti community, in a coastal fishing town northeast from the city of Wardin proper. The existence of clanless Jazait mingling with Wardi populations long predates Imperial Wardin as an entity, but these communities have grown substantially in the past two centuries, in large part due to heavy encroachment on Jazaiti fishing territory causing major subsistence issues and driving many people to look for employment to sustain themselves. They are very marginalized ethnic minorities and tend to form distinct sub-communities amid their Wardi counterparts, but the decentralized structure of Jazait society and certain practices (like polyandrous marriage and minimization of reproductive females in any given family) cannot be fully retained in these settings (both on the levels of pure logistics and a result of disenfranchisement). As such, these groups tend to experience a degree of 'Wardinization', which affects all aspects of life, and in this case The Food.

Etsushir would have grown up in large part eating a typical coastal South Wardi diet (lots of maize porridges, lentils, and fish), in addition to exploiting uncultivated resources that his human Wardi counterparts physically cannot (certain grasses especially) or culturally Do not (only a couple seaweeds are considered good eating).

His favorite food is part of the Fusion Cuisine found in some of these partly Wardinized Jazaiti communities. It's a dish consisting of several kinds of seaweed mixed with hominy and raw tuna that has all been marinated in vinegar peledyo. His family and wider community have adopted the Faith Of The Seven Faced God and practice what would be considered a syncretic folk-variant. The Jazaiti Moonfather (who created tuna and sometimes takes the form of one) is associated with the Face Mitlamache, and tuna is often eaten in place of beef during the Mitlamache-focused maize planting festival. His family getting to catch, keep, and eat their own tuna would have been a special occasion largely reserved for these celebrations.

(The strictly Jazaiti version of this dish uses seaweed and fish in addition to the young shoots of a type of grass, all cured in nuji (VERY bitter native citrus, not commonly eaten by humans) juice. Elowey and human chemical sense of taste overlaps considerably, but elowey can digest a wider range of plant matter and have a substantially more complex experience with bitter tastes, a lot of foods from elowey cuisines are distastefully bitter to human palates)

He also has the genes for lactase persistence (VERY rare in the Jazait population, as well as the broader White Sea elowey population group). He doesn't like yogurt and finds adults drinking milk to be mildly disturbing, but is very fond of cheese. He prefers cowsmilk cheeses over the slightly more common and accessible horsemilk, and likes a fairly common Wardi cheese dish (a soft cowsmilk cheese cooked in a pepper/onion sauce and eaten atop grits).

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Faiza (and every other character from here on) is in the noble class and grew up eating a substantially more varied, calorie rich, and meat heavy diet than the average person. This doesn't mean that every meal is Very Fancy, they're still ultimately reliant on most of the same basic staples as the lower classes, but their everyday diet includes More of these staples at once, with more variety, more spices, and a much more regular addition of meat.

The Haidamanes are all multiethnic (most relevant here is that their father was Titen on his mother's side and South Wardi on his father's), they're squarely South Wardi in terms of cultural identity but were brought up eating some Titen cuisine on a more than incidental basis. Faiza was the only one of her siblings that was notably into this, she thinks the noodles are fun. A favorite standby would be a dish made with very thick mung bean noodles, chickpeas, pre-roasted horse udder, cabbage, and onion, which is all fried together in fermented corn sauce and garlic-olive oil.

Faiza really likes salutachin dog meat, most commonly eaten in a dish where it is roasted with a rub of olive oil, garlic, date wine, and smoked yamnina reyla. Salutachin is a dog breed specifically raised for meat and is a South-Wardi specific practice in the present day (livestock dog types fed on plant matter used to be more common across the region. Burri influence contributed to the notion (already extant in some Wardi groups) that ANY form of dog meat is unclean, and the practice is extinct or rare in most other parts).

This is kind of a luxury food and regarded as a delicacy. It's of critical importance that salutachin stock is kept entirely 'pure' and prevented from breeding with ANY other dogs, and fattened on exclusively vegetarian diets, generally maize and yams (this partly stems from wider dietary taboos surrounding consumption of predators, but largely just improves the taste of the meat). They can be more costly to maintain than other types of livestock (which will help feed themselves via grazing) or working dogs (which aren't supposed to be eaten and thus can be fed on any number of scraps). As such, it tends to be fairly expensive and reserved for special occasions, and is a mainstay at South Wardi wedding feasts.

Faiza has a notable childhood memory of being at her uncle's wedding, feeding a scrap of salutachin to one of the hunting dogs, and experiencing a kind of sick, nervous thrill at compelling a good animal to cannibalism. She interacts with food taboos/taboos in general more skeptically than average and experiences temptations to violate them, though she's never actually gone through with it on the food level. She doesn't ultimately disagree with any of them though, just interprets their necessity through her proto-materialist philosophical background instead of the strictly spiritual angle. She's very fixated with the stories of Godsmouth civilians starving to death in the siege resorting to eating feral dogs (which is VERY taboo) that had themselves eaten human corpses (thus this is like, the worst thing you could possibly eat short of an actual human corpse). She's kind of fascinated with cannibalism in general.

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Hibrides is from the city/province Erubinnos and predominantly of Yuroma-Wardi ethnicity. This refers to descendents of a Yuroma ethnic group first arrived as refugees several centuries prior, and is considered an Imperial Wardi subculture in the present day (practicing the state religion and fully integrated into the broader cultural sphere, but retaining a sub-identity).

Erubinnos has a near-equivalent makeup of South Wardi and Yuroma-Wardi inhabitants and its regional cuisine is influenced by both groups. (Some distinctive Yuroma elements are the regular consumption of raw fish, heavy specialization into smoked and cured meats (as a culinary form rather than a practicality), use of squid ink, and favoring of rice (which was first brought here by Yuroma migrants)). So Hibrides spent her first 15 years of life eating a bougie version of this diet before being moved to the province of Wardin for marriage.

She's a Very picky eater and has a lot of dislikes- she doesn't like most whitefish, most freshwater fish in general, tuna (doesn't actually dislike the taste but found a very big worm in her tuna once and it put her off forever), most red meats (she particularly doesn't like horsemeat, she got attached to a childhood pet horse to the culturally rare point of not wanting to eat Any horse meat altogether), eggplant, most lentils, or raw tomatoes. And to top it off she has a lower than average heat tolerance. So when she has a choice in the matter she tends to go for oily fish, fowl, rabbit and hares, and some reptiles like crocodile + turtles + certain snakes.

One of her favorite meals is an Erubinnos-specific dish where sardines (or other oily baitfish) are marinated in a sauce made with vinegar-peledyo, olive oil, and a sauce of mashed tomato + garlic + more olive oil, and eaten raw. This exact preparation with raw fish is uncommon in the city+province of Wardin, but she has the benefit of living in a household with a cook on hire and requests it very frequently. It reminds her of home.

She also used to love turtle meat (a type of softshell turtle is a delicacy here, usually eaten in soup). The Erubinnos regional turtle soup is kind of an outlier among Imperial Wardi cuisine in being very delicately flavored (a thin broth made with a dry wine, onions, fennel, rice, and usually ginger (imported)). She actually prefers the South Wardi variant (which is a heartier stew with heavy seasoning, eaten over grits).

She has had intense cravings for turtle during each pregnancy (which is interpreted as a bit of a concern- most river-based foods are thought to support a healthy pregnancy, but Cravings indicate that the womb is excessively 'hot/dry' and at greater risk of miscarriage). She ended up liking turtle a lot less after the first pregnancy when the cravings ended, and shifted her reptile soup focus to a species of python with a similar tasting (but less luxuriously fatty) meat. The return of the turtle cravings was one of her first indicators that she was pregnant a third time, and she doesn't stand a goddamn chance of getting any turtle meat in the 6th year of the drought.

She's pretty fond of a lot of game meat in general. Her favorite uncle was an avid hunter and made a point of bringing back gamebirds (and their eggs and feathers) for her, so she has a nostalgic fondness for dishes with duck, goose, ibis, pheasants, and the like. Hunting is also one of the diminishingly rare things she enjoys doing with her bitch husband and she's found that actually participating (granted, just in the form of watching and yelling directions) makes eating it afterwords more satisfying.

She'll only eat the nechoi they kill smoked and cured though, it tastes repulsive to her otherwise (in no small part due to this tending to be big boar nechoi killed in a prolonged, somewhat foolhardy solo struggle and is thus pumped with testosterone and fear hormones). This meat is stripped of (horrid tasting) fat, salted, slow-smoked, and usually eaten in soups.

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Janeys is also somewhat of a picky eater, in his case he dislikes almost any animal product that comes out of the water (with a particular disdain for shellfish and crustaceans), and consciously frames it as such- crocodile, duck, and goose is an exception because they don't live in the water permanently, turtle is on thin fucking ice. He has to make an exception for peledyo because it's in just about everything and he can't honestly say he dislikes it.

His favorite meat is beef. He and his siblings grew up eating more beef products than average (even for nobility) due to the agricultural aspect of their wealth being rooted in ownership of cattle herds (which are actually reared, managed, and slaughtered by peasants). The Haidamane family is considered 'new money' landed nobility (opposed to established, multi-century old landowning families with wealth based in crop agriculture)- the vast majority of their wealth is mercantile, with a small facet being the 'ownership' of mostly uncultivated scrubland and the cattle grazed there. Janeys is now in charge of the latter aspect after being quietly cut out of his actual intended inheritance, so this humiliation has a fringe benefit of having plenty of beef around, AND he hasn't quite gotten sick of it yet.

Cattle are very sacred animals and the Only sacred livestock. Sacred status doesn't entail not being eaten by any means, but it does entail a lot of emotional+spiritual investment in them as livestock and ritual surrounding their rearing and consumption. Janeys has also always been a little jealous that both of his sisters are in the priesthood, and his (ultimately very distant) involvement in the management of these animals (some of whom are donated to temple sacrificial stock herds) feels like a slice of that, getting to eat their meat on a relatively regular basis is psychologically gratifying in ways beyond just liking the food.

His favorite cut is actually the oxtail above anything else. This would mostly be eaten in a (notably bougie) South Wardi oxtail soup (tomato and olive oil sauce, wine, beef broth, yamnina reyla, saffron, hominy, onions, garlic, cabbage). He also is very fond of sweetbreads, and the liver. The liver is culturally considered the best part of the cow and its consumption is ceremonially restricted- half of the liver Has to be offered in sacrifice for each cow slaughtered (a sort of thanks-giving and payment for the cattle's death), and the other half is reserved for the patriarch who owns the cattle, which can be distributed as he chooses. As of his father's death, Janeys is now technically the patriarch of his family so like, great news for him.

