a private writing blog for a variety of canon & original characters. dreamt by eve! relies on personal interpretation and headcanons, a vague recollection of the canon material, and a willingness to adapt to any universe.

guidelines + characters, prompts.

night reflects into the soft ripples of the lake; the moon, bright above their head, illuminates indigo's silhouette as they walk toward the water. the wizard moves to escape, a movement born of habit at this point, but the druid shakes their head before it can be achieved. like a spell spoken, its effect is immediate. he does not move, his feet buried in the soft clay surrounding the lake. he can barely breathe as he sees them ridding themselves of their blood-battered clothing. the soft thump of fabric falling to the ground is deafening; nearly as loud as the beatings of his heart as his gaze linger on the druid's silhouette.

they're beautiful. he, a man of observation, keen on details, knew that already. it would be foolish to pretend he has not written a few sonnets about the tender way light hits their eyes, or the gentle slope of their shoulders when, sitting against tree bark, they observe the wide horizon. if he were an artist, he'd know the curve of their hips by heart; he'd draw it blind, from all the times he has walked behind them, suffering the distance but willing himself to keep the pace, if only to maintain the sight. but this… this is more than a glimpse in haste, with indigo taking off their robes before the wizard gets a chance to turn around. the usual way to watch them is a shameful thing; either from afar or in the wild second it takes to look away. he is not proud of it. he doesn't recognize himself in it; doesn't know where the hunger for such a thing comes from. their history is one of silences stretching while they take their full, looking at each other, as if the rest of the time it was a treat he was not willing to indulge in.

right now, it's an invitation to bathe in the vision, to watch as it unfolds, to discover the shadow cast beneath their breasts, or the intimate notch between the clavicles. for a wild moment, he wonders what it could be like to be close enough to press a kiss there, where the flesh is at its most tender. the thought, of course, spreads like wildfire; he must be blushing a thousand times worse than that cruel day they gifted him a flower. he has it still, dried and spread across his favorite book. he should leave. he knows where that particular urge comes from: he would rather keep his eyes closed at all times & get to love them than watch them & risk indigo misunderstanding his attentions for lust.

but they asked, in their way. they shook their head. it has to mean something.

the sight of them is enough to steal his breath away, but it is also the rest of it. the body as it disappears into dark waters. the way moonlight spreads around them like a cloak of shining diamonds. the shadows of the trees high above their heads, swaying with the night breeze,like hands reaching down. in this very moment they seem to be a part of the scenery, another creature of the forest, bathing at night. the moon kisses them home, lapping at exposed skin with the kind of gentleness that gale struggles to understand-- the night had been, up until that point, a moment in time. with the druid, it seems to be a creature of its own, holding them in their loving arms.