Drabbles & Daydreams

| UNDER CONSTRUCTION| Writing sideblog for goddessofganon, currently working on folding this account into that one.

[goddesslyfics]

You Ate Every God I Prayed To

"To fall asleep to wake up; that is how motivated he wished to be. Though it is certainly a tragedy, when one sleeps and does not dream."

A series of vignettes regarding the rise and fall of Toichiro Suzuki. 

Preview/AO3 link below!

Toichiro Suzuki is a married man.

The ceremony had been short, borderline perfunctory. A Western format, a preference of Isla’s when he’d gone without. The ornamentation of poetry and choral music had been a farce, they’d both felt that. A signature on the dotted line at the city courthouse would have been more than enough. A single declaration, this is all it takes. I, Toichiro Suzuki

take thee--

He rests his chin atop the crown of her hair, blonde and braided and snug against her nape. Isla Merriam,

as my lawfully wedded--

The crowd has aawed, as expected. Not that the sight was unexpected. She’d always been enchanting. That’s how he first noticed her, among the muddled and mundane of everyday life when he didn’t have a

 wife.

Finish on AO3:  (x)

[commander-krios]

Fictional Kiss Prompts

So I borrowed a bunch of these fictional kisses from this post and made it up into a prompt list. Feel free to reblog of course!

breaking the kiss to say something, staying so close that you’re murmuring into each other’s mouths

moving around while kissing, stumbling over things, pushing each other back against the wall/onto the bed

kissing so desperately that their whole body curves into the other person’s 

throwing their arms around the other person, holding them close while they kiss

hands on the other person’s back, fingertips pressing under their top, drawing gentle circles against that small strip of bare skin that make them break the kiss with a gasp

lazy morning kisses before they’ve even opened their eyes, still mumbling half-incoherently, not wanting to wake up

routine kisses where the other person presents their cheek/forehead for the hello/goodbye kiss without even looking up from what they’re doing

being unable to open their eyes for a few moments afterward

one small kiss, pulling away for an instant, then devouring each other

staring at the other’s lips, trying not to kiss them, before giving in

when one stops the kiss to whisper “I’m sorry, are you sure you-” and they answer by kissing them more

a hoarse whisper “kiss me”

following the kiss with a series of kisses down the neck

starting with a kiss meant to be gentle, ending up in passion

a gentle “i love you” whispered after a soft kiss, followed immediately by a stronger kiss

when one person’s face is scrunched up, and the other one kisses their lips/nose/forehead

height difference kisses where one person has to bend do wn and the other is on their tippy toes

kisses where one person is sitting in the other’s lap

kisses meant to distract the other person from whatever they were intently doing

top of head kisses

[trans-girl-nausicaa]

fanfiction.gov

[dark-academia-lady]

archiveofourown.edu

[goddesslyfics]

Dawn comes earlier in spring. (Trevor x Sypha)

My first Castlevania fic! I was incredibly immersed in this show, and I loved the subtleties of Trevor and Sypha’s dynamic. I hope you see them captured in this story. :)

Read preview below, and follow chapter updates on AO3: (x)

It is a resigned comfort, to stumble into the first tavern in sight after some miles hike, where raucous banter spills from the open windows, and the stench of cheap ale overflows the perimeter.

Sypha wrinkles her nose at the smell, though whatever energy she could muster to complain seems fruitless. By her shoulder, Trevor’s face lights like a spark as he leans into the tavern and takes a surveying glance. “Yes,” He says, nodding to himself. “This will do.” Sypha rolls her eyes.

Trevor leaves her side for a moment and manages a path to the bar, lurching a bit over the counter to order two meals and a room for the night.

“I don’t entertain riff-raff,” The barkeep warns, eyeing up and down Trevor’s torn tunic, patched with scorch marks, and the whip attached to his belt. “We’ve enough trouble in these parts as is.”

“That trouble wouldn’t have anything to do with two particularly wily fire beasts right outside of town, would it?” Trevor grins. As drained as he is from battle, he takes pride in his work. “If so, I can assure you that trouble’s been taken care of.”

The barkeep’s eyes widen in surprise. “You mean-”

“Dead.” He confirms. “Not that they didn’t put up a fight, mind. I-”

“Hey!” A man who had been sitting at the bar lurches from his stool, commanding the attention of the room. “This one’s killed those bastard beasts!” He shouts. All eyes in the tavern turn to Trevor. If there’s any doubt to begin with, the stains on his tunic- red, his own blood, and black, the demon’s, speak for themselves. A unanimous cheer rises to the rafters after one initial stunned cry of relief.

“Well, I can’t take all the credit,” Trevor calls over the din, raising his hands in a surrendering gesture, before sweeping an arm towards Sypha, who stands only a few steps from the doorway, as if considering retreat,  with her arms folded over her chest. “My lovely . . .” The word assistant dies on his lips. She’ll smite him for saying it, and besides, it isn’t at all true. Thankfully, the crowd seems less focused on his verbosity, rather, their own celebration. They draw Sypha into the revelry and the pair is ushered to a table in the middle of the room, ‘best seat in the house’ a man cheers, clapping Trevor on the back over what’s forming to be a rather nasty bruise. He winces, though soon brightens up as the first pair of tankards are slammed onto the table in front of them. Soon enough, their plates are piled high with grilled meats and potatoes, sweet cakes, and plenty of alcohol.

Continue on AO3: (X)

[goddesslyfics]

this isn't a request, but i just wanted to say that i really love your writing!! especially your arcana fics! i first found you on ao3 and i've re-read your asra x mc fics multiple times haha

Oh thank you so much! This made my day~ :)

(sorry if this reply is coming late! Tumblr no longer lets me know when I have a new message, annoyingly)

[memorizingthedigitsofpi]

romantic fluff alphabet [ k-r ] [ s-z ]

[infinityuserboxes]

[clairelutra]

pwp aus because wth not (NSFW)

“i’m a rockstar and you’re a fan who snuck in and do you maybe wanna help me ‘blow off some steam’ back stage because ur A) really hot and B) pretty obviously willing“ au

“seven minutes in heaven with my longtime crush but we get locked in for hours bc our friends forgot about us” au

“got locked in a walk-in refrigerator/freezer and now we gotta keep warm somehow” au

“you’re a vampire with an aphrodisiac bite and i’m the drunk party-goer you decided to snack on tonight” au

“you’re really invested in your tv show/book/etc and i don’t think you understand how much your absentminded petting is getting to me but like hell am i gonna ask you to stop“ au

“this is an sos from a helpless virgin (who doesn’t want to be a virgin anymore) to you, the most virile person i know. please teach me how all this works” au

“i thought you were literally the most innocent thing to ever exist but then you awkwardly ask me to teach you how to bang like a pro and holy hell what the fuck but now i’m really, really turned on” au

“i get that it’s hotter than satans asshole out here but if you remove any more clothing i won’t be responsible for my actions-wait. why are you smirking at me?” au

