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catiuskaa · 27 days ago

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HEURES D’ABSENCE.

come to bed (study me instead).

sum. felix knows you have to study, but… he smells so nice too… ok, hear me out… what if, instead, he helps you... review your research material?

wc: 4.3k

cw: sun & moon metaphors, felix is so down bad, minsung is mentioned, they’re so silly, sir kink? (not explored), kisses, kisses, kisses, oral (m.rec), soft yet unprotected piv sex (don’t!), and that’s all, folks!

scent. (♡) the perfume saga.

[🔹★💤 ★🔹]

The Sun is the star at the center of the Solar System. It is a massive, nearly perfect sphere of hot plasma, heated to incandescence by nuclear fusion reactions in its core, radiating the energy from its surface mainly as visible light and infrared radiation with 10% at ultraviolet energies. It is by far the most important source of energy for life on Earth. The Sun has been an object of veneration in many cultures. It has been a central subject for astronomical research since antiquity.

It's kind of an obvious statement, I know, but Felix resembles it quite well, with a couple of exceptions. You know for a fact that he too is by far your most important source of energy for life on Earth. Still, even if Felix can’t help but giggle every time you compare him to the massive star —reason why now his friends call him Sunny, too— he doesn’t feel like he can compare.

He hopes he never gets heated to incandescence. He isn’t sure if any culture venerates him, but he’s quite sure to say that the chances are quite low. He also hopes no one calls him a ‘yellow dwarf.’ But ultimately, he knows he isn’t that massive star that the Earth orbits around because, if he were, he’d probably have a bright, nuclear solution to his silly recent troubles.

But Felix groans. He isn’t as observant as he’d like to be. Moreover, when he does eventually see it, somehow it is always a bit too late.

Hogging the blankets and hugging a pillow, he sinks his head into it again. He’s been turning in bed for what feels like hours because he can’t help but notice it now. He can’t help but wonder how it could escalate to such an extent right under his nose.

Felix blinks, sleepy, but not quite enough to fall asleep.

But hogging the blankets isn’t his thing. He feels hot, so he pushes the bedsheets off of him, just for his arms to feel cold, to which he mumbles a curse and grabs the blanket again. This is bugging him. A lot. Like, sure, it was happening under his nose, but his nose wasn’t even that big. It keeps going for a while: hot, cold, hot, cold.

It’s unfair, or so he feels. It’s gotta be, he grimaces, as he covers himself top to bottom with the stupid blanket, and sticks his foot out. Weirdly, that scares him, so he groans and finally surrenders.

Ladies and gents, it only took Felix a week to figure out and acknowledge: it’s getting harder to sleep without you by his side. The excuse his body gives him is another, however, so he rises from his bed and heads out.

If you hear the faint sounds the wood makes with each of his steps as he goes from his room to the kitchen, he does not know. Felix just stares at your room’s door in your shared apartment, and there’s not even a shy move. Nothing what-so-ever. Not even the slightest gust of wind that moves it.

Felix sighs, the hair in his arms spiky as he opens the fridge and a shiver rushes while he grabs a bottle of water, chugging it as if the answer to his troubles is at the end. Somehow, he never reaches it. He swallows, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, feeling the cold remnants of it quickly fade away down his throat.

That refreshes him, but the light from the fridge killed every ounce of sleepiness in his eyes. He leans his elbows on the kitchen counter, passing his hands through his hair.

It’s a struggle for him, and maybe he comes to terms with it just because it’s late at night for him. Because this is as pathetic as it sounds: you have been locked up in your room on a day-to-day basis because of your exams, and even if Felix understands, cooks you breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and checks on you when it’s late just to move your sleepy body from your desk to your bed, not seeing you aside from that is getting harder and harder.

Mhhm. Damn right. Pathetic, he knows. His roommate Minho—a poor guy stuck living in a flat with a lovey-dovey couple— had laughed one day so hard that they kicked them both out of the university’s library.

“I mean, sure I might miss Jisung like that whenever he has exams, but if I lived with him?” Minho scoffs as they both get out of the library. He feels bad for the blond boy though, so he sighs, patting his back. “Maybe you guys should talk this out, Sunny. C’mon, let’s get some hot coffee.”

Minho was in Jisung's apartment tonight, so Felix couldn’t go and bother him as he usually did. The only light in the flat was the one that escapes from the underside of your door. Like a moth, he gets closer, surrendering again. He sighs as he steps towards your room. Only then, he stops.