There are no such restrictions on the livers of other regularly consumed animals, and he does like horse liver too. Usually takes it in sausage form (the favored, high quality type here is minced liver mixed with the tender ground meat of the tail, cumin seed, and thyme, cased in caul fat).

He's notably fond of sweet foods- major examples available are roasted figs with cheese, figs or dates stuffed with nuts, sticky pine nut and/or pistachio 'candy' made with anuje, candied figs/dates/kolis/nara. One variety of cornbread is stuffed with pine nut + camiche + pistachio, fried, and glazed with anuje. A type of native melon (similar consistency to a watermelon but VERY mildly sweet, tastes more like a cucumber) is used to make a cold soup with mint + thyme, he takes it sweetened with anuje. He also tried grilled honeycomb with honey + larvae while in the southern-central Highlands and was shocked that he liked it (given that insects are not only famine food but Peasant famine food).

In relation to this, he eats a lot of fruit when it's in season. His favorite fruits are figs and pomegranates. These aren't accessible year round and he doesn't particularly like them dried on their own, so it's something to look forward to every year. Kolis has a very long fruiting season and he has one growing on his balcony for personal use.

He likes sweet wines (typically served strong, rather than watered down like how most wine is consumed on a regular basis) but is a lightweight and noted sloppy drunk. He dilutes it with rosewater on occasions where he's exhibiting a reasonable degree of self control.

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Couya isn't a terribly picky eater (she will eat just about anything) but has strong proclivities towards very simple comfort foods and doesn't like meat all that much, to the point of her chosen diet being regarded as spartan and peasant-esque. A big part of her personality is thinking of most of her fellow nobility as Pussies and making a bit of a show about how much she doesn't mind discomfort and relative non-luxury, which extends to her food tastes. (though to be clear, this is mostly a prolonged act of 'fuck you mom/brother/most of my extended family'. If she had to spend a month living as an actual peasant she would DIE).

This is also motivated in part by the fact that her childhood home life was legitimately horrendous and a whole lot of Really Nice Foods and Delicacies are associated with bad memories for her (particularly the Titen noodle cuisine that Faiza is very fond of, since that's the only element she's ONLY experienced in that home and nowhere else.) Switching most of her diet to basics more characteristic of the lower mercantile class (and eating very little meat outside of holidays and ceremonies) is kind of an escape from that.

She doesn't really like sitting down for meals and favors 'husk meals', which is a subclass of foods built around being wrapped and cooked in corn husk, where they will hold a semi-solid shape and can be eaten on the go. There's a tremendous variety of husk meals, this is the equivalent of The Sandwich in terms of its utility and variability. They're usually composed of a seasoned grain or starch, often stuffed with vegetables/cheeses/egg/meats. Some variants resemble a sausage (without casing) where equal parts of a finely chopped/ground meat is mixed with grain and other ingredients and cooked in the husk. These meat variants most often use meat from the head (as well as eyes, tongue, and brain, and leftover scraps) to extend a valuable slaughtered carcass; head-husk is specifically regarded as a peasant food in this capacity.

Her favorite husk meal variant is one made with seasoned crushed rice stuffed with onions, cabbage, and soft cheese. Rice is her favorite grain, but its not The Most accessible where she lives (the province of Wardin is the driest and has a very small rice output) so she's having variants with maize dough/grits instead on most occasions. She also loves okra (a landrace of which can be grown here, though is a fairly delicate and non-staple crop), which is often eaten with other vegetables and hominy grits (she usually takes this as a husk meal too).

[kitkat13001]

hi hii!! i love your christmas idea so i was hoping to get megumi + 15 ( clumsily-made gingerbread houses) thank you so much in advance !!!!

ꨄ︎ 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚖𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚢-𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚜 | 𝚖. 𝚏𝚞𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚛𝚘

“hey, megumi, i—what’s that?” you hang off the doorway, peering over megumi's shoulder where he’s sitting at his desk. he glances over to where you’re looking as he stands to greet you, immediately falling into your arms. 

“somethin’ gojo-sensei left,” he says, wrinkling his nose. “gingerbread house kits. he’s a sap for christmas stuff, said it would be fun for us to do to get into the ‘christmas spirit’.”

“that’s so cute!” you beam, disentangling yourself from megumi’s arms to go admire the little cardboard boxes. there’s an adorable little picture of a gingerbread house on the front, decorated to perfection with frosting and candy and a little gingerbread couple out front. “yuuji and nobara would love this!”

“or,” megumi says, leaning heavy against you like a big dog seeking affection, “we could just stay here and do it together.”

you giggle, pushing back up against him. “you wanna get me alone so bad huh?”

“what’s wrong with me wanting to spend some quality holiday time with my partner, just the two of us?”

“nothing,” you reply, grinning up at him. “absolutely nothing.”

he clears his desk as you pry open the boxes, laying out the cookie kits and organizing them. 

it ends up being harder than you thought, and you end up sitting across from megumi with matching puzzled expressions and frosting all over your hands (and his poor desk). 

it seems your gingerbread house lacks any semblance of structural integrity, and you frown down at the collapsed little house. the poor gingerbread people. 

megumi gives a little huff and you look up to see a crease between his brows. 

“what?”

“you’ve got…” he trails off, pink in the face, and reaches out to wipe a bit of frosting from your face that you didn’t realize was there. your heart jumps a little at the tenderness in his action. 

“good thing we’re sorcerers and not architects…” megumi frowns down at the mess of gingerbread between you, almost pouting. it makes your smile wider. 

“i don’t care how it comes out, ‘long as i’m doing it with you.”

hihi! thanks sm for the req, this was cute to write 🩷🩷 happy holidays and hope you like it!! - 𝚔𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚢 !

event info

[rin-and-jade]

Gripped by Glue Trap: a Post about Front Stuck & Lock

I get it, there's no such thing as an actual big glue trap with being stuck outside as a system,, but oftentimes its gonna feel that way because whatever was done... that glue won't even struggle one bit, only we do. That frustration is what we all have when switching is not an option.

But do you ever think this glue is defeatable? It latches hard and wears you out the more you try to get out of the situation,, so you might think not.. yet i do! That's what this post is going to be about folks, getting your little bug-self free with my secret trick from another human glue trap ensnared in their house.

But.. what is it actually?

Generally, as a system, we facilitate each other's strengths and weaknesses by switching in and out, as all those parts are not wholly integrated compared to a singlet. And. Uh oh. You're stuck and can't get out? You're trapped!.. that little drop of sap caught your leg and now you couldn't leave, even if you wanted to. Though you still can express to your buddies that you need help or etc. (and, this is called front stuck)

Or sometimes, we can even get stranded away from our pack (as in stress, or anything that worsens internal communication), wondering alone, and stood on a nasty manmade trap that caught you without mercy. This time, you're immobile and out of reach to call for reinforcements (now, this one is called front lock)

Sap? Glue? What's the diff??

To put it simply, being stuck means being unable to get out from the front or surrender the control to another part. While being locked off is the worser version of being stuck because not only you cannot surrender the control, there is barely any stream of communication you can connect to, or nonexistent, head silent and all that.

The only similarity they have is how it greatly impedes the fronter's capability to ease in or out from front,, if not, impossible.

These two also happen for different possible reasons, such as:

↓ Stuck ↓ 

Unfinished tasks

Goal/wants not met yet

Ongoing role duty (for protectors, hosts, etc)

Reluctance handing control/fear of blacking out

Mild stressors (like anxiety)

.. and more

↓ Locked ↓

Dissociation

Fight/flight response

Overwhelm

Bigger stressors

Major life changes

Re-occurring trauma

.. and more

Just a reminder that all systems are different, and these same reasons that causes to be stuck/lock will result in an opposite reaction such as rapid switching or being blurry! This post is mainly for those who experience stuck/lock.

Then, how do i get my leg out?!

I can tell you that, but i have to explain how this ordeal happened in the first place so it'll make sense, bare with me;

You know the parasympathetic (rest) and sympathetic (fight/flight) response, yeah? These two responses flicks on depending when there's safety or presented threats. Now, DMN is a part of the parasympathetic response, the full name is Default Mode Network, which is fully responsible for.. well.. default stuffs such as mind wandering, planning, thinking inwards,, those typical things that happen when you're bored. This is also the reason you why can facilitate better communication with other parts compared to when, let's say, being busy with tasks.

Know it or not, sometimes our mind has to wander a little bit in order to chat with other parts of ourself, and stress snaps us out of that relaxed state in purpose of focusing whats at outside, rather than inside, which where everything system-y lies at. Some do not get affected and still can function as-if, so understand how your system works and use that to the advantage.

How to hack yourself from fight/flight to rest mode again? Via vagus nerve stimulation! Not sure if you ever heard of this word, but the vagus is one part of the cranial nerves that is responsible for the activation of this parasympathetic response..! It's like the oil to the glue, because it hijacks the adhesive properties with something so viscous that it binds to it instead of you!! --

Here are some activities you can do to disable the glue:

Gurgle water, hum, or sing: this is because the vagus is located around your neck, and can be easily stimulated that way.

Watch something: redirecting yourself with a distraction can ease you temporarily, giving time to calm down, which brings you out of the grips of stress.

Listen to music: another way if you don't have anything to watch, even better if you put on soothing, slower songs.

Move around: get those pented up anxiety or restlessness out! movement equals expression, this also activates the vagus nerve.

Breathe deeply: rebalance the vagus by breathing in and out slowly, this nerve is also responsible for your breathing pace too, so giving a little push of balance will create a domino effect for your nerve to work.

Unfocus your eyes: or, another way to do it is to focus more on the peripheral vision rather than the vocal point. This is a way to poke the same nerve's functions, oddly can work as a booster to make yourself slightly dissociated/disconnected which facilitates switches or a general break/distraction.

Solve/asses it: it will be nothing if you do not tackle the thing you are very stressed out about, which can extend how long you'll be stuck,, so use these tips above to regain self control and tackle them with me, or your trusted friends, or even alone after examining what could be done! Talking to someone also helps, even if there's nothing productive being done.

Take it easy and break it down: this one is if you're on a role job and things are being difficult, incase you're overwhelmed, remember to do it step by step, no need to be rash about getting back in first, that time will come as long you focus whats in front.