“i chickened out of sex ages ago and you haven’t brought it up since but now i really want it, but i’m terrible at communication, so let me just strip shirtless/model lingerie for you until you snap” au

“we were forced to hide in this very cramped space (from friends/authority figures/people trying to kill us) and this is a very awkward position to be stuck in with someone you’re avoiding because they’re too attractive for you to deal with” au

“normally we duke it out to vent our frustrations but this time someone initiated a kiss in the middle of the fight and suddenly we’re fucking against the nearest flat surface” au

“when i asked you to put sunscreen/lotion on my back that’s all i wanted you to do, but your hands are like magic and they have my full permission to wander” au

[africabytotos]

i don’t understand the point of having sad endings in fanfiction??? like, if i wanted to cry about tragedies in life i’d do some mcfreaking self reflecting instead 

[baander]

if I wanted to be depressed I’d read a published book by a man

[goddesslyfics]

Behind Closed Doors (Elias x Chise)

I had this idea a while back and I as I was working on it I was thinking of how many other people would get to this writing about this trope before me, but the tag has been surprisingly dead lately. For better or for worse, enjoy some Elias/Chise College smut.

Preview below, AO3 link here: (X)

Chise Hatori has been dreaming of sleep.

Since classes began at the College, her days have been exhausted by magical practicum, history lessons, and Latin conjugations. Weekends left her with little mercy either, as orientation activities for new students were just as occupying as her classes. She’s found a small group of acquaintances to share meals with in the dining hall between lessons. They entreat her to join them on excursions into the city. The nightlife in London is said to be fantastic. She’s yet to accept their offer, declining with a yawn that speaks for itself.

After having bathed and shrugged into her nightclothes, she drops onto her bed like a rock and finds sleep within a quarter of the late hour. And, within that same hour, awake again. She blinks her eyes open to the dim slants of moonlight cast onto the floorboards from the single window of her dorm room.

She sighs, twisting this way and that in attempt to find a comfortable position in her bunk, which was much more narrow than her bed at home. Moreover, she had gotten to be comfortable in Elias’s stretch of a bed that took up half the room it occupied, that her dorm bunk seems to her like a straight jacket, holding her still lest she falls off the side. This is the predictable fashion of her nights, tossing in discomfort, and knowing all the while it is not the bed alone that has instilled this restlessness within her. It is the absence of her bedmate, as well.

Elias has his own quarters in the professor’s dormitory on the opposite side of campus. It was outfitted as a small apartment, rather than a single bedroom like the student dormitories, and was where he spends much of his free time. Chise knows the location of his rooms, she saw it once on their first day, and has more than once thought about slipping away at night to join him. She nearly did a couple nights ago, but had been stopped at the door by the voice of her roommate.

“Where’re you going?” She seemed half asleep still, but was clearly annoyed at the prospect of being half awoken.

“J-just the bathroom.” Chise stuttered, her fist tightening around the doorknob as if to take flight before Lucy could reply.

Propping herself on an elbow, the girl rubbed her eye with a fist and blinked a couple times with a scrunched glare, scrutinizing Chise in the low light of the room. Narrowing in on her laced-up boots, buttoned coat and scarf, and the bag slung around her shoulder, which she had stocked with toiletries and clothing to wear tomorrow morning, so she could head straight to classes from Elias’s rooms without having to double back to her own.

“Is it a boy?” Lucy grumbled, unimpressed.

Chise’s eyes shot open, as though she were waking from slumber as well. “I- it’s not like that, I mean-” She was silenced by her roommate holding up her palm.

“It’s your business, not mine. I just thought you should know there are charms placed on all exits after curfew. If you tried sneaking out, the dorm mother would know. And believe me you don’t want to make her cross, especially this early into term. She’ll claw your eyes out.” She curled her fingers like claws and make a downward strike motion.

“T-thank you.” Chise whispered, dropping her bag and coat onto the floor with a deflated sigh.

“Don’t mention it. Really. Just let me sleep.” Lucy replied, sleep clouding her voice once more. Within minutes, her low intermittent snores filled the small room. Chise kicked off her boots and climbed back into bed with a sigh, and laid awake for the remainder of the night.

Rolling onto her side, Chise considers making a second attempt to seek out Elias. If Rose Lynn did catch her leaving the dormitory, she could simply explain, in all honesty, that she was going to see her husband. That sounds much less improper than if she were slinking off to see some stranger. The real challenge would be sneaking past Lucy. For a girl who values sleep more than anything, she does sleep light, and a third interruption might be the last straw before she disavows Chise completely.

At the foot of her bed lay Ruth in a deep sleep, having grown accustomed to her tossing and turning enough to not wake from it. Drawing her knees to her chest, Chise laces her fingers together to suppress the itch to reach across the covers as though she’ll find a set of curved horns to idly trace, a firm shoulder for her to lay her head, and a hand to fold into her own, her anchor to a restful night.

Her thoughts wander for a while longer, though eventually sleep takes her, in it’s jagged, jolted way. She does not dream, and wakes to first strands of sunlight making their way into the dorm. She has no reason to believe that today will different from the last. With that thought, she drags herself out of bed and slides into her morning routine.

[ren-nolasco]

Set of holographic stickers dedicated to The Holy Trinity.

[goddesslyfics]

Wild Heart - Chapter 1

Zelda and Ganondorf's first conversation is flooded with questions and the beginnings of answers.

If you haven’t read the Prologue, be sure to check out the story on AO3: (X)

Or, read below! Xx

“Why are you here?”

“You have the presumption to ask me that?” Zelda rises from the throne,  nearly losing her balance as she starts upright. The rush of breath from her lungs makes her chest seize, it stirs the dust of her silence. Though her throat burns, she keeps her eyes locked on the man in front of her, so far from her. It’s a mockery of this space; once lined with nobles and knights and gold, a now, the two of them, useless to take up more space, contribute to the majesty that once reflected off these stone walls.

Ganondorf takes a step forward, though stills when a spark of light crackles off of Zelda’s hand, the Triforce emblem on the back of her right palm blazing amid the sunset hue leaking in from the high, arched windows set into the stone wall. “I did not come here to harm you. I assumed this place was long deserted, Calamity and all.”

His voice sounds as out of use as hers, raw, though not weak. There’s a barb of something accusatory to it, to have found the princess in her castle, upon her throne no less, as though she never belonged there at all. For a moment, impossibly, he reminds Zelda of her father.

She is soon to shake the thought, however, and wills herself to focus. Though she cannot say she is exactly rushed with adrenaline, the situation nonetheless requires her to be alert, lest he change his mind about causing harm. “Well, I am here because of the beast you created. Do not force me to answer questions you already know the answer to and tell me why you are here, and why you’ve taken this form.”

“I have taken nothing.” Ganondorf returns through gritted teeth. “You’ll be quite pleased to know I am not an apparition of the Calamity. I’ve chosen no form to show you today than my own flesh.”