He doesn’t want to bother you. It may sound like a stupid excuse that he makes for himself, but ultimately it’s the only truth he knows. However, he grins, thinking that chances are you’ve probably fallen asleep on the desk again, your room smelling like paper, ink, and noodles. He can lie to himself and say that he was only going to tuck you into bed like usual. And so, taking the doorknob in his hand, and breathes out before opening it.

…until, well. You’re not asleep.

The Moon is Earth's only natural satellite. It orbits at an average distance of 384,400 km (238,900 mi), about 30 times the diameter of Earth. Tidal forces between Earth and the Moon have synchronized the Moon's orbital period (lunar month) with its rotation period (lunar day) at 29.5 Earth days, causing the same side of the Moon to always face Earth. The Moon's gravitational pull is the main driver of Earth's tides.

Maybe that is why as soon as the door is open, his heart dances in his chest. Maybe your gravitational pull is insignificant compared to that of the actual grey satellite, but Felix doesn’t have it in him to care when all he wants is to melt by your side. ‘You’re awake,’ he wants to say, but he shrugs it off. That’s a stupid sentence, even for him to say at three am. It is a fact that you barely sleep and that only worsens during exams week.

Nonetheless, he doesn’t let himself dwell on how not creative his mind turns out to be in the worst moments, not while your eyes hold his. It’s then when he sees through the midst of tired, sleepy confusion in the colour of your eyes that the hours of absence, of longing, of craving, crash against you almost as strongly as they crash against him. The sun and the moon on a collision course—fiery and untouchable, yet destined to shatter the sky when they finally meet.

There are no words —no other worlds: a star, and a satellite— as he stares at you, as you sit on the floor, against the edge of your bed, your room a mess and your desk a battleground that, by the looks of it, Felix can’t help but think you’re not having the upper hand in this war you’re fighting against piles of printed put PDFs. You want to stand up and hug him as if you haven’t seen him in months, but you don’t know your right foot from your left, your mind baffled and your heart swooning as soon as the dim light of your desk lets you see some of his darkest freckles, even as far away as he stands.

And somehow, he understands, meeting you halfway. Maybe he doesn’t, but you don’t have it in you to give a damn. Not when he’s back at your side.

It’d be foolish if he tried it right away, and maybe it’s because he knows you so well, but you appreciate that he doesn’t immediately urge you to go back to bed. Felix wouldn’t know if you had been in bed to begin with, but nevertheless, he sits with you against it, the only sound in the room being the ruffle the bedsheets make as he pulls at them to settle them back on the bed, and the sound of your computer’s fan, setting the mood just right.

You would’ve made that joke out loud, but you don’t have the energy. Not when all of your remaining energy goes to pay attention to the very much welcomed presence next to you, when he cradles your face with the palm of his hand, and every bit of hopelessness of your coloured eyes hits him, unrestrained.

“My misty moon.”

It’s a whisper, one that makes your heart sink. You missed that silly nickname so much, and it’s almost ridiculous –you have seen him during the week, but still, it doesn’t feel the same.

His arm slithers its way to your waist, scooching himself closer to you. You blink, noticing your eyes are teary.

Misty, ha. So funny.

Maybe you missed him that much, because it cracks a smile out of you. You don’t dare to doubt that you did. Maybe it’s because you’re stressed because of all the sheer amount of work you still have left to do —just the thought of it makes the room spin.

He hugs you tighter. Felix doesn’t know what to do. He pulls you closer. No, closer. His soft hands move to your thigh and pick you up, sitting you on his lap. He’s never seen you look so fragile.

It was silly. It was you who had asked him to let you be while exams lasted, because you concentrated better alone. The environment chaotic, sure, because you hadn’t had a dinner before two am that wasn’t noodles in like, a week, but still, even when you were roommates, he knew better than to approach you during exams. You had always made it clear: you just worked like that. He didn’t get it, but he also knows he’d do whatever you need. It hurt his soft little heart to see you push yourself so hard, but in the end, it always paid off.

But you had been missing him so much. So, so, so much you almost were convinced it couldn’t be normal. That you shouldn’t be. You had barely been together for a year, even if you had lived as roommates for longer. Was that even allowed? To miss someone so vividly when they are in the room next to you?