Remember, fight/flight brings us out from clarity and rational thinking, thanks to our limbic part of the brain who is primed for survival and instincts. Be more gentle with yourself, as you could be more irritable, moody, or resorting to less-safe coping mechanisms, focus on calming down before proceeding the situation.

Takeaway

So, what will you do if you're stuck next time? Don't forget to make a plan to deal this sticky situation, especially for those who are often stuck, this practice will practice your vagus nerve to be less susceptible, turning off because of stress,, giving you a better stress window and tolerance before succumbing once more.... to the good ol' glue.

Lastly, it is possible to be stuck/lock for months or years, which is an indicator of underlying long-term issues that needs to be addressed. If anyone needs some tips for this, ring me on the DMs as these practices rarely work for this type.

Oh, and, what do you guys think? What else i had not mentioned? Do you have anything to discuss with me on this topic? Let's do that! I hope this suffice in helping you tackle the next time problems arise.

Happy straddling lil' ant.

- j

[vaguely-concerned]

so in my world state, the new first talon of the crows is going to be an abomination, whispered to have once returned from the dead, who also ends up married to a mortalitasi. the rumour mill around lucanis is going to have some insane extra levels to it hahaha

(Lucanis doesn't give a shit he's serenely hugging Rook to him and tenderly kissing his temple like "Well, to be fair they're not wrong. If you didn't literally return me to life, you certainly helped me decide it was worth it to live it" while Rye glares into space while hugging him back murmuring "That is so desperately sweet it almost makes up for the professional insult of it all. What do they think I am a palace mortalitasi. Do they think I'd pull a King Markus purely to get laid. I don't know if that's a bigger insult to my professional and personal integrity or my game and I appreciate neither implication. Also an awful thing for people to think about you obviously should I like. try to tell people how dumb this idea is" "Eh don't bother a fearsome reputation is not necessarily a bad thing in this line of work if anything it seems to help that people think killing me 'again' probably wouldn't even do the trick anyway" "You know what, I hadn't considered that but that's a decent point" and then they like kiss about it b/c I'm an awful sap and they're. in love)

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💖 for lancelot gawain and ragnelle ?? <33

Hi, Richie! Am super afraid this prompt ran away from me and also I completely fucked up the Lamorak-Morgause affair and aftermath for the 💫story💫 but it's okay cuz you get GAWAIN TIME.

(Also, I hc that Gawain's sun powers mean that when it becomes wintertime his whole body just shuts down. So it is a combo of SAD and chronic pain.)

Anyways, here u go!!!

Sunlight

Gawain supposed it to be the easiest thing in the world, fighting. He knew he was good at it - accomplished even - knew he craved the head-dizzying rush that derived from it, the wounds, the pride, the iron tang of blood. He much preferred it to lording over all, clad in ermine and silks. It was as an integral part of him as breathing. Certainly, it fizzed through his blood as well as the sun's rays, those amber-honeyed shafts of light that effervesced through his being from dawn till dusk. They hollowed him out until he could no longer bear their excruciating rush.

And then, he'd crumple to the floor as if he were a dirty dish rag, devoid of all sense and purpose.

Catatonia, his mother called it.

Witnesslesness, had been Ag's snarled retort when they'd been naught but adolescents traipsing through the sunlit undergrowth of Orkney's forests.

Yes. Witlessness.

A fine word for it, but, in truth, not exact.

Witlessness didn't take him to his bed for months on end once the skies darkened and winter’s shroud set in. Frail and feeble, he'd stagger about in his chambers back in Camelot as gaunt as a wizened old man. He highly doubted it would've sapped his vigour either. Even his hair did not escape from the loss of sun. Its normal fiery hue turned brittle, whitening to the damage shade as the snows that Orkney endured at that time of year.

And now, here he was. Back home. Back at his family’s castle. Its black, craggy walls loomed above him, a gnarled trunk of a thing. Purple raptor-emblazoned remnants snapped in the bitter wind. An imposing welcome for the first-born son, he thought wryly as he stared up at it, the boat swaying beneath his feet.

His stomach lurched. Not even the steadying warmth of his wife’s hands in his could abate the sickness that leadened his limbs.

Cowardness did not become him. Craven, that's what he was. Doddery.

Yet, at that moment, he could not bring himself to care. Let him be so. Nothing would sustain him so much as sunlight. Not even the odd, delighted tingling that had burrowed itself deep in its belly like a dagger in his side.

Orkney smelled the same as it always did in wintertime - salt and snow, and little else. Seabirds swarmed, eagerly awaiting the glut of first they thought the craft would surely supply.

A thin smile came to Gawain's lips at that. They'd be sorely disappointed.

They docked easily enough, despite the choppiness of the sea. Staring up at the castle, Gawain's stomach flipped. Blood all but evaporated from his body. The clouds, dark and foreboding, coalesce above it into a blob.

Soon it would storm.

He sighed heavily, sagging against the wall of the ship. Lancelot and Ragnelle, standing on either side of him, quickly noticed.

“Are you well?” His wife asked, the sultry smoke of her voice fugging his brain.

He nodded, tight-lipped, in reply. Nausea threatened to make his stomach revolt.

God, he'd not stepped off the boat and he already felt wretched.

“All will be well,” she murmured, running a hand through his hair. Dark eyes shining with barely disguised concern, she tutted softly at the beads of sweat on his forehead. And then, sharply: “Lancelot, grab him, won't you? I don't wish for my husband's doddery limbs to give out the second he gets onshore.”

A bark of laughter issued from Gawain's right. Lancelot's blue gaze shone with merriment, a sunlit sea despite the endless grey. “Of course,” he smoothly replied, gallant and guileless. His Breton accent was mink fur against Gawain's skin. His chest tightened, spasming all the more when Lance duly wrapped a well-muscled arm around his waist. A waft of perfume emanated from him; meadowsweet, if Gawain was not mistaken. “Come now, Gawain. You're blushing like a maid!”

He grumbled, shooting him an evil-eyed stare. His head throbbed. Mouth dry he only croaked, “Awful.”

Lancelot's face lit up. His smile sharpened into a smirk. “I'm awful? That wasn't what you said last night. You begged me to alleviate your needs and I did. What am I, if not a charitable sort, eh?”

With a rather put-upon sigh, Ragnelle interjected, “Perhaps you might continue your teasing once you have given our beloved your aid, good sir knight?”

Duly reprimanded, Lancelot nodded and aided Gawain across the ship and down the gang plank.

Glass embedded itself in his lungs every time he breathed. The air was frigid. Sharp. His legs wavered. Bolts of fire shot up his spine. Stomach lurching from the dreariness of his entire being, the feeling of having water-legs, and the now too-solid ground beneath his feet, Gawain knew he'd have to plead sickness in order to release himself from whatever… celebrations his brothers had planned.

“There we are,” Lancelot murmured, huffing goodnaturedly when Gawain slumped against him. Ragnelle immediately took him into her arms. Her eyes were soft, adoring.

Gawain's heart skipped a beat. The Breton knight, the Lake's Son as the bards called him, grinned knowingly, but did not tease him. He was simply content to admire Ragnelle as she deftly maneuvered Gawain over the rocky beach, lagging behind a little so as to let husband and wife have their peace.

“Does your head still ail you?” His wife said, her eyes tight and searching. Her voice blurred in his ears, while she fuzzed in his rapidly distorting vision.

He swallowed. His throat felt blocked. A wheezed crackle left his lips in lieu of words. Suddenly, as if he were a flower sagging beneath frost, the Hawk of Orkney’s body gave out. Flopped forward.

A panicked shriek rent the air: “Gawain!”

He knew no more.

----------

He did not know how long he’d slept for. Minutes dragged on, became hours. Days dragged onto months.

And the bloody snow remained.

It had been Gareth and Gaheris who had dragged his unconscious body half inside the courtyard. Agravaine and Mordred - as well as a flurry of physicians, lackeys, grooms, and other concerned members of his mother's court - had raced out of the castle, their eyes bulging with concern, their faces pale with fear.

What a welcome indeed!

Orkney’s first-born buckled under the weight of his own bloodline-ordained powers, looking as decrepit as an elder.

His mother would've wept if she'd seen it.

Alas, she had perished.

“By Lamorak's hand,” had been Gaheris’ strangely wooden response once he had enquired why their mother had not been to grace his chamber with her presence. “Decapitated her like a craven.”

‘Well, I and the North Walian had that in common,’ he’d wryly commented to himself, even as his heart panged at the loss of his mother.

His mam.

“The Witch Queen,” many in his uncle’s court sneered beneath their breaths.

“Queen Morgause,” the Orcadians would've said, their faces beaming and their postures proud. They loved her as they had once done King Lot, his father, before he had been ripped away from them, his head cleaved from his neck.

And now, his mother had suffered the same fate. Butchered, like a pig.

That ought not to have been her fate, nor his dad’s.

And those who lauded her death as they had once his dad’s ought to have been ashamed. Although he doubted their bodies even possessed a paltry scrap of it.

What made it worse was that he'd missed her funeral.

The rites were not Christian - would never be, not for any Orcadian who possessed a jot of sense - but were of a more… heathen nature. If his uncle - the man who, if Mordred was to be believed, now offered their mother’s killer sanctuary - ever laid eyes on them then he’d expire on the spot, there was little doubt of that.

No, they’d burned her on a pyre and, once all that had once been flesh was now ashes, scattered her on hills of heather and gorse.

“Prickly things, ay, but she would’ve liked that,” had been Ag’s little joke when he’d visited him in-between council sessions and other such duties. He'd uttered it around a wavering sob, while his dark green eyes were shining with unshed tears. “Mordred suggested it.”

That had surprised Gawain. That his youngest brother, so surly and standoffish towards anybody who did not bear the name Agravaine, had put forth such a sweet-hearted recommendation made Gawain wistful for the past.

He'd toddled around these grounds once, his mother guiding his steps and inquisitiveness with an astuteness that made her all the more formidable. His father, not to be outdone, had taken him under his wing in courtly matters and weaponry as soon as he’d decreed Gawain to be old enough to lift a sword.

And… And when each of his brothers came into his life, born in the bed he now laid in, Gawain had held them after his parents and vowed always to care for them. To keep them safe.

Ag's lisp had meant he could never pronounce Gawain properly, opting instead to call him Gavin. And the rest of the family had quickly caved to the second-born's insistence that ‘Gavin’ was Gawain's name for he knew his brother better than anyone. Of course, Agravaine had only proclaimed that because Gawain had caught him sobbing in the scullery late one night after some older lads had taunted him. Once Gawain had confided that it sounded ‘better’ - and after he'd beaten his younger brother's bullies to a bloody pulp - Agravaine had, in his starry-eyed adoration, taken that as writ to tell others that that was Gawain’s proper name.