There are some moments when Zelda becomes acutely aware of the presence of the Calamity surrounding her, in a moment, placed in a box with the swirl of blight on all sides, a box that keeps getting smaller.  She waits for the image of a man in front of her to dissolve into that smoke and sludge. She didn’t know Calamity Ganon had a human guise; why would it take one, after securing the castle for itself? She knows him now, Ganondorf, from the memories of previous lifetimes imbued by the goddesses. That, and as bearers of the Triforce, she isn’t unaware of the energy one piece exudes when in the presence of another.

She cannot help but feel that the timing is impeccable. The Hero has just awoken, her first hope in years, and with it, just enough darkness to extinguish that flame.

“I don’t understand.” Zelda ventures, tightening her hands around the curled armrests of the throne.

He grins, then, all teeth. “Then allow me to enlighten you.

“The day you sealed Link into the Shrine of Resurrection, you managed to fend off  a part of the Calamity, the part it was willing to leave behind. If you will excuse the phrase, you severed its weakest link.”

“Which was?” Zelda manages to swallow the unease the sticks to her throat at the comparison.  To be likened to the Calamity, a fear she was unaware she had, actualized.

“Me.” Ganondorf bites out. “We were one, in the beginning. I had Power, and I wanted more of it. So did the Calamity. There came a point when I became a host, and then there came a point when I was no longer enough.” Zelda watches his jaw clench, the thick cords of vein in his neck rising to the surface of his skin with tension. She can feel the waves of anger roll off of him, even at a distance. “It . . . rejected me, and just about killed me in the process. All the dust of the ruins had settled by the time I had gained enough strength back to realize it hadn’t.”

“So the day Link woke up, you did, too?” Zelda bites her bottom lip to hide its trembling. Her mind races to sort the information into categories she can understand, though a comparison between the two of them seems beyond what she is willing to consider.

Ganondorf turns away, smirking to himself. His ability to find mirth in the situation sets Zelda’s on edge, further to the drop than before. “Not quite. My story is closer to yours than the Hero’s.”

“How so?” Zelda returns,

He meets her gaze, molten amber against aquamarine. “I have spent every day clawing my way back into existence for the past one hundred years.” She flinches at the roll of thunder in his voice. The humor on his face is gone, his features are drawn and though he hasn’t moved from the doorway, she sees the lines on his face, the telling of age. They dissapear in the next moment, and truthfully he looks not much older than herself.

“And you haven’t died?” Though it isn’t a question, and she’s turned to shaking. She clasps her hands behind her back to hide it.

“I imagine I will die when the Hero fells the Calamity, though that would presume there’s something still connecting us yet. Perhaps I will feel nothing when it dies, and wither away into my own nothingness just like everybody else.” His tone does not change from its air of indifference. Unbidden, she thinks of Link, lying the muddy field as the life in him died. She thinks about speaking of that moment as carelessly as he. Her stomach lurches, and she opts to change the subject, sort out one problem at a time, though she feels they’ll soon be too many in number to do so.

“How did you get here? To the castle?” She adds, in answer to his questioning stare.

“I walked.” He returns dryly. Long ago, Zelda had been told that one glare from her was all it took to make a man wither where he stood, though it appears now that skill has been lost. “The guardians didn’t seem to notice me. Or if they did, they felt no need to attack.”

“And now you’re here.” Zelda whispers.

“And now I’m here.” Ganondorf echoes.

“So you could leave, if you desired.” Her voice raises like a question, something hopeful.

“You want me to leave?” He replies, looking rather like an affirmative answer wouldn’t turn him to the exit regardless. He takes a few steps closer to the throne, an accent to this fact.

Zelda ducks her head, balling her fists in the fabric of her dress. “Whenever I try to leave, the blight covers my path. It holds me here. I fear the maws would come after me, if I did manage to escape it.” That the blight would allow Ganondorf to pass, but recognize Zelda as one who should not, She shudders to think of the intelligence of the morphous goo. Distractedly, she’s fascinated. She must see how it reacts around him, and if he really can come and go so easily.

“You didn’t answer my question.” Ganondorf prompts, once she’s spent long enough lost in her own head.

“Why would I want you to stay?” She raises her head and returns his question with her own. “You are an invader to my castle, while I’m . . .” She stalls for a moment, drawing her lower lip between her teeth as she mulls over any sense of leverage she may be able to draw above herself.

“The heir to a throne of nothing?” Ganondorf  supplies, pitching his brow.

Her mind halts. Her hands tense in the not-quite formation of fists. Nothing but failure, her father’s voice echos off the walls of her skull. Nothing, nothing. “How did you . . . ?”

“I walked the lands a bit, before I came here. Before the Hyrulians emerged from the rubble. I’d come across these places where the air changed. I remembered events I had no part in.” 

“You . . . saw my memories?” Her voice is small, for a moment, as words struggle to rise against the raw feeling in her throat. At the first minute show of a nod, a consideration, yes, that must be what I saw, it becomes large again.

“Those were for Link!” Zelda screams, and before she can think to rise, she is running. She could not say how long it took her to reach the doorway, she is there after she blinks, lettings her fists sail where they reach, the impact from hitting Ganondorf’s chestplate sending a pulse of pain down her arm, the most she has felt in a century. It’s enough to make her still, her hands against his chest. Her rage continues to course through her, though it’s gone cold now. She find she cannot ignore how warm his chestplate feels against the side of her fists. She cannot move, for this is the first touch she’s with another since she held Link in her arms as he lay dying.

She can feel her own breath shaking her chest, a pulse in each of her muscles.

“Stay.” The words drop from her lips. He must hear them before she does, for he’s taken several steps back and though she lurches at the loss of contact, she hears herself, as if the echo reflected off his armor. Stay, she’s told him. His eyes flash, gold, like dessert sand and sunlight.

“What are you trying to-”

“You have no right to my memories.” Zelda interrupts. Her nails dig into the beds of her palms, hardening her fists against his chestplate. “But, granting what I cannot change, I need you to tell me what you saw, what you know. You’ve seen Hyrule as it was, and as it is. I must know how the people are faring. Once Link defeats the Calamity, I will need to be prepared to rebuild Hyrule, so I must know the needs that I will have to meet. And do not lie. I will know if you lie.”

“How so?”

“Call it Wisdom.” She snaps, far from a place that would indulge in his teasing.

Ganondorf sneers, taking a step back. Her hands drop in between them, now resting limp at her sides. “Have you any other reason that I should stay, other than to help you?”

Zelda steps forward. “I will kill you if you try to go.”

He swallows, just as if a blade has been pressed to his throat. The Triforce on Zelda’s right hand is glaringly bright. Though she does not seem to notice it, a yellow-white light furls from her hand, dipping into the crevices of the stone beneath their feet and stirring the ends of her golden hair. Now, for the first time, he thinks, she resembles Hylia properly.