His chest feels warm against you. Oh, you missed him. Your chest gnaws at the feeling, your own heart hating you —despising you, even— from keeping it away from the warmth of this sun for so long —a little over a week— because, how could you be so cruel, your heart whines, teary and all smiley now.

You nuzzle your head in the crook of his neck, and he chuckles softly.

“You’re tickling me, moonmuffin.”

His- his voice? His laugh? Surely he’s got to be trying to murder you in cold blood and cuddles. What else could he be attempting when he feels so soft and so warm and so kissable and so… Felix.

“You smell nice,” you mumble instead, excusing yourself as you attempt to break each and every law of physics you may or may not remember as you move and fail to get even closer to him.

“What?” he giggles again, his hands traveling to thread your hair.

His fingers through your scalp feel so nice you sigh and melt against him. You agree with your heart: how dare you take this away for a week? You should be imprisoned and sentenced to mandatory cuddles for the rest of your life. Yeah. Life-sentence cuddles. You brush your nose slightly over his collarbone. You’re lucky you even remember what you had been saying.

“Not my fault. You smell nice.”

You should peach the idea. Life sentence cuddles for not having cuddles before. For attempting to even succeed in not having cuddles for a week. That? That’s fucking crazy.

“Mooncakes. How about we get you to bed, mmh?”

Maybe two life sentences. ‘Damn. You’re really sleep deprived’, a voice in your head tells you, but you ignore it, loving the thought of cuddles and Felix for life. Wait, no, even better: Felix’s cuddles for life. That way you didn’t need to worry about not having two lives. You could just cuddle. With Felix.

Meanwhile, Felix doesn’t even struggle when his hand passes behind your knees and holds your back, carefully standing up and getting you in bed, and quickly reaching for the blanket to tuck you in.

“What are you mumbling about,” he smiles, stroking your cheek.

His touch feels softer than all the blankets in your apartment combined. Like cotton and clouds, soft, mushy, effervescent. A-blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kind of deal. Which is a very big deal, because there is no way in hell Felix even tries to leave. You have been sentenced to cuddles for life, and the law is the law.

“Oh no, mister,” you blink, smiling softly. “You don’t get to leave now.”

His eyes are like crescent moons while you look at him as if he was crazy. As if the mere thought of him trying to leave was mindboggling, along with downright impossible. Fat chance you were going to let him go past that door tonight. Or ever, your heart snickers, rubbing hands like birdman, almost menacingly.

“The bed is cold,” he teases.

“Warm it up, Sunny.”

Your reply comes faster than he anticipated despite how sleepy you look, and Felix can’t help but smile. He missed how that nickname sounded in your voice, even if it was layered below sleepiness. “Smartass,” he grins, but he tries to keep his promise. Just in case. He wouldn’t want you to be pissed off at him in the morning. “You should sleep.”

“Haha. As if.”

Your hands travel and link behind his head, keeping him an inch from your face. You’re making this too hard for poor, weak, little Felix, but he bites his lip. His voice turns even softer, a whisper against your lips.

“But I’ll just keep you awake.”

Your eyes trail down to his lips, and he’s so close to losing it. “Somehow I still don’t see the issue,” you mumble.

His nose strokes yours as he can’t help but giggle. “You’re so gonna get all moony about it tomorrow.”

“What does that even mean,” you scrunch your nose, much to his amusement.

Felix just laughs, shaking his head sheepishly.

“We should sleep.”

“Right.”

“You’ll be mad at me if you feel tired tomorrow.”

Now that makes you giggle, letting out a sound much like a lie detector would. A strange meeh that, had he not been as tired as he was, Felix would’ve rolled his eyes at.

“Wrong.”

He sighs, the smile on his face not faltering for a millisecond. “You’re making this too hard.”

You blink at him innocently, and Felix indulges again. Maybe because it’s late, but honestly, his mind is too tired to make up an excuse as to why he lowers his head and kisses your temple.

He hears how your breath hitches, and that makes him as giddy as the first time.

“You know, I read something off the pages on the floor last night,” Felix chuckles, stroking your nose with his as you blink and blush.

“Oh?” You smile, cheekily interested.

“Oh,” he teases you. “So, philosophy major, what’s all that with kisses and their meanings?”

“Oh my god,” you laugh, the thought of taking the spare pillow on your bed and hitting him with it getting tempting.