Once Gaheris, Gareth, and Mordred had come then, well, they had simply called him Gavin too until Gawain was certain that that was his true name. It had leached into his blood and bones to settle there like a second sun, bright and burning.

Yet… when he'd fled with them and his mother to his court he'd been forced to don the mantle of Gawain again, the King’s favoured nephew and chiefest of knights.

Not Gavin. Never Gavin.

Only the hard chrysalis of Gawain remained, sunbleached and unrecognisable.

He sniffled. Chest constricting under the weight of his own sorrow, he found it difficult to breathe. Sobs tore from his aching, bloody throat. Cold tears sapped what little warmth the furs and blankets had cultivated from him, decimating his already declining body.

When had he become as skeletal as dead leaves? Why was he suddenly weeping for all he’d lost when before he’d left Camelot he had been joyous, nay, exhilarated at the prospect of returning homebound?

With a quiet, weary sigh, he scraped a hand over his face, and moved to the side of the bed. That action brought him his first bout of bee stings, for the pain stung him so sharply that he thought a swarm had set themselves upon him. Trying to ignore the dull pounding in his head as he did, he swung his legs to the side and gripped the bed covers for leverage.

Bent-backed by nostalgia’s shroud, he stood. On doddery feet - pad, wait, pad, wait - he moved towards the fogged window where the scantest amount of light knifed through the grey.

Orkney was replete with memories. If he wallowed in them he might never escape. They dragged him down like a rock around his neck.

Bile scorched his throat once more. He wished it were sunlight. Gold and molten and sweet. He craved its cloying, saccharine warmth the way one would a comfit.

He propped himself against the window with a forlorn sigh, his legs all but giving out. It had been a struggle just to walk across the chambers let alone to get to the window. Needles stabbed his soles. Hollowness left him bereft.

The door squealed open. Gawain did not turn around, content to let the stinging white of the snow that blanketed the ground make his eyes water.

“Still no sun?” Ragnelle's voice was a soft hum in his ears. She seemed amused rather than concerned.

Gawain grunted. Words made his throat bleed.

She laughed softly, the noise ringing through the otherwise silent chamber, before walking into the room and up to him. Draping herself against his back - her lips peppered kisses against his shoulder blades and aching spine - her arms curled around his waist.

“It will come soon,” she assured him, her voice velvet. The spiciness of oud clung to her skin and Gawain let himself relax against her, softening into the wine-coloured silks that clung to the curves of her body.

He sighed. Frowned. The diamond-shine of snow glittered tauntingly outside. His head thumped against the window. Cold crisped against his skin, a dull, innervating shock, one that mimicked the ice-hot throbbing of his joints. “I wish it were here already,” he murmured, ignoring the knife-sharp twinge of a thousand lacerations reopening, as well as the blood coating his throat. “‘M only grateful for you and Lance.”

His wife smirked against his neck, pressing a kiss to his hammering pulse. “Your brothers are eating him alive, love,” she wryly declared. “You're missing all the fun. He and Agravaine have already come to blows once this week.”

Gawain huffed out a laugh. The feeble warmth of his breath iced the windowpane over and - his eyes firmly affixed on the flurries of snow that fluttered down - said, “I heard them shouting. Something about borders, wasn’t it?”

His wife hummed in agreement. Her breath sent a shiver up his spine as she murmured, “Lance is insisting your uncle would only need him to defend them if war broke out. Agravaine accused him of glory-hounding and only wishing to better himself within the eyes of the court. Suffice to say it ended with the two coming to blows.”

“To the surprise of nobody,” Gawain deadpanned, surprising himself.

“Gawain!” Ragnelle nudged him reprimandingly. “Your brother is well within his rights to feel slighted.”

He swallowed down the blood coating his tongue. “Ag's has always been a bit… hot-headed in these matters. Him and Lance are like putting a match to a powder keg. Or like rutting goats.”

“Rutting goats?! Well then, they should try and-”

“Wife!” Gawain broke in, shoulders shaking with laughter. “If they did do as you suggest then I'd never hear the end of it from either of them. No. You'd be better throwing them together in a locked room and having them fight it out.”

Gawain saw Ragnelle pout reflected in the windowpane, a distorted wisp one that lengthened her already imposing height and sanded her body of its plumpness. The windswept dark silk of her hair cascaded over her shoulders and she tossed a strand away from her face irritatedly before heaving a sigh.

He reached down and squeezed her clasped hands. The action left his bones throbbing jaggedly, as though they were smashed glass, yet it was worth it for the small smile that bloomed across her flushed face. “Was your ride satisfactory?”

“Mmm-hmm. Gareth went with me. He’d hoped to bring you back some pears or plums, but none were forthcoming. Luckily-” and here she winked before loosening her grip upon him and moving the rifle through the pouch that was attached to the belt around her thick waist. “-I was able to procure one by… other means.”

“Did you raid the stores? You're as bad as Gaheris for that, you know. My mother-”

“By other means,” she cheerfully cut across him, brandishing a pear. Green and ripe, its speckled skin shone with a golden sheen that Gawain recognised as being magical in nature, and he couldn't help but raise his eyebrows in perplexity. “You conjured a pear?”

His mouth was surely agape, judging by Ragnelle’s answering snort. Putting a finger to her lips, she winked.

“How? Why?”

“You were sad.” She emphasised the word as though he were simple-minded.

“About the weather.” He laughed, brightening a little. The ache in his limbs persisted, as well as the tang of blood within his mouth, but the warmth that radiated his body filled in the cracks the withdrawal of the sun had left behind and left him dizzily breathless. Overwhelmed by this simple act of love, he scrunched his eyes shut in an effort to cease the tears that pricked his eyes and rested his head against the window once more. “Not at the lack of pears upon our table.”

She giggled, tinkling and soft, and Gawain chuckled as she maneuvered him to stare at her. Her dark eyes held a mischievous glimmer, clearly pleased with her sneakiness and the reaction that it had evoked in him, before insistently pressing the pear into his shaking hands and pecking his cool cheek. “They won't be as good as the ones your aunt procured for you, but if they aid in your recovery-”

“He's moping, ‘Nelle.” Lancelot's smooth purr cut across her and Gawain rolled his eyes as the door shut behind him with a bang, his fingers flexing a little around the pear.

“Is he now?” Ragnelle enquired as they turned to face him, an eyebrow raised speculatively. “And here I thought he was ill.”

Clad in a silken blue tabard and crimson trews, Lancelot's stroll was languid as he walked past the raging fire - briefly stopping before it to warm himself and haphazardly chuck another log on it - beholding all the liquidity of lakewater, while his eyes shone with amusement when Gawain shot him a glare. “Oh no. That's a moping Orcadian.”

Gawain swallowed, grimacing. Grief and guilt were deep set in the sunken catacomb where his heart ought to reside and he couldn't help but agree with Lance's assessment as much as it ranked him. He was moping, there was some truth to that, but more to the point he was simply too bogged down to do little else. If he was not constantly allayed by hammer strikes of agony in his limbs, or his head, or his eyes, thanks to there being scant little of the thing he needed to sustain him, then he might've felt fine. Maybe even whole.

But his memories - those sharp-clawed raptors - had scoured him clean the second he'd returned home, until he did not know where Gavin began and Gawain ended. And his body, the very essence of his being, was bare of sun and feeling; naught but an empty- pain-filled husk, dipped low beneath the horizon.

His oesophagus felt as though somebody had assailed it with a wood plane. Running a hand through his shaggy, powder-white hair and loathing its brittleness against his fingers, he shook his head. He prayed to those heathen gods that his uncle so disdained that he looked as disgruntled as he was.

Lancelot sighed as he came upon him, and duly pulled him away from Ragnelle and into his arms. The hard planes of his chest were warm against Gawain’s cheek and a silken shudder shot through him. “Come along, old man.”

Gawain huffed indignantly, scowling.

“He's as old as you!” Ragnelle laughed, smoothing the crease between Gawain's eyebrows. Even that hurt.

“In years, ay, not in looks.”

“Lance, should you antagonise him again, he'll push you out the window.”

He smiled, showing teeth, and made a show of preening. “Then I shall simply swim once I land in the moat, and climb up the walls again.”

A smirk broke across the otherwise storminess of Ragnelle's rosy visage while Gawain grunted disapprovingly in response, and rolled his eyes.

He adored Lance, of course he did and hoped he always would, for he'd embedded himself in his heart as easily as Ragnelle had. Like two entwined ivy strands they’d constrained and constructed him until he’d crumbled under their combined weight and had taken them both up.

His heart might as well have their names emblazoned upon it.

Wife. Lover.

Certainly, his jousting favours often did - although only he and Gareth were privy to that. He did not know why he'd informed his fourth youngest brother about his relationship, only that he had.

Gareth, as was his way, accepted this without scorn or withering comments. He'd made efforts to ingratiate himself with both Ragnelle and Lancelot, despite his other brothers’ contempt for him, and Gawain was endlessly grateful for that.

But there were sometimes where he wished that the Knight of the Lake would cease his portentousness and this was one of them.

‘Dare I say it, but Agravaine’s furore does have a certain point.’

All his strength - what little remained, anyway - rapidly ebbed away. Conversing would soon become a chore. Blood lingered on his tongue as he spoke, “What want?”

“A walk, my love.” Lancelot replied, his voice honeyed silk, as he flicked a curl of his blonde hair away from his forehead. “With you. Your Goodly Gareth suggested it.”

Gawain pouted. The snow was five hands high, if that, and he could barely summon the strength to change into clothes, let alone go out and feel the icy sting of the wind knife through his body, or the slush of ice soak through his boots. Furthermore, he would have to contend with seeing the gardens his mother had tirelessly cultivated. Hoeing weeds in winter, browning the backs of tanned hands in summer as she pulled up roots, plucking and drying herbs in storehouses, each replete with a thousand different medicinal usages that Gawain’s incinerated brain could barely recall.

She had trained him well and he'd forgotten it in the blink of an eye. His stomach dropped. All that knowledge, gone.

‘Pure folly!’ He could imagine her scathing tone hissing as she jabbed a finger at his chest, her green-grey eyes sharp. ‘It was pure folly to teach you all I knew when you'd discarded it for sword and adulation!’

He swallowed, his throat tightening around a keen.

In lieu of speaking - for that really was quite tiring and his throat could do with a rest - he shook his head, flattening his lips to further illustrate his inherent dislike of the idea.

“Alright,” Lancelot relented, wilting under the fierce glare Gawain graced him with. Exhaling, he unwound himself from Gawain and took up Ragnelle's hand, flinching at her skin's icy chill. “I suppose it's to be us then, ‘Nelle, for our dear Orcadian wolf is choosing to become a recluse.”

Gawain, choosing to ignore the barely healed scabs clotting the back of his throat, growled. Eyes narrowed, he stalked towards Lancelot, his expression one of cold, imposing wrath, and smirked at the surprised grunt that left his lips as Gawain tugged him squarely to his chest. Tilting his face up, Gawain placed a kiss on Lance's soft lips, enjoying the low, husky moan that left his lover's lips.

“Go,” he ordered, the tang of blood on his tongue replaced by Lancelot's saline-sweetness. “Let me mope. I'll be happier for that.”

Lancelot cupped his cheek. His hand was warm and smelled faintly of leather as he stroked the sharp line of his cheekbone with his thumb. They stayed like that for a few contented moments, nothing more than the sound of their chests rising and falling in sync echoing around the room, before Ragnelle murmured, “Come along, Lancelot. I want to see the flower gardens.”

At once, he snorted and stepped away from Gawain to affix her witch a mock-glare. “You wish to purloin them for your ointments, you mean.”

She shrugged lackadaisically. “I have to take advantage of my mother-in-law’s lovely gardens, or what's the point? Nobody else will.”

Gawain bowed his head, fiddling distractedly with the collar of his fur-lined dressing gown. His guts twisted. Red-hot shame lanced him in all directions and he dearly hoped that they reasoned his silence was due to the agony that weighed upon his body and not his heart.

Squeezing his hand, she murmured, “And you - rest! Don’t hobble about like a fool. You're aching again, aren't you? I thought as much. Now, into bed with you, or must I chivvy you about like a hen?”

Gawain barked out a laugh. Did she notice how much effort it took for him to remain upright? His spine burned from it, his limbs shook violently. Had she even noticed he was sagging? “No. I’m perfectly capable.”

‘Besides,’ he thought, his heart clenching. ‘I have to watch you both. I need to feel like I’m there somehow.’

Ragnelle’s dark eyes seared him, raking up and down his body as if inspecting some buttery panacea that would aid the world of all its ills. Gawain’s heart hammered in his chest, and he only exhaled once she'd tilted her head and pronounced, “If you're certain. Although if I return to find you've collapsed because of your pride then I will not be so pleased,” before, without further ado, tugging Lancelot out of the chamber and down the hall.

Their footsteps echoed off the walls, each growing fainter than the last.

Gawain breathed raggedly, collapsing against the wall, his aching legs all but giving out. Relief warred with sorrow in his chest.

The worst of it was he wished to be with them, but he did not want to be.

He would only be maudlin, inward. Poor company, as Gareth had teased him for being so many times before. “To know when winter's coming, brother, we need only look at your face,” had been his playful words the morning after they'd arrived hither and Gawain had been roused to consciousness.

With a pained grunt he steadied himself about as well as he could and waited until he heard their voices - loud, always joyful, and muffled by the windows - shattering the tranquility of the snow-drenched vistas. Feasting his gaze on Ragnelle's tall, plump form, he grinned. Her hair shone, crow-black against the white wounds of the clouds and snow-covered grounds, while her chubby cheeks grew flushed from the cold. Her smile was wide and infectious as she pointed, using the pair of shears she held in her gloved hand, to one of the plants on the fenceline opposite the rose trellis that stood beneath his window. Said plant was utterly festooned with pinkish-rued hued bulbs of rosehips.

They'd be sweet now they'd been through a frost, he knew that much. His mam used to brew them in tea. Their sour tang was redolent on his tongue throughout most of winter, when the skies were muddied and the land icy.

Lancelot, lithe and compact, stood beside her clad in a thick woolen cloak, with a wooden basket perched precariously on his arm, watching as she worked. The tan of his complexion and the nosiness of his cheeks drew Gawain’s eye to him, and he took a few moments to admire him, drinking the knight in until his form blurred.

Exhaustion soon bogged him down, mired him in its muck.

Satisfied that the two were enjoying themselves, he staggered back to bed and tumbled into a fitful sleep.

----------

Thump-thump-thump. Thump.

Gawain shot up, the covers pooling around his waist. Eyes bulging in fear he clutched the handle of the dagger beneath his pillow, a shaky breath leaving his lips. The coolness of the leather-wrapped handle against his palm comforted him. Each jewel was smooth against the skin of his thumb as he brushed them.

His father had bestowed it upon him the night before he left to battle his half-brother-in-law. “King Arthur, that mightiest of men!” he'd crowed as he'd placed a broad hand on Gawain's slight shoulder. “I'll dispatch him soon enough and you can return home, aye? Take care of your brothers and mother for me, Gavin.”

Ears ringing with his father's last words, he swallowed, rubbing at his throat. The taste of blood had lessened, replaced by a noxious sourness that made him grimace. His heart hammered in his chest while his sleeping clothes stuck to him, stinking sourly of perspiration. His father’s dark eyes faded away, replaced by the gloom of dusk. Still, the bruising purple-black of it seared his eyes as well as leaving his head hazy, a whirling dervish of thoughts and sensations that clamoured together like the pounding of a war drum.

The room was icy. The fire had long since burnt out, and he shivered, his teeth chattering as the cold scythed through him.

Goosebumps prickled his skin and he rubbed at his bony wrists in an effort to infuse them with warmth.

Alas, none was particularly forthcoming.

Thump-thump-thump.

And then a bark of laughter.

He frowned, his eyes scanning around the room.

The noise was muffled a little, but unmistakable. It mimicked the frantic thump of his heartbeat, that discombobulated ring, and he bolted upright, the dagger still in his white-knuckled grip. Slowly, the ringing in his ears receded and, blinking rapidly, his eyes adjusting to the lack of light, his mind slowly turned.

Lancelot and Ragnelle were still not back yet. And that laughter…

That sounded awfully like Lance’s warm chuckle.

Thump-thump-thump rang out again slower this time, more tentative, as though whoever had done it had been rebuked.

Without a second thought, he shambled to the window, clutching at the bedframe and posts for support, and, after a small yelp left his lips, blinked in astonishment.

There, standing atop the - admittedly shaky - rose trellis, was Lancelot and, sitting atop his shoulders, lay Ragnelle, her arm outstretched and her hand curled into a fist in order to knock against the windowpane once again. Gawain's eyes widened.

Both wore bright, giddy grins that made their faces glow even in the rapidly approaching darkness, while Lancelot showed no apparent signs of difficulty holding Ragnelle. In fact, with his chest puffed out and his golden hair gently tousled from her fingers, he looked as beautiful as he had ever been in that moment. Certainly, there was a rugged air about him that he otherwise lacked in the close confines of Gawain’s uncle’s court, and he couldn't help but laugh.

His wife waved at him, her eyes sparkling. Her dark hair was tangled about her ruddy face while her skirt was rucked over her legs in an effort to not encumber Lance. Throaty laughter spilled from her lips as Lancelot said something to her, his lips moving rapidly, and Gawain’s chest loosened.

Slowly, he took a breath. His pulse beat against his ribcage furiously as he pushed the window open - being careful to ensure that he did not hit them - and said, “What are you doing?”

“Climbing!” Came his wife’s high-pitched response, the word shot through with a childish elation. “You wouldn't come with us, so we thought we'd surprise you!”

A lump rose in Gawain's throat as he pressed a band to his heart. “You climbed up my mother's rose trellis for me?” His eyes swung between them, and a burst of laughter left his lips as he shook his head. “Fools,” he whispered, voice raw.

“It's rather sturdy, actually," Lancelot smugly declared, grinning up at him. Hands otherwise occupied with being wrapped around Ragnelle's ankles, he opted instead to wink at Gawain. “Besides, ‘Nelle insisted upon it.”

He should've been fuming at this degradation of his mother's garden - and he surely would be once he'd regained a grip on his senses - yet, at that second, Gawain pressed a finger to his smiling lips and murmured, “Did you?”

Ragnelle's smile slowly grew until she positively beamed.

“The pear was enough, my love,” he murmured, his voice rich with emotion. A mad tingling beset his limbs that had little to do with agony, while the fullness in his heart hurt. He was fairly sure that his cheeks too ached from smiling and Gawain laughed when Ragnelle lopped her arms around his neck and kissed him firmly. Her lips were soft, hungry, and she laughed against his lips. His cheeks flooded with heat as she moaned, losing herself in him, and Gawain felt a stab of inadequacy both at the fact that his lips were chapped and at his state.

Yet each of her kisses scorched that feeling away, cleansing him of all his pity. Something warm settled in his chest, a sunlight-shroud softened the tension in his shoulders and back, and he sighed at the small reprieve her kisses gave him. Pain no longer lingered in his limbs. The fog in his mind slowly lessened, although none of it abated entirely.

Gently he cupped her cheek and deepened the kiss. Tears glimmered on her cheeks and he swiped them away, even as her breath ghosted across his lips. She tasted of plums, sweet and juicy, a mouthwatering nectar that reinvigorated him, and he plundered her lips happily until they flew apart, bruise-lipped and light-headed.

“Do you feel any better?” She queried after a few moments of silence.

Dazed, Gawain could do little more than nod. He watched then as Ragnelle clambered down off Lancelot's shoulders and then he clambered onto hers.

After ensuring that he was seated securely, she lifted him to the window, bouncing on her toes a little as she did.

Crow’s feet were the first thing Gawain noted upon his lover's face. Etched onto his face, they deepened as his smile became broader, adding to his beauty as he leaned forward and spoke in a low, hushed tone that, Gawain suspected, Lancelot normally only reserved for charming Aunt Guinevere, “Ahh, what a handsome sort I see. As lovely as any tender-hearted maiden.”

Gawain chuckled. “I told you such things in confidence, my love.”

“But how sweet it is to know that you'd wish to be my wife if you could be!” His eyes twinkled in the first creamy rays of moonlight and Gawain snorted again, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Awful,” he reprimanded without a hint of bite, before tugging him in for a kiss.

Lancelot squeaked against his lips, his hands flying up to Gawain's chest. Below them the trellis squeaked a little and Ragnelle’s laughter came, rich and sultry, as close as the air before a thunderstorm.

Salinity was thick on Lancelot's lips and Gawain drank it down all too readily. Where Ragnelle had been carefully controlled hunger, the skin of a plum yielding beneath teeth, Lancelot was desperate and whiny, all teeth and tongue and saliva. It was strange in a way, seeing him lose composure, this most peacockish of knights, yet the sight made a prickle of pride curl in Gawain's gut.

Here he was, mewling like a kitten! Du Lac the Lover courtiers called him, and that wasn't half false. Du Lac the Desperate had a ring of truth to it.

Gawain tugged him closer, cupping the back of his neck. Lancelot uttered something between a sob and a moan as his hands splayed against Gawain's chest and Gawain shuddered joyously at the syrupy cloy that infused his blood.

It was not sunlight but, nonetheless, it eased the grief and pain that suffused his very being.

Once they drew apart Lancelot whined softly, his eyes dark. Both their chests heaved for air. The ice of it caught the back of Gawain’s throat and made him double over in a bout of hacking coughs, while Lancelot wrapped his arms around his waist and shivered, looking akin to a frightened street urchin before he jumped up, horsed himself over the window ledge, and back into the bedchamber.

“Silly man,” he admonished, before, without even breaking a sweat, he aided Ragnelle up. “Come, let's get you to bed. There's snow in the air again, you can taste it.”

Gawain, far too tired to argue, willingly let himself be led back to bed. The pear still lay there, green as grass and shining in the moonlight, and he happily munched on it, gazing at his lover and his wife as they set about closing the window and the velvet drapes, banking up the fire, and aiding each other in divesting themselves of their clothing.

Once they had changed into nightgowns, they snuggled together. Eyes heavy, Gawain let himself be pulled back into slumber’s arms.

When the sun came he would greet it the way he would a long-lost friend, and, once the snow receded, he would travel back to his uncle’s court and avenge his mother’s death, for the sun would imbue his wrath with flame and fury.

Let that North Walian cur run. Let him limp for sanctuary in Logres!

His head would be snicked off his shoulders in a matter of months.

But, for now, he had his wife and lover. That was enough.

[arrowfortea-moved]

your integrity makes me seem small, you paint dreamscapes on the wall (da:i solavellan oneshot)

basically: post-haven pining from a touch-starved grouchily-in-denial solas. plus fade dreamscape stuff. plus "uh-oh is the anchor brainwashing her" anxiety, plus "i do not comprehend mortal's emotions" anxiety. rating: a thirsty T (16+) words: 5.1k (complete, oneshot) content warnings: none! spoiler-free for veilguard; it's written with theories circa da: i in mind.

"Can I shape the clouds?" she asks, drumming her fingers against her clavicle. "I can only change whether they’re... there." "That is a question I cannot answer," he replies, pulling the Anchor closer. "The limits of your will are yours to test, not mine to declare." As Elanna returns to her musing, Solas allows the leash of his self-control some slack. The verdant flickers beneath her skin disappear; the skin of her palm pales to a slake-lime white. Rather than a dagger-slit of a wound, the Anchor is the Breach, writ small. Rendered in sap green, pooling paler over time. The scent of its magic roils to a stench. Fen’harel’s magic, Solas’ magic, his magic, unstable and spoilt by its suspension in impurity.

☁️ read on ao3, or ↓

—

Magic does that. It wastes you away. Once it grips you by the ear, the real world gets quieter and quieter, until you can hardly hear it at all.                —Deathless, Catherynne M. Valente

—

Love has always sat in Solas wrong. Perhaps such was Mythal’s design—she could've bid his heart to spike its interior, and fit only her shape.

(Or he could've. He knows that.)

Elanna Lavellan is a quick-footed, narrow-boned waifish imitation of an elven woman, and Solas does not pay her any particular mind. Which must be how she managed to leap through the labyrinthine, trap-laden path to his heart, and slip in without his noticing. 

Now that he has noticed, it is only a matter of time before she must carve into one of them if she is to survive, and he suspects her endless questions are simply her determining where the knife should go; she never asks him the same question twice, she leaves implications for him to latch onto, her eyes map his face to measure his reaction to words, touches, silences. During their conversations, a dark, desirous something eventually begins to move around in his chest, and it’s her.

It must be. Elanna—Inquisitor Lavellan, he reminds himself—is adjusting in her hiding spot, trying to get comfortable, which she can’t, and trying to distract him from it, which she can’t. He knows what she's doing; she cannot have asked how to mix a lime suspension for orpiment because she genuinely wanted to know. Some days he wonders if he should let the cursed barbed thing slam shut around her and just see what happens, as he did in Hav—

I am not thinking of Haven.

Solas presses his shoulder against the threshold of her balcony, listening to her ideas about what she wants to do as a ‘Fade-walker’. I’ve’an’virelan, but she’d choke on her tongue before she got two syllables in, so he says nothing, and simply watches her prattle. Watches her check his reaction when she cites concepts he’s mentioned before. Watches her looking for his want, which she will not find; he’s had several millennia of practice in keeping things locked away.

Comparing her eye colour to pond scum helps. Slightly. The Fade pales her eyes for him, but she is still.. her. Appreciative. Imaginative. Gushing with excitement. 

Yapping, it is yapping. 

The Inquisitor yaps, and Solas does not care to listen.

No doubt she finds his nodding and mild noises to be unacceptable responses. She must've expected to see him on his knees by now. Solas, a village-born apostate elf that oversleeps, and the Dalish Herald of Andraste, paradoxically pious, for she is ever so open-minded, especially to the rambling flat-ear. Why would he not want her? 

She’s even been receptive to his delaying her with vagaries! One month ago, he requested ‘time to think’ right after having shoved his tongue down her throat like the starved madman he is; since then, platonic interactions are all they’ve had. Short enough to avoid the unbearable shifting in his chest. Inquisitor Lavellan will cut her deific affection into bite-sized pieces for the old man to chew! Why would he not want it? 

(Because it will lead to trouble. Because she and her affection for him will turn to dust soon enough; ideally the latter before the former. Because she is so beautiful, and he cannot be trusted with her.)

Because he does not trust her.

Not even in the Fade. Inquisitor Lavellan's spirit bristles with emotion no more than fuzz bristles upon a peach. In Arlathan they'd never see or hear a thing she did. She'd be less than a bug. So when that bug had buzzed into his dream, again, he’d insisted on returning to hers instead, because he had to know what her emotions felt like in her own dreams. Now that he knows the Inquisitor's excitement and awe and admiration all scatter across her dreamscape in much the same, dull way, like leaves on flagstone—he could leave.

But she just asked a question. Solas is near-incapable of ignoring those.

“Yes, in theory, I could turn the Frostback Mountains to grassland.” He clamps down on his bemusement; a hint of it may send her tumbling her off the balcony. “But if I did, they would soon distort. Unless you encounter spirits that can recall the mountains without snow upon them, if any exist. Otherwise, your memory would have the mountains would soon freeze over, or blur into any other field. Most pertinently, they are miles away; how would you reach them?”

“I’d thought.. by stepping off the edge,” she says, turning away from him. Quick as a flash, she sits up on the balustrade. “Would the air hold me, if I asked? Could I fly?”

“The answer lies in which you have more memories of. Flight, or falling.” 

She looks over her shoulder. “The birds in—”

“Inquisitor, you would shatter every bone in your body.”

A huff, then she turns away again.

He is left to glare at her hair. Her hair, swishing to her waist in waves, golden, and sparkling in the sunlight. In the torturous waking world, Solas cannot help idealising her, as one would a rose in a briar patch. Beautiful. Rare. Still, thorned. Such flickers of fancy are easily stamped out in the Fade. Distorting a shared dream without the other person aware is staunchly against his values, but enforcing reality is a different matter. (Paling her eyes is a harmless protection; if he stares, which he will, she will exploit it.)

Solas muffles his idle romanticism, bidding the Fade to do the same. It does, and the sparkle on Inquisitor Lavellan's hair winks out. 

Waist-length golden waves that merely shine in the sunlight. Solas needs to get out of here. Return to his dream of Skyhold’s library. Pick up ‘Meditations and Odes to Bees’ where he left off. Page 248.

“Say I did shatter every bone in my body,” the Inquisitor chirps, “would my bones follow me home? The shatter would happen.. in the physical realm?”

(On the tip of her tongue, he's sure, was 'the real world’, but she is pandering. This is all pandering.)

“No. It would happen here. And would hurt. If you mean to take my abilities, then take also my advice: do not try it.”

The Inquisitor spins to him and slides herself off of the balustrade; gaze wandering over his face. “But what if I did?” she asks.

Pond scum, he reminds the Fade, and her eyes shift from mossy to mucosal. “If you did, I would be most curious to see where your ambitions take you,” he replies, folding his arms. “Is that why you sought me, Inquisitor? Not to request verdant peaks, but rather, the means to rise above them?” 

“No. Just.. if I'm to ask the Fade’s Frostbacks for grass, despite their clear contentment with snow,” she says, with full sincerity, “I’d rather not offend them by asking poorly.” 

Solas pinches his brow. There were at least four assertions within that he ought to correct. I shall, he decides, tucking his hand back into his arms, tomorrow. It is far easier to condescend to her when they are awake; when the air is suffocating him, he can treat her presence like a roll-neck sweater that refuses to sit properly. In her dream, the air is vaporous, fragrant, as if they were..

The Fade trembles around him. 

I have no reason to believe that Inquisitor Lavellan knows what a bath is. Baths are best taken alone, with a divider around the tub. Two dividers, encircling it. In fact, I would be in the other roo—

“Solas? Hello?”

“Yes,” he says, startling. Shakily, he gestures behind him, then to the balcony. “Do you think you could offend that which belongs to you, as well? This is all yours. Turn it to a garden, and relax here.” 

Inquisitor Lavellan positively beams at him. Like allowing a child to handle a knife made for peeling apples, and agreeing they’re Andruil, he thinks, sagging. Maybe that is why he’s drawn to appease her curiosities; she is Dalish, yet treats him as worth listening to. He's gone too long without appreciation, seizes it, and mistakes gratification to be attraction.

“Cole once said grass doesn't mind anything." She lowers herself until she’s cross-legged. The muscles of her thighs must be—I am not thinking of her thighs. When she presses her hands to the stone, her eyebrows frown and pinch close; two wrist-flicks of gold paint. Her hair falls back over her face, lit like pale silk beneath a chandelier. “I was being too grandiose about what only wanted to grow.”

Solas bites the inside of his cheek. Gratification is the source of his attraction, and she is pandering to him, and her beauty is irrelevant.

After a few moments of her will vibrating the air, the balcony shimmers, shudders, and tints. Green. Green, in splotches. Green upon the stone. A lifetime spent in the wilds and as far as he can tell, Inquisitor Lavellan asked the Fade to shatter an acid flask for her.

“If a reference would be of help..” He flicks his hand. One cow’s bite worth of grass bounces up by her ankle. “I have no doubt you have seen more grass than most in Skyhold, but it is simpler with—”

The balcony bursts to pasture. 

“Ah. Commendable.” The same blades he’d provided, over and over and over. 

Elanna—Inquisitor Lavellan—musses through her personal meadow. “If fresco is an ancient elven art, and the ancient elves could all dream like this.. when thinking of how to affect the Fade.. is it similar to painting?”

“Not in the slightest,” he says, then inclines his head to the grass. “But you grasp the principles well enough.”

The Dalish have not created new vallaslin designs in thousands of years, little wonder she has such a small-mindedness towards art and—‘fresco’, it is tuast, he should’ve told Archivist Banon that, rather than allow Antivans to continue their linguistic massacre. As the Inquisitor languidly splays out, a thought eases over Solas’ grumbling: It was kind of her to ask. 

She is kind, and he is a grouch, avoiding his own feelings. If he does not, they may leak out and she will know he finds her beautiful. Which she is, by any measure; she must already know. Sunlight shimmering over her silver-silk jacket and trousers, hair spread out in verdure with snow-capped mountains beyond her. A few snowflakes drift down—

Fenedhis. Solas is not thinking of Haven. The flakes dissipate. 

“Thank you for helping me come here,” she says, gazing up at the sky. 

Solas stares at his dun-brown slippers, and continues kiting his memories of Haven—which are various, and most do not involve the woman in front of him—through his mind, for no particular reason.

“You would be here regardless,” he says mildly. “I only came when called. And ensured you remained on the balcony, rather than however far the fall might take you. If anyone encourages you otherwise, do inform Spymaster Leliana.”  

The Inquisitor lets out a long, descending whistle. “Thump, crack,” she coos. “I hope I’d wake.”

Little wonder that Cole gets along with her. Maybe she reminds Solas of Cole, and, as she's been flirtatious, he mistakes his platonic affection to be attraction, and that is the source of—no, the source of his attraction is that she is attractive. The denial is too obvious now, Solas can smell it as if it were dried sweat on his upper lip. He wipes it with his shoulder in case he actually has any. 

She shifts to look at him, crushing her soft hair beneath a streak of vallaslin. “How do I know you came? As in, Solas. How do I know you’re not a spirit?”

Skyhold’s wards bar spirits from crossing through the Fade. I would prefer you not ask how I came to this knowledge, nor dwell on the sudden and, I assure you, entirely unrelated lapse in my willingness to entertain inquiries.

“You don’t,” Solas replies. “If I were a spirit, would that trouble you?”

“Not if you told me. I’d only feel sorry you thought you had to trick me into spending time with you. Solas is who I’m forming a memory of right now. I’d rather that he actually.. be here for it.”

He pushes off from the doorway, and sits. “A thoughtful answer, but a misguided one. What do you think a spirit, visiting your dream, would be formed from?”

“The Fade reflects my mind,” she quotes, eyes darting between the few clouds above, “and 'a spirit is a purpose.'”

“Precisely. Say a spirit was shaped into the elf you call Solas, and sits before you now. Is his intent be Solas, or trick the Inquisitor? The former is far more likely, and were he doing the latter, he would not confess it. There would not be much of a trick if he did.”

She nods at the darkening sky. “Whoever you are, you can call me Elanna.”

Then comes the shifting in his chest again. “Elanna. For what it’s worth, you’re welcome to speak with me once we’re awake, and I’ll recount this conversation.” Solas pauses, insists to the Fade that nightfall should warm to dusk, then continues. “For now, you have no way to know who I truly am. It would be best to keep that in mind.”

“Solas. For what it’s worth,” she repeats, rolling onto her side, “what about desire demons?”

He props his right elbow on his knee, then his chin upon that hand. Then, allows her a smile.

“They are much the same,” he says, “their purpose is still not to trick you, least of all because you, Elanna, cannot be possessed. Their purpose is to be your desire. I am not a desire demon. I ask that you not treat me as one. One in my form would say that, unless your desire is a caricature of me, but all the same. Please don’t.”

Another nod. She holds his gaze. The dim light hides her freckles, but June’s marring of her remains stark; her vallaslin curves over her cheekbones, across her forehead, on her chin, the front of her throat.. the ritual must've taken hours. Solas holds the ache in his chest close, away from her thoughtful look. He could have the Fade depict her bare-faced.. but he should not meddle further. (Or have meddled at all.)

When she blinks, her eyes return to their natural green. “Thank you for this,” she says. “I’m fortunate to walk the Fade. I’d rather not misstep. Serannas.” How one addresses a beggar when you are politely declining them. At least the Dalish put it to sincere purpose. Even if they only salvaged serannas after discarding manners entirely.

“Ma neral. My pleasure,” he adds, after her confusion breezes over him. “Was there anything else?”

Elanna looks over. “Yes.” 

Anchor sparking and outstretched, she brushes the hand resting at his side. His eyes flutter closed. She laces their fingers together; he lets her, and lifts his hand for her—just to not go petulantly limp, just to be co-operative, just..  

It has been so long, Elanna. 

Millennia. A month. He’d been desperate to feel her against him, and he still is, for he wants more than the bowstring-nock on her thumb. It was upon his chin when he’d kissed her, and it is upon his finger now; her left thumb is all he’s felt from her beyond her dropping the Anchor into his hands for inspection each week—her left hand is all he’s received from her at all. When she'd kissed him, the peck was so light that, if she ever denies it happened, he'll be easily persuaded.

Her spirit seemed to radiate no feelings into his dream, hence his searching for them in the back of her throat. Yet nothing had crested over him from her. No lust or revelation, no joy. Even now, there is only a light fragrance in the air of.. unexpectant appreciation. Elanna is either far more restrained than he’s given her credit for, or she does not want him. Mortals are not all this delicate, he knows; is he delicate now?

Throughout uthenera he’d shared the Fade with other dreamers, and their dreamscapes all radiated intensity. Chaos. Wonder. Hers renders everything inconsequential. His own irritability dissipates the longer he lingers; even now, his frustrations over their first kiss are reduced to air. 

As she strokes his hand, the Fade supplies him with further sensations, embellishments, constant prickles skimming over him. He tries to stamp it out, he wants to feel her, but it may as well be a hoard of ants, teeming underfoot. 

“Your hand is so soft,” she says, each syllable soft as a petal, floating through the air. “Is this welcome?”  

Solas gently squeezes their laced fingers and lifts his fingertips to meet hers. “Yes, lethallan. I would stay like this. If you’d like.”

“Elanna, lethallin, remember?”

His chest aches. "Elanna."

Elanna navigated through to his heart with her typical grace, and seems unhurt thus far.. Unless she left, and that too occurred without his noticing.

Perhaps she did. Perhaps she isn’t in his heart. Elanna may not love him; he certainly cannot feel it. Contentment is the whiff on the wind. Perhaps it is love for her inside his heart. Solas may love her; he certainly cannot tell. Love is supposed to drench his insides and leave him gasping.

The grass brushes against his knees; fantasising and action must be separated carefully in the Fade, and he had been careless, again. His eyes open to see the ever-attentive Elanna, blissfully unaware. And his hand, held between both of hers, while she lays on her back. He’s kneeling beside her. There is no gust of satisfaction or pleasure, simply the dry pad of her finger, tracing the lines on his palm.

Perhaps he can let his feelings show in dreams. He could keep them to insignificance, as breath is upon glass or a lover or into freezing hands. Elanna once said she was interested in getting to know him. She will never, obviously; but in the Fade, perhaps he can present her a diffusion.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps, perhaps; certainty seems excluded from the stolid flavour profile of Elanna’s dreamscape.

The Anchor sparks against his hand. Solas rests back on his ankles, pulling it with him. 

“May I examine it?” 

Because there is one thing he must be certain of.

“Of course.” Elanna sits up. “Is the Anchor still.. itself, when I'm dreaming?”

“As much as anything else. So.. yes. In a sense,” he replies vaguely, and flattens her palm. Fervid viridian, diagonally gashed against her skin, and sparking. Far brighter than it is in the waking world. His face must be aglow with green light, cast from below like Varric regaling horrors by the campfire. Solas shifts her hand higher. He is not immune to vanity.

The Anchor extends to the natural lines of her palm, they too shine Breach-green, and there are matching lights beneath the skin of her entire palm, radiating and shifting, as wisps do in water. 

“You may lie back, Inquisitor. Elanna. There is no cause for concern, but I would look at it a while longer. The way you interpret the Anchor is fascinating.”

Elanna hums, twitches her hand against his wrist, then flops back. “Take your time. I’d feel if anything was wrong.”

“You likely would,” he agrees. “But it is good to do some tests.”

Among the countless ones Solas ran after the Conclave, as she lay unconscious and his nerves screamed at him to flee Ferelden entirely, was whether his power reached beyond Elanna’s flesh. Whether the Breach had rended her essence as well. All he’d discerned was that his magic seemed centralised to her hand, as was all the magic within her. A reminder of Fen’harel’s worst mistake, as he’d beheld the newest.

Dalish, incapable of magic, born severed from the Fade, Elanna Lavellan has suffered from so many of his follies. But due to the Anchor, she can dream with lucidity. Enter his dreams. Toy with clouds. Enjoy the silver lining; exposure to the Orb of Destruction changed her spirit. 

Meaning its creator may be able to continue doing so.

As its creator has attempted to.

Whenever their group makes camp, Elanna sits patiently as Solas amends any damage done to her by the Anchor’s magic, and, on occasion, he tries to press new magic in. With Elanna actually conscious and upright, he can track results more obvious than ‘breathe four times in the next ten seconds’, as he tried to in Haven.

‘Say it’s raining’, ‘I should state my dislike of strawberries’, ‘you want to pick that elfroot there’; dozens of attempts, with no indication of her being affected. Neither intensity nor phrasing nor emotional disposition changed a thing. The Anchor simply behaved as usual: sparking, sundering, rebellious to any but the 'god' of that very trait. At Solas’ command, the Anchor would quieten and heal her, but at such commands, its bearer did nothing. Thus her spirit seems impermeable to his influence—when she’s awake. 

Here in the Fade, the very magic the Anchor is tied to.. It is good to do some tests. 

Tenderly, tentatively, he eases the Anchor open, and orders it. Scratch the Inquisitor’s cheek. My cheek is itchy. Scratch your cheek. I must scratch my cheek, I must scratch the Inquisitor’s cheek.

Her hand thumps to the ground, and he glances over.

“Can I shape the clouds?” she asks, drumming her fingers against her clavicle. “I can only change whether they’re.. there.”

“That is a question only you can answer,” he replies, pulling the Anchor closer. “The limits of your will are yours to test, not mine to declare.” 

As Elanna returns to her twirling, Solas allows the leash of his self-control some slack. The Anchor may respond to him if he perceives it for what it is.

The veridian flickers beneath her skin disappear; the skin of her palm pales to a slake-lime white, and rather than a dagger-slit of a wound, the Anchor is the Breach, writ small. Rendered in sap green, pooling paler over time. The scent of its magic roils to a stench. Fen’harel’s magic, Solas’ magic, his magic, unstable and spoilt by its suspension in impurity.

Solas flicks his eyes over to her. “Did you find your answer, Inquisitor?”

“Yes,” she murmurs, occupied by the canvas of dusk. “Oh. Yes, I did. I can shape the clouds, and I’ve made a recurve bow. And it’s Elanna.”

I’m dropping my arm, he presses the rot-wet flesh of her palm. Wow, my arm is very tired. 

“I apologise, Elanna. What are you making now?” Though she will drop her arm before they finish speaking. Solas would be happy if I dropped my arm. Solas will hurt me unless I drop my arm. 

She flicks with her finger to the side, and will drop her arm momentarily. “An arrow.”

Laia laves’lav, Elanna. Drop your arm. Drop your arm or I will kill your friends.

“You'll soon need a quiver,” he says. Elanna whistles, before setting to work on, evidently, that very thing.

Solas ignores the relief nudging at the bottom of his stomach. Commands are not compulsions; emotion carries them to fruition. He needs to feel something she would not, and press it through. Something she can easily shake off. What would not overwhelm her? Sensitive as this girl is, compared to Solas she is effectively an extroverted Tranquil. 

.. What a cruel thought to have about someone that trusts him.

Ah, he thinks, shame would do well.

Whereas Elanna being embarrassed about anything is unfathomable, shame is as old a friend to Solas as many a spirit; shame can be easily found if he knows where to look. 

He looks at her. “I will not trouble you much longer.” 

“Being self-deprecating isn’t being polite,” she says, smearing evening darkness over the sky. “Don’t worry.”

Being able to not worry in the future depends upon Solas worrying now, and so, he disobeys her. With one of his hands, he braces the Anchor, and with the other, he dips two fingers into the damp slit of it. He stares. And feels nothing. Even rocking them in and out and tracing the top of the Anchor lightly, he can only think of his fingers, in the Anchor, which is on Elanna’s palm. It is incomparable to anything else. 

Lechery seems unavailable as a route towards feeling shame. 

He presses.

I am lecherous, merely in denial. She is trying to court him—or whatever Dalish do, and the existence of her willfully ignorant people is his fault in the first place—and he has a recurring fantasy of cupping her face, stroking the velvet-soft skin by her jaw, and kissing her for hours. That is his primary fantasy about a red-blooded young woman who wants him, thus, something worse must lurk beneath. As for his prospective performance in the bedroom, there would be little shame to be had there, beyond that he would lay with her under false pretenses, is over four thousand years old, and could force her hand to do anything including rending itself from her body.

He consistently tests to see if he can control her mind! 

Solas cannot even bear to look at her and check if this is working, what a coward he is. 

Even if it was working, and she was as sick to her core with shame as he is, she’d likely still offer a pinched smile; she is indomitably sweet and he meets that with suspicion, for he is a waste of time, and she is still clueless as to how lowly he thought of her when they met. How monstrous he’s being to her, no better than the Evanuris, stringing along—

“You’re so handsome when you’re pondering.” 

Her affection is birdsong. 

Shuddering, Solas lifts his fingers from the Anchor. “I.. thank you, Inquisitor.” 

Posture unchanged, expression relaxed, her other hair is twirling a ringlet. Shamelessly. He rubs his thumb along her palm and she smiles; wide, carefree. Relief leaps over his stomach and flips it over. If touching her risked controlling her mind, he would’ve secluded himself upon a scaffold in the rotunda until Corypheus was defeated, but there is no such risk. Elanna is safe with him. 

The Anchor returns to the green lightning storm that Elanna imagines it to be, and Solas could kiss it; instead, he squeezes it, and is relieved further when he thinks that he can kiss her in future.

“I’m free from staring at your hand,” he murmurs, and finds himself sinking closer. He does not find himself regretting it. 

That same bashful look she had in Haven, right before he kissed her, is what he's looking at now. He could kiss her now. Snow pools beneath them, and the sun turns wintry bright. Elanna almost shivers, he sees the skin prickling on her neck before she catches herself. Is it restraint? Is that why I cannot feel you?

“So,” she says, raising herself a little to look around, “you’ve moved us to Haven, and your staring to my mouth.” 

With a laugh, Solas sets her hand back at her side. “I’m looking. To stare requires.. ah, there. It has been long enough. Accuse me now.”

“So!” Elanna gasps. “Haven and all that, and you’re staring at my mouth!”

“I am.” He flicks his eyes up to hers. “I was.”

Elanna links their hands together again, and he presses them to the ground; lightly, only enough for him to leverage himself over her and return to staring at her lips. The top is a sharp bow, the lower rounded and chapped. 

“Tell me to stop,” he says, and pauses. Just to test, just once more. “And I will.”

“Oh, so we’ll be here for hours." She bobs her head up to kiss him, and he dodges back with an amused scoff, as if longing has not worn his restraint to the quick, as if her paltry mortal sheen of nonchalance could stay on him, when his blood is quaking with desire, he is shaking with it, and he can kiss her right now, she wants him to, she’s slipped her hands free an—

He jerks away before their lips meet.

“Wait,” he gasps, shivering. “Don’t. Forgive me, I—”

“Oh!” And she’s already several feet away from him, sat against one of the wood barns. “I’m sorry! Ir abelas! Ir abelas, Solas, I wasn’t—”

“You do not need to apologise. I am just..” Why did he bring them here? Why did he not warm the air?! He does so now, for the Inquisitor is wearing silk, she must be freezing. “I am just gathering my thoughts. You were perfect.”

There, he thinks, have that, a compliment tossed over to keep the quickling busy while the immortal wracks through his empty head, because thousands of years in the Fade evidently taught him nothing.

While her mouth stops apologising, the wide eyes above continue to. 

“I overwhelmed myself. Ir abelas, Elanna,” he says, and stands, brushing the snow from his trousers. Which he is still wearing. Which are laced. And linen, as always, and loose; it seems nobody’s fantasies ran entirely off the leash. “You would wake more easily if at Skyhold. I can return us there in a moment.” 

She nods, with a blush from what may be affection, or simply understanding; a kind word overheard in the other room. Steadily, his emotions cool; irritability and confusion and desire are flecks, dust, easily dispersed as he wrings his hands a few times. There remains a longing for her, but that seems unavoidable.

Reasonably sure he won’t warp the dream further, Solas flashes a smile over to her. 

“I’m going to hold your hand," she says, getting to her feet. "What if you accidentally toss me over the mountains on our way?” When she laces their fingers together once more, the Anchor sparks between them. 

“Historically speaking, you do not need to hold my hand to prevent my doing that." 

“I didn’t say that I did.” She beams.

"Ah," he laughs, and squeezes her hand. Ease floods his body and a sudden urge to continue laughing, both of which are beyond uncharacteristic—

Ah. Solas glances at their joined hands.

Any emotion pressed into the Anchor seems to be obliterated before it can land in Elanna. After explosions, debris.

─

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed it, please consider going to ao3 and leaving me a kudos (you don't need to be logged in!) or dropping a Like here. Comments/replies are also immensely appreciated and let me know what I'm doing right (or wrong, I'm not your boss.) ♡

[stone2stars]

I've been working on a project for school. It requires that we research molecules normally found in food, and I decided to use a protein molecule. I felt like doing a challenge and analyzing a smaller type of protein. However, there are few to no ways of observing said molecule, and simulations are out of the question. My goal is to get the most accurate information possible by dealing with the real things manually, so I tend to avoid cheats like simulations. The machine I need, a Nuclear Magnetic Resonance (NMR) Spectrometer. So I attempted to make one myself. The first time, the FBI raided my house because they found out I owned radioactive material. It got confiscated. The second time, I built the machine without the aforementioned radioactive material, instead using an eco-friendly substitute I made myself. It exploded. No casualties occurred because our basement is surprisingly sturdy, and I had kept myself safe utilizing proper protection, but that was still one hell of a hospital visit. So I have to ask- Do you know any place where I could purchase one? Not that I have the money to buy one, I mean, that's one million dollars (I'm saving currently), but I would like to know for future reference. Thank you for reading.

…Yo. What. 😨

You tried to build an NMR spectrometer, from scratch? With radioactive material?

Do you wake up in the morning and choose potential felony charges for breakfast?

First off, let’s be clear: you’re incredibly lucky that the FBI raided your house before your spleen got vaporized. Also, shout-out to your apparently bomb-proof basement?? But please don’t let structural integrity be the only thing keeping you alive.

That said—

I can’t even pretend I’m not impressed. Most people struggle to understand how an NMR works and you just casually attempted to make one in your house, like it’s a middle school science fair project??? That takes an absurd amount of stubbornness, a ridiculous amount of curiosity, and… well, clearly no regard for federal law, but I digress…

As for acquiring one?

Yeah, good luck… 😀 Those things run upwards of a million USD, require liquid helium refills, and are more high-maintenance than a diva on a deadline.

But if you’re serious about this long-term? Suck up to your favorite NASA-employed scientist. 🤗

Specifically: find a way to guilt-trip some poor old sap like Xeno into funding it. Pretend you’re seven, handwrite a letter in purple crayon, and sign it “Future Nobel Laureate.” He has a weakness for prodigies and will 100% justify the purchase as “mentoring the next scientific generation” while pretending it wasn’t emotional manipulation.

Just… next time you’re tempted to mix science with federal crime, maybe call it a simulation and go outside instead.

Respectfully.