“In that case,” Ganondorf murmurs. If nothing else, he is a man who knows a war when he sees one. “What would you like to know?”

Zelda nearly falters, though she manages to suppress her surprise that he folded so quickly from showing. “I was told Link may not retain any of his memories when he wakes in the shrine of resurrection. In the little time I had, I left what I thought were formative moments that may help him remember who he was- who he is. Tell me, was I successful in this?”

“To think, if I were Link?” Ganondorf snorts, folding his arms over his chest. “Can’t say that’s a thought I’ve entertained before.” Zelda does not respond, narrowing her eyes in a way to say she doesn’t much care for how long it takes for him to come up with an answer, so long as she receives one.

He takes a moment to think. Guardians, in their prime. The castle, as it was. Zelda crying in the rain.

And do not lie. I will know if you lie.

“I would think you were in love with me.”

Zelda shuts her eyes, just short of a flinch. “What else?”

“That Hyrule is a land worth saving.”

Zelda’s eyes snap open, only to narrow in suspicion. She cannot help but feel she’s detected the spark of sarcasm in his voice. “Why does it sound like you’re telling me what you think I want to hear?”

“Was it not?” Ganondorf jeers, before turning away with a gruff sigh and folding his arms over his chest. “In those memories, I saw what you couldn’t. I saw the look in your eyes. Your sacrifices would not have ceased there. But to defeat the Calamity, your piece of the Triforce will be necessary. You throw that away, and we’ll have nothing to overpower it.”

Zelda stiffens, although whether the cause is his accurate read of her or the use of we, is uncertain. “Well, martyrdom suits me.” She sniffs, taking the final steps down the dais, allowing them to square off properly. “The previous Zelda’s would only agree, of that I am sure.”

“You’re too forward.” She warns. It’s a phrase she utilised often, back when she had a court, and expectations, and suitors who would attempt to croon her at balls with their dry jokes and blushed charm. Time become blurry, on the subject of time. When she comes back into herself, in her dilapidated throne room, speaking with the man who her memory of previous lifetimes has only warned her against, she cannot make an excuse for why she continues to stand there, to listen to him speak.

“I remember those Zelda’s, unlike you.” He reminds her, though it sounds more like a taunt. And how could it not be? Zelda bristles at the claim, though she cannot deny it. The return of her reincarnations has been lost to her, she can only assume due to the weakness of her communion with the goddesses. She’s caught glimpses, enough to comprehend the narrative. She reigns, she fails, Link saves her. Ganondorf dies. They all do, sometimes. “And I can think of a few who would strike you for making such a claim.” He continues. “They weren’t all born to die.”

“But I am?”

“No.” Ganondorf’s face twists, a flash of annoyance. She could say it’s droll, that he continues to seem unimpressed by her lack of stalwart confrontation to the facts of her heritage that she’s yet to prove herself.

Instead, Zelda scoffs, blinking away the few frustrated tears that wet her lashes. “Why should I be comforted by that, by you?” It’s a cruel word, coming from her own lips. She has not known comfort for some time.

“Because I knew you in another life.” He shoots back, and Zelda steps back. You’re too forward. She thinks, though no longer with the diffident repuidance.

“Don’t say that.” She snaps. “If you know me as I know you, then you should be able only to say how I was in the moments before you struck me down. You presume a personality to our exchange, as if that’s possible. Do you forget we’re born enemies?”

Beyond them, the sun has begun to set. The saturated hues of impending twilight flood the throne room, casting deep shadows onto the splintered stone floor.  

“We were not always enemies.” He says quietly. The sunlight glints off his teeth when he sneers, like the single blink of light when an animal opens their jaws to consume their cornered prey. “Were you so wise as to have forgotten that? What do you remember, Princess?”

“They came to me in dreams.” Zelda admits, turning her head and opting to watch their shadows play out their conversation rather than returning Ganondorf’s fierce gaze. “They always begin light, then turn dark. Then I can only see in flashes, fights with swords, mostly. A blur of green, Link, I think. I’m usually away somewhere. Trapped. Listening to steel against steel, the roar of magic. Your laugh is almost always the same. Like brushfire, dry, and boundless. I could hear it from wherever I was standing.” She turns to him, then, breaking from her revine. “Is that sufficient for you?”

“You remember seconds of centuries, then.” Ganondorf murmurs. For a second he looks as though he pities her, and she is prepared to strike him, though he soon enough resumes a neutral face. “There were many times, Princess, when I fell to your sword, not you to mine.” He draws out his words, as if to ensure that she will listen.

“Would you be laughing, when you were killed?”

He lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “If I found myself bested in a fair fight, perhaps I would.”

“There were also,” He continues, “Times when it was not the matter who was more powerful or more wise.”

“So we were equals, then?” Zelda asks, not attempting to mask her misgivings towards the proposition. That they have been anything aside from enemies has yet to cross her mind.

“Equal, yes. Just as humans are equal insofar as they are able to kill each other.”

Zelda turns her head, eyeing him with a measured gaze. “That’s Haytham, isn’t it?” She recalls the image of an old text from the royal library, bound in red vellum. A large portion of her tutelage as a child had been learning from Hyrule’s great philosophers. Haytham’s texts were one of her father’s favorites, though never hers. “He believed that the nature of humans defaulted to cruelty. I . . . struggle to believe that. But his theories fell apart when you don’t assume the worst, don’t they?”

Ganondorf nods. “We used to study him in the barracks. It seemed to justify the killings, being us or the other guy. Though if you do decide to kill me, just know that we are not equals.” Zelda raises a brow in question, he groans when he catches it. “Don’t look daft, now. You think the Calamity would have left me without taking Power with it? Though I suppose some shred of it must have remained, for me to have survived this long. I do have to wonder why I’m not a pile of dust at the moment.”

“That is why you’re here, isn’t it? To get it back?” Zelda whispers, her tone slipping into dejectedness. She is not sure exactly what it is she resents about his quest; that it it reserved for the Hero, that she will once again be forced to watch another man complete the tasks that she herself cannot, and retain a connection to the goddesses that has been half-lost to her. It is easier to not believe in what the man in front of her is capable of. Dangerous, too.

“That is exactly what I’m here for.” Ganondorf snarls, his face darkening as the shadows cast over him begin to dim in the setting sunlight. “And if you had any sense to save your kingdom, you wouldn’t stop me.”

Ganondorf rolls his eyes. She cannot conclude why her own self-doubt would be taxing on him, of all people, though he’s done nothing but show disdain for it. “I’m aware your communion with the goddesses is . . . lacking. However, you are still Hylia born. I don’t understand where your meekness is coming from. Aside from that, you are invincible. You should treat yourself as such.”

“Invincible?” Zelda rears back, as though he’s struck her. It’s what it feels like. That he should be annoyed with her for doubting her cause, rather that infuriated for doubting his, it’s maddening. To be forced to defend her own weakness causes a hurt and a fury she cannot describe. “I have been trapped here, with a storm inside my castle that has torn my kingdom apart! A storm that you caused! You think me invincible? You took that from me.”

Ganondorf meets her gaze, holds it without saying anything as though he suspects she’ll retract her words upon realizing error. She denies him this, however, and he turns to the doors, the tattered remains of his cape flaring behind him as he departs.

“Where are you going?” Zelda calls after him, not daring to take more than a few steps to follow him.

He leaves without answering, and the doors to the throne room slam with a resound that seems to shake the whole castle. In the distance, the Calamity roars, though she cannot be sure if in disdain or agreement. Perhaps it senses that its former host is angry, and cries out in sympathy.

When he’s gone, the inside of her chest stings something physical, more than she’s felt in a while.

She sinks to the floor, in the middle of the throne room. She wraps her arms around her knees and lowers her head, and thinks to let herself stay in this position for another century, though truthfully it’s only about an hour before she raises her head. Night has fallen, and she’s still alone. She does not often dream, though that is the only way she can think to explain what has just taken place. Yet, her limbs are sore and her throat still burns from talking; it serves as a reminder.

She hasn’t had anyone to talk to in a long, long time.

[goddesslyfics]

Wild Heart: Prologue

The first chapter of my Zelgan BOTW AU is up on Ao3! 

Follow this link, (x) or read below!

The winds howl without mercy at the top of Hyrule Castle, a crescendo welling against the shattered glass and tumbled stone that carry to the peaks of its towers, where, upon a threadbare rug that once honored the tread of kings, Princess Zelda sits alone.

Here she would sit to be crowned queen, if Hyrule hadn’t yielded to the Calamity, if   she were fit to be a queen in the first place. Yet, as her kingdom has failed her, she has failed it, too, and thus she sits alone.

Hyrule rests now in a stage of decay unique to itself, any similar account lost to Zelda in her searches of the royal library, where once proud stacks of tomes now lay in the waste of shredded vellum. Yet, beyond the ruins visible from the scope of field she can see from the windows of her bedroom, Hyrule continues. She knows this, that all is not lost and gone. She at times spies travelers and their caravans in the distance, as well as the monsters of all sorts that rush to take them down. She sees a Hyrule beyond that is chipping, like the flake off a dull coin that wishes terribly to be gold. That is Zelda’s Hyrule, in its current state. Her father’s Hyrule was the sharp glint from a gilded promise, one that left you blind, if only for a moment.

She has not seen her father for some time now. Though he perished when the Calamity overtook the castle, he had managed to appear to her in spectral form some months after his passing. It has served as the sole conciliation to Zelda during her encampment in the castle, a balm to her isolation. Her chest begins to pound, the rusted machinations of her century-old heart, when she thinks of where her father may be now.

The Hero has awoken from his century of slumber, imbued onto a voyage he did not ask for amidst the ruin of a kingdom he no longer knows. She was able to speak to him through her mind, though was limited at her vantage in the castle. It is her last hope that her father had found him, and can fill in the finer points of the monumental task before him, the splintering details that she herself could not bring herself to say, the accumulation of all of her failures that have brought her kingdom to its current state.

Link . . . you are the light -our light- that must shine upon Hyrule once again.

Her heart feels heavy, though she tells herself to revel in this. It is the most she has felt in ages. It means something is changing, and she can only pray to the goddesses who have ceased listening to her that this change will be for the good.

Princess Zelda trails down the hall, sliding her palm along the stone walls and concentrating on the sensation of the uneven grains catching on her skin. She’s nearly reached the end of the corridor, is about to turn to complete the traverse loop for as long as it takes the sun to set, when her ears pick up on a sound she has not heard for over one hundred years.

Footsteps.

She freezes where she stands, her palm pressed to the wall and her head tilted towards to noise. It cannot be the Hero, he’s only just been dispatched. He is unequipped and ill-informed, and the field between the castle and the Shrine of Resurrection is crawling with Guardians. Though he ability is incomparable, even he could not have made it to her this fast. Could he? Well, then where is the roar of the Calamity?

The presence also feels darker, somehow, than she would expect from the prodigal savior of Hyrule. The hairs on her arms rise, alerting her to a shift in the air, the entrance of a predator. She turns on a heel, doubling back on her steps. She trips over her own feet, her shoulder tearing into the stone walls, a body jolted from its default of lethargy into something charged and much alive. Her heartbeat sits in her ears, a deafening pang as she falls into the throne room, crawling on her hands and knees to the throne at the end of the room, which stretches much farther now than any time she can recall.

As a young girl, the Queen of Hyrule had told her that the throne was protected by the goddesses. If there were ever an intrusion to the castle that could not be stayed by the royal guard, she must race to the throne room. Though Zelda had come to doubt divine protection more and more as she grew, it is all she has to rely on now. She drags herself up the steps leading to the throne, as though to grovel at the feet of higher power.

Once collapsing upon it, she turns to face the doors, expects them to fly from their hinges, for the blight to pour in, for her impossibly long life to be cut improbably short. Her heart beats in her throat for several long moments, where she repeatedly has to blink tears from her ears, so as to see her combatant clearly. She has not means to fight it, she knows this, aside from her dignity.

When the doors to the throne room do open, there is no rumble, no blast or scream. They whine on their hinges, opening just a sliver, though afterwards remain quite still. Zelda pitches forward in her seat, her mind racing to discern what she sees before her, a figure that is edging its way into the room as if not to be seen.

A man. He could be double her size, cutting an impressive figure even at a distance. Clad in dim armor that reflects little of the light pouring into the room, a threadbare cape adorned with the faded ruins of some place distant that grazes the floor, brushing the tops of  worn leather boots. A mismatched sword and shield rest over the broad expanse of his back, draped with a cord of a russet braid that’s thrown over his shoulder. The details of his face are a challenge to make out, though he seems to be smiling.

Zelda’s fisted grip falters on the armrests of the throne. If it were the Calamity, her death would have been, at the very least, guaranteed and likely swift. She has no idea the designs of this man, nor how she will be involved. Which she must be. Realization sets in. A stranger has found his way into her castle.

No- she cannot say this man is unfamiliar to her.

She has never seen his face, but she knows his name.

“Ganondorf.”

[goddesslyfics]

I just read your Asra/reader fiction on A03 "Tipsy" and *LOVED* it! I was wondering if I could request a NSFW Asra/reader fic maybe either in the Cave or at the House in the Desert... Thank You So Much!!! Your Work is Amazing!

Thank you so much! Here is one for the desert. Xx

A weekend getaway.

The words themselves held their own rapture, which was made all the more enticing by the man speaking them, his arms wrapped around your middle and chin propped on your shoulder, stirring the hairs at your temple with the promise of the very thing you’ve been craving: solitude.

Your quarters at the shop, shoulder to shoulder with the homes beside it, couldn’t be considered the sum of privacy. At any given moment, life was happening all around them. The cry of a child from the house across the way, the scrape of moving furniture or the laughter ringing out from a party, right next door or far down the street. It was a comfort, early on, to feel that you were never truly on your own. When your memories were scarce, a sense of security was less so, and it helped to know a call for help would be heard, if ever necessary. It had yet to be, and not after long you began to relax and exchange a smile with your neighbors.

The fault in proximity revealed itself eventually, as faults are wont to do. While you were sympathetic to the parents of those crying children, the noise drilling into your ears in the early hours of the morning was not the sort of wake up call you’d prefer. And cheers of revelry are a joy when you’re apart of them, there’s much less amusement when the party has been raging for hours, after you’ve nearly finished an all-nighter making potions for the shop, doubling your supply for a cure you’re certain the merrymakers will be in need of come next morning. While you were guaranteed to find at least one friendly face in the stream of shoppers that trailed in front of the shop on their morning errands, it would be a blessing to open the door some dawn and find the streets empty, find yourself alone.

Alone, save for one other.

“It’s quiet here, isn’t it?” Asra says from beside you, trailing ahead to explore the small living space, which doesn’t seem to have changed much at all since your last visit, as long ago as that seems. The desert is always changing, save for this abode, a pocket of sameness right in the middle of shifting sands. You wonder if there’s something magical about this place. “Eerie, almost, don’t you think?” He calls over his shoulder, studying the collection of potted succulents on the kitchen windowsill.

“I think it’s nice.” You say absently, looking around for a lantern to break up some of the dusk that shadows the desert abode in slants of black and blue. The sun has been setting earlier and earlier, it feels like time is passing quicker by the minute. You have to remind yourself that you only just arrived, and Asra won’t be taking you back to the shop, back to that cluster of noise and light, anytime soon.

“I never said it wasn’t nice.” Asra grins, slinking towards you and wrapping his arms around your waist. You forget your search for light in the moment, your worry about time. Your eyes have adjusted to the dim darkness, and you realize the light in his eyes is enough.

You tuck your head beneath his chin, sinking further into his embrace. His thumbs draw lazy circles on the small of your back, you can hear the slight shift of the cloth, the pattern of your breathing as it slows to match his. You close your eyes and revel in the quiet, breathing deeply and marveling over the stillness of the air. No peddlers trailing up and down the walk outside the door, no children weaving through a crowd, calling out to be heard by their classmates up ahead, no parents to shush them.

You can feel the silence. There’s not another soul for miles.

“It’s like we’re really alone.” You breathe, and Asra’s eyes flare like a struck match. His arms tighten around your waist, and you allow yourself to be brought closer to him. You allow him to curve his palm over your cheek, tilt your head and align your lips with his. He’s only a breath away, now.

“And what shall we do about that?” His voice is a purr, it stirs the stray hairs around your face, momentarily disturbing the stillness of the moment. On behalf of a reply, you close the miniscule distance between your lips. Asra responds immediately, lifting you in a twirl as he grins into your mouth and dives into your kisses.

You don’t know how much time has passed when he’s laying you on the bed, refusing to break from your lips as you both sink into the pillowy cushions, raising your back only so his hands can reach the clasps and ties on your tunic and draw them away, discarding them irrelevantly on the floor. His fingers skate over your bare skin, a maddening, distant touch. “Asra, please.” You whisper into his shoulder, your arms wrapped around his neck, one hand fisted in his snowy curls. He teases you with several more strokes until his grip becomes insistent, speaking to his own growing need. His lips drop from your draw to your neck, tracing over you collarbone between slipping down to your breasts, while his thumbs trace the shallows of your hip bones.

You bury your face into his shoulder when he mouth closes over your nipple, a series of broken moans falling from your lips as though you’d forgotten the wonders that mouth of his is capable of, after all he’s done to prove it.

“You don’t have to cover your mouth anymore.” He says into your neck, layering the column of skin with quick and fervent kisses.

You bite your lip, struggling against the reflex, before dropping your hand to your side. When your eyes flutter open you catch the corner of Asra’s grin, a moment before he hand shoots out to capture your wrists and pin them above your head, atop the pillow. He shifts over you, his knee coming to dig into the bed beside your hips, dropping you further into the mattress, a distance which he closes before you can whine in complaint.

You finish undressing each other in a matter of seconds, a haphazard affair that results in a fit of giggles when buttons catch on stray threads, and there are layers upon layers to get through. The laughter dies on your lips, however, when your bodies align, skin to skin, and you can feel the push of his breathing, the pulse of his length against your thigh.

When he enters you, time stops.

His thrusts are slow, then fast, and in this blur of moments it’s difficult to discern the length of his movements, how long he spends kissing one shoulder before moving to the next, how long the continuous stream of praises has been flowing from your lips. The brink he’s bringing you to seems infinite, yet, when you come, it feels the buildup has been a blink, and you remain wanting him.

Asra shifts above you, turning onto his side and pulling you into embrace as you catch your breath. He’s still hard against your leg, and suddenly you’re reminded just how much time you have to spend holding him like this, being held. A weekend getaway.

“I love you, Asra.” You don’t allow your voice to drop to a whisper, a hushed murmur into his neck. Your voice is clear and strong in the pocket of space you’ve created, just the two of you, and all the stars.

Asra’s mouth splints into a beaming smile. He raises his hand to your lips, swiping his thumb over your bottom lip, an amazed inspection of what produces the sounds he loves the most, what says I love you, the most beautiful sound in the world.

[goddesslyfics]

A Place on Earth With You (Gilbert x Violet)

GilVi pre-canon, NSFW. 

---

“Major, I was performing my rounds of the camp, and-”

“Violet,” Gilbert’s voice dips in warning. “You’re not scheduled for the night patrol this week. You need to rest.” Violet pauses, holding her breath over her next word as she waits patiently for his discipline to finish. While she accepts commands without hesitation, suggestions often fall on deaf ears. He closes his mouth and gestures for her to continue.

“-and I noticed one of the tents had an unsecure post. I went to alert whoever was inside the tent of this. It was-” Here she stalls, worrying her lips together and not meeting his eye. Gilbert grows tense, feeling the instinct to crouch and take cover. Who could she have seen that would give her pause? Has there been an infiltration by the enemy?

“Lieutenant Colonel Hodgins.” Violet manages to say, though gives pause still after. “With a civilian woman.”

Read on AO3: (X)

[goddesslyfics]

Letters (Cykesquill)

A Cykesquill fic for your rainy Tuesday!

“I should have known you were being sarcastic when you told me you were having a ‘welcome party’ for your new office.” Athena grumbles beneath her breath, drawing the door to the empty, unlit room shut behind her. Her gloved hand lingers on the handle, as though she’s contemplating whether to leave or stay. One backward glance from the man in front of her makes her decision, a single steel grey eye glinting like a sword as the last sliver of light from the hall shines then ceases over the half of him that stands apart from the shadows.

“I wished to speak with you privately.” Prosecutor Blackquill returns, ignored the pointed stare Athena drills into his back as she follows him into his newly appointed office. The discord in his heart has staggered to deafening heights, drumming in her ears like a siren, though he moves undisturbedly past her to face the window set above an empty bookshelf lining the far side of the room. He doesn’t bother to flick on his desk lamp or the overhead lights. The moon is full, full enough, to cast a white wash of light into the room, drawing them into the dark outline of shadow and beyond, to highlight Athena’s wide and curious eyes.

“You could have asked.” She says softly, distracted, as she’s trying to tease out exactly what sort of unease that it is troubling him. “You can ask me anything.” 

Read on AO3: (x)

[goddesslyfics]

O My Heart (Gilbert x Violet)

My first Violet Evergarden fic. (*＾▽＾) To me, this doesn’t feel like my most polished work. but the past few weeks have been so emotionally draining I was relieved to have completed something and not have my blog fall into another lull.

I will definitely be writing more of these two, so stay tuned!

Read on AO3 here: (x) or below!

“Violet, is something wrong?”

Gilbert watched Violet beneath a drawn brow, feeling much as if he'd swallowed a stone this afternoon and it had just hit his stomach. It had been earlier that day that the two were reunited after several months, the veil of his presumed death lifted. When they’d found themselves face to face, Violet had melted into his embrace as he'd offered it. He’d held her as she became pliant in his arms, and they sank to their knees midway through the door frame, her knees hitting the hardwood of the front porch and his sinking into the plush carpet of the foyer. Not long after, however, had she grown stiff, as if realizing it had been a stranger with his arms around her.

Gilbert had entreated her inside, and following a late supper, the pair retired to the parlor, where they sat side by side on the sofa in front of the fireplace, which crackled with a vibrant life, as though Violet's long awaited presence served as added kindling. As Gilbert had little to share from his time spent in recluse, Violet’s work as an Auto Memories Doll supplied most of the conversation. She had spoken not, as Gilbert had feared, of names and locations as though she were reciting a report. Instead, she regaled him with stories of people and places with a recognizance of fulfilled experience she had not possessed as a soldier in his army. He'd kept himself hidden from her for such purposes, and a long-held sigh was released once faced with the remarkable progress of the woman he found himself enraptured by. Although he’d had to correct her each time she’d punctuated a sentence with Major, urging her to say Gilbert instead, and she ended up dropping the use of titles altogether as a result.

Gilbert had been content-more than content, beside himself-to sit back on the sofa and listen to her continued stories of her new job, her new life. He’d slipped his hand into hers at one point, his left hand, that he’d lost in the war, absentmindedly stroking the plate of her knuckles with his metallic thumb. She hadn't yet seemed to notice.

“Violet?” He prompted once more, when she seemed not to have heard. She’d trailed off, midway through recounting her assignment to transcribe a new script for a famous playwright. “Are you feeling alright?”

She seemed to become alert, then, her shoulders lifting like a automaton doll coming to life as she turned to face him. “I do not understand what I am feeling.” There was a present quality of strain to her voice. She trailed off before picking back up again. “I understand what I do not feel.” She weakly raised her right hand, intertwined with his, off the sofa. They’d both shed their gloves- there was no need for them, when they shared that prosthetic feature.  “I cannot detect any physical sensation in my hands. Do we not have the same prosthesis model? Is yours tuned to a higher sensational degree than mine?”

“I . . . no, it is not.”

“Then, you cannot feel my hand in yours? As I cannot feel your hand in mine?”

“I . . . can’t feel anything.”

A lie.

Though there was not the physical weight or texture of her hand in his, he had been as keenly aware of the contact as he was the fire in the hearth warming his body, or the support of the sofa which kept him seated upright. He had envisioned the moment they’d be side by side again with inexhaustable yearning, and cannot deny that this absolution of the moment absorbed him wholly, as if a magnet were fixed to each of his nerve endings, drawn to her only.

If she were to run from him, and hide in any room of the manor, he would find her. He would feel her, and he would find her. Violet’s presence in the room was such as a bright light, inescapable even if he were to turn away, cover his head and shield his eyes. His heart sunk at the thought that she did not feel he reflects that same light. That she could lose him so easily. He chastised himself for becoming so occupied with this dreamlike detachment, as if he had been watching their exchange pass from outside of his own body. Instead, above, he hovered over that caress of someone’s thumb over her knuckles and wondered, achingly, how it would feel to touch bare skin. Flesh, not metal. He could find someplace safe, her shoulder, her cheek, though he withheld, unwilling to interrupt the machinations of her thoughts that she was struggling to translate to word.

“I felt for a moment, just then, that I was back in my boarding room, in Leiden. I would sit at my desk and complete a report about the day's assignment. I would type them as I’ve spoken aloud just now, and I’d imagine you reading them, just as you’re listening now. But . . . you grew quiet, and I couldn’t feel your hand, and it felt like it always did then. I’d imagine you, and I would have to make myself remember that I was alone.” Her brow narrowed, the line of her mouth tightening. There was sorrow in her eyes, chagrin in her posture, and her grip on his hand was limp, as if she couldn’t care to hold him to her.

“Aside from the two weeks I was hospitalized recovering from our last battle, I have spent each day of the past several months searching for an answer to tell me what your last words to me meant. ‘I love you.’ Due to my position as an Auto Memories Doll, I have been witness to different variations of love, be it between a brother and sister, a parent and child, or a couple to be married. Within each relationship, I learned something new, something that made this love different from the one I saw last. Yet, were I called to summarize what I learned in one sentence, I could.” Though she did not seem to realize, her voice had begun to warble, her eyes water. She looked steadfast into the fire. Her eyes must have been burning.

“Saying to someone that you love them means that you are going to stay with them. Yet, you, Major, left. You told me you loved me, and you left me. That is what I do not understand.”

Gilbert’s head dropped in shame, deflating with a sigh. He could feel Violet’s eyes trained on him, in the same manner one feels the noontime sun bearing down its heat in the summer. “I acted in what I though was aligned to your best interests, Violet. I longed to give you a normal life. Apart from the war, the constant running. I realized, and it was the most painful realization that I’ve come to yet, that I could not be a part of your life when you saw me only as your major. I am unspeakably sorry that the grief you suffered at my expense was false. But I knew all the while, you would never be truly free, with me. I am the war.” He cleared his throat, as the rise of emotion within his chest threatened to overtake him. “I was, at the very least. I am not sure, quite, who I am to be now. I'm not sure I have to right to be who I'd like, regardless."