Felix’s hands play with the ends of your hair as it rests against the pillow below your head, a mindless action that he only stops to cradle your face and press against your cheeks teasingly.

“My cute fluffy moon. A philosophy romantic.”

“Enough,” you whine, laughing. His heart does a little dance every time he gets a chuckle out of you, and this time, a win is a win. “Fine, I’ll tell you about it.”

“You know, I’m actually a visual learner?”

Felix bites his tongue when your eyebrows raise. Even he knew that was fairly smooth, which is only acknowledged when you roll your eyes.

“So, technicalities aside, because I refuse to tell the intro again or even read it within the next ten hours,” you state, making him laugh as you continue talking, “the human species has many types of kissing. And all of them have different underlining meanings.”

The look in his brown eyes remains expecting, however, so it seems that short explanation won’t do to make the suddenly-turned Professor Felix happy. Or so he makes it seem, by how he fakes pushing non-existent glasses further the bridge of his nose.

“That seems like an interesting research,” he starts, pushing the non-existent glasses again. “I see,” he snorts, because it’s late, it’s a lame joke, and he’s trying to get you to give him the kisses he’s been missing all week —and he may be close to getting some, which he celebrates silently.

“Any examples, perchance?”

And just why the hell would you refuse?

“Of course, sir,” it’s just because of his formal tone, but something in the air shifts. Maybe just the dust that gets bored and changes direction in the air, but Felix’s eyes also do something you can’t quite place. But your mind goes up to the files, seeing if you understand the topic you are researching.

“How about we do it this way— you say a body part, and I tell you its meaning?”

Oh, fuck yeah. Felix can’t believe he’s getting it this easily. He could die right now, filled with the cheeky malice of getting a plan executed successfully, but he ain’t dying without those kisses.

He ponders carefully but decides to start easy. “A kiss on the cheek?”

As your hands softly move to cradle his face, the feeling of your soft lips against his skin, soft soft soft, so soft he can’t think of a better adjective to describe it nor another by any chance, the gentle and tender press of your kiss triggers the butterflies that linger around in his system ever since he’d started liking you.

“Depending on the culture, a kiss on the cheek indicates affection or tries to portray a sense of welcoming,” you state in a calming voice filled with sleepiness that’s slowly starting to wear off.

“Forehead.” Felix grins, feeling his cheeks heat up when your hands move his head so you can reach from where you are lying down underneath him and shortly peck him.

“A deep wish for protection, with underlying affection. A way to express one’s desire for the other’s well-being.”

“I uh… may be running out of ideas,” Felix chuckles sheepishly. But please don’t stop. I don’t want you to stop. Ever.

He shuts up his heart as you start speaking. “I’ll take the microphone from here, then,” you laugh.

And Felix smiles widely as he starts being pampered to death in the form of kisses. A kiss on his earlobe, “to provoke arousal.” A kiss on his hands, “to greet with respect.” A tiny peck on his nose, “to express care.” A slightly longer kiss on his lips, “love,” you continue as you smile at him.

Had he been standing, Felix would’ve swooned by now. He doesn’t know how his arms haven’t surrendered and finally refused to hold his weight over you, but there he remains, over you, legs tangled underneath the bedsheets, with the only light in the room —your desk light— lighting not only his face, but also his eyes as they shine brighter after every kiss.

“Now, as you so obviously know, as a thorough expert in the matter,” you joke, happy to make him laugh, “other, different kisses may share meaning with these.”

“I see. Go on, then.”

It only takes another “Of course, sir,” and there it goes again. The tension in the room spikes up, like the hair in your arms whenever you look at the mess your room is in during exams.

But you’re having fun. And you smile. “A kiss on the lips indicates love, as I stated prior,” you snicker, kissing him on the lips again, maybe to make a point, maybe because after all these kisses he’s starting to taste like the most delicious thing you could take to your mouth.

Blame the tension for that, your heart grins at you, pushing you from behind to keep going. And there you go.

“There’s also what is called French kissing.” You swear you can see the exact moment where your desk light rats him out, allowing you to see how his pupils darken when instead of lifting your head to reach him, you finally link your arms behind his head and pull him down towards you, kissing him on the lips again, deeply this time, nibbling on his lips and taking advantage of the moment he smiles to slide your tongue in.