From his side, Violet whispered, “You’re Gilbert.” And finger by finger, her hands curled around his.The tension in her body left her, aside from that hold. “And you must live, as I must live as well.” Through the clamp in her throat she continued. “I . . . was recently taught what it means to be lonely. What the heaviness in my heart meant. I realized at that moment that I would rather die than live without you. When I was told you were missing in action, I wished very deeply that the same fate would befall me. But I couldn’t die, because you had ordered me to live. I could not work around this contradiction. But I had to, because in taking your final orders, I freed myself from having to take anyone else’s. Now I am Violet, Auto Memories Doll. And I will go anywhere to meet your request.”

“Anywhere?” Gilbert lifted his head, meeting her unwavering gaze. She had presented an inexplicable draw, the ardent hope of her words spoke to a dream he’s been having of late. While her words pierced him, I wished very deeply that the same fate would befall me, they healed him also. He finds himself inching towards her, unbidden. There was a new light in her eyes, the light they both lived by. He wished to remain as close to it as possible.

“Anywhere.”

Their foreheads met. They could both feel it. Their breath mingled, like the currents that combine to make a storm; his heated, hers cool. “There are times when parting is inevitable.” Gilbert sighed, felt his throat tighten. “But in my definition of love, know this; I will always return to you.” His squeezed her hands to punctuate his point, though he knew she would only feel the faint tug to her wired tendons. “And if you need to feel me, tell me.”

Violet held his half gaze, suspending a question between them. The answer settled like a chill, dusting both their cheeks with a highset blush. She moved with pristine stillness, the kind that often got her mistaken for a doll, and closed the breadth of distance between them to lay a kiss upon his eyepatch. Her lower lip grazed his cheekbone by only a fraction, yet the ghost of sensation was enough to render his breathless, a roseate flush drawn up his neck. A kiss. “What do you know of kisses, Violet?” He dared to whisper, though feared he may shatter the air of intimacy surrounding them, which hung suspended there, frozen and fragile as glass.

Violet pulled away slowly, considering. “I know they can be warm, and cold. Their main purpose seems to be to express affection, but they also serve to comfort, and form a bridge of sorts, between two people. That is what I’ve gathered, from my experiences.”

Gilbert pitched a brow in question as a shudder ran through his heart, slicing through its chambers. He hadn’t expected her answer would come from her experience. Jealousy is an ugly creature, he knew this, but its head reared within him for a brief, turgid moment. “And whom have you kissed before now?”

“A young girl kissed my cheek as I was departing from an assignment. She had believed me to be a doll- not an Auto Memories Doll, but one like a child’s plaything, made of porcelain. She was quite surprised to find my cheek was flesh.” Her lips tipped into a smile-did she know that she was smiling?-at the memory of young Ann, who, at eight years old, would have received the first of fifty of her mother’s letters penned by Violet’s hand. Gilbert watched the rememberance play out on Violet’s face with a smile of his own, relief sinking into his chest that the kiss she had spoken of hadn’t been romantic in nature. His right hand, the one supremely capable of gathering sensation, raised to her face. His thumb curved along her cheek, sweeping over the spot where the young girl’s kiss may have been laid.

“I also kissed the forehead of a soldier as he lay dying.” Violet continued. Gilbert’s thumb froze mid-caress. “He had been stationed in Ctrigall, and commissioned a Doll to write a letter home to his parents and a woman named Maria, whom he had developed romantic feelings for. He had been mortally wounded by the rebel faction before I arrived, though I addressed his wounds and wrote the letters. I . . . watched as the life drained out of him.” Here, Violet’s eyes took on a glassy distance as she retreated into the memory, so unlike the story she told last. When her eyes closed so saw that snowed-in cabin, the stain of blood on the hardwood. Gilbert pulled her close to him, to comfort her as a kiss might, though she seemed not to notice. “He asked me to hold his hands, which I did. He was shaking, and speaking aloud to the girl, Maria, though she was not there. He told her ‘I love you.’ That is when I kissed him. However, I was not thinking of him at all. Is that selfish of me?”

She raised her head from Gilbert’s chest, her eyes becoming alert and pleading. “I do not think that is selfish at all.” Gilbert murmured. He could scarcely hear himself over the echo of his heart pounding from within his chest, beating still, despite his previous doubts. “You had managed to escape the war, only to have yourself thrown back into it. War leaves imprints on a person, whether they realize them or not. I’ve heard some refer to it as ‘shell shock.’ You likely reverted back into the mental state of when you were fighting, which prevented you from focusing on this soldier. His battles were not yours, after all.”

Violet nodded in dismissive indication that she heard him, though if she agrees remains unclear. Taking a single steadying breath, she drew herself upright and continued without break. “I delivered the letters to his family personally. When I did, they did the most peculiar thing. They thanked me. They would not accept my apologies for letting him die, instead acting as though I had brought Aidan himself to their doorstep. How could they reserve their anger like that?” A newfound urgency broke through to her tone, her gaze sweeping back to Gilbert with the expectancy that he knew precisely why this abstruse family had refused to cast stones upon her and her letters.

Gilbert merely shook his head, his brows drawn in a sort of mournful consternation. “Violet, you continue to be the most selfless person I have ever known.”

“Self-less?” Violet mulled over the new word, allowing for the taste of it, the meaning, to settle. “Yes, I think you are correct. I hardly ever thought of myself in the past. I only thought about you.”

Gilbert sucked in a breath, and all at once the inches’ distance between them felt like a chasm, a void that must be closed. He raised both hands to cup her face, smoothing the few loose strands of flaxen hair that had escaped from her braids.

“Violet?” She nodded mutely. “Have you ever exchanged a kiss on this lips?”

Her eyes widened. “From my understanding, a kiss on the lips is reserved for lovers.”

“Yes, it is.” Gilbert breathed, sweeping his thumb over the cleft of her lip with a feather like touch. Violet’s crystalline blue eyes widened further, then narrowed in understanding, though she did not draw away. She allowed her eyes to slide shut, shutting off the light from within. She lifted her face slightly, as she’d seen couples do, either as passerbys on the street or in the picture shows her colleagues liked to sometime go to after work. Her heart struck a heightened pace, like a train pulling out of its station. She wondered how fast it'd have to beat to shoot from its tracks, straight from the thin walls of her chest.

Gilbert’s hand slid to her chin, his fingertips just grazing her jaw, tilting it slightly and drawing her lips towards his by fraction, slow enough that she would have time to withdraw. Her stillness kept them align, however, and his lips descended upon hers. Their lips moved in a gentle waltz, exquisitely in tune to their partner. All impressions unreliant to this moment slid away; the crackle of the fire replaced by the hallow and intake of their breathing, the rustle of clothing as the remaining space between them was cleared.

They part once at a loss for breath, feeling rather unsteady in returning to the atmosphere they’d both felt they’d broken apart from. Time resumed in a steady fashion, the grandfather clock in the corner of the room keeping up pace as though it had never stopped.

“Gilbert,” This time she spoke without need for correction. Her hands curled into his shirtfront, holding him to her. “Could you say those words to me, one more time?”

His smile told her he will say those words however many times she’d like.

“Violet, I love you.”