Felix isn’t just on cloud nine. He’s on cloud nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine. He’s never been so high in the sky, and even if it is currently past midnight, had he been the actual, real Sun, not only would he be shining as much as he is now, but also make tomorrow the day with the clearest blue skies.

None of you can tell who is it that starts deepening the kiss. None of you can tell who’s the first that starts panting and gasping while both his and your hands start to map the other’s body, as if they’ve lost something and were sure the other one had it hidden somewhere.

You, however, are sure that there’s no such thing as a good night kiss anymore, because, with Felix’s knee between your thighs and his tongue in your mouth, you’re so not going to allow this alluring man who you’ve been dreaming about since the exams week started to leave you just like that.

To hell with tomorrow’s exam.

Felix, the poor boy, can’t read your mind. Maybe that’s why he gasps so heavily he lets out a moan when you roll him to his back and kiss him again before he can catch his breath. Maybe it's why he keeps letting out moans when he notices you smiling as you kiss him, your hands trailing up below his shirt.

“T-that tickles,” he smiles, panting, as your fingers trail faintly over his skin, making him feel goosebumps.

It doesn’t tickle anymore when it’s your lips that follow his happy trail, down, down, down. He takes off his shirt as if it’s burning, and if he’s honest with himself, he can’t think of a time when he has wanted this as desperately as he does now.

There’s no doubt in his mind that in your darkened eyes the same thought lingers on your head, while they stare deeply into his own, almost in a way capturing his soul, the sensation as effervescent yet not as pleasurable as the one that travels from his dick to his whole body as your hand closes around it. God, if Felix loves that sensation. He was so drunk once that he remembers thinking that if he could marry it, he probably would’ve. Somewhere in Las Vegas, too.

His head falls limp against the pillows with a thud, his hand threading into your hair as pretty little moans leave past his lips, following the sticky sweet sounds your mouth starts to make as you attempt to take him in, hollowing your cheeks and leaving your hand at the base to make up for what you can’t fit.

“F-fuck, baby, that’s so good…” he lets out over and over,” so good, baby, so good,” he almost mewls, “missed you s’much, fuck…”

He lets out a groan as he moves your head away, because he could bet money that he was a beat way from bursting, and he wouldn’t lose. Even then, losing the opportunity to fuck you for all the times he sighed pathetically this week, missing you when you were just next door, is much, much worse.

Felix’s soft hands travel, stroking every square inch of surface he can at a time, passing your thighs, your stretch marks and your hip dips —ones he has been a devout worshiper for God knows how long, dedicating entire nights (and days, if it had been only for him) to the both of them— bending to press soft kisses from your tummy up to your cleavage, his hands playing with your nipples just to hear your whines as he helps you lean your back down softly on the bed.

Felix whispers soft and tender nothings in your ear, mixed with silly sentences just because he’s missed having you below him so stupidly, stupidly because you’ve missed him just as much. He too kisses you everywhere after he slides in, only because he’s pretty sure that if he starts moving right away, he might not last as long as he wants.

Your cheek, your forehead, your temple, on the palm of your hand before linking his fingers with it, on your nose just so he can smile at you when you scrunch it.

“Sunny, don’t tease,” you pout cutely, moving your hips.

Finally, Felix giggles as he dives for your lips deeply. And when he kisses you, you smile, reeling in the feeling of his lips against your lips.

A solar eclipse.

[🔹★💤 ★🔹]

~kats, who’s genuinely tweaking bc why do i feel like this wouldn’t work if i hadn’t sneaked astronomical stuff in it?

catiuskaa, february 2025 ©

I AM??? SO SORRY?? I HAVEN'T POSTED IN?? SO LONG?? MERRY CHRISTMAS AND HAPPY NEW YEAR??? LIKE ??'?'?'?' I MISSED SO MUCH??

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huariqueje · 1 year ago

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Breakfast at the radiator - Pierre Bonard , 1930.

French, 1867 - 1947

Oil on canvas

#Pierre Bonard #french artist #Les Nabis #radiator #central heating #breakfast scene

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milawritess · 2 months ago

Note

just read your gojo fic and it was amazing!! can i ask does megumi end up calling the reader mom to her face or something along those lines in the end? i’m a sucker for the reader being a parent to megumi so was wanting to know how that plays out 💜

Pairing: Gojo Satoru x Reader, mom!Reader & Fushiguro Megumi

Warnings: angst, Megumi missing his mum :(

Word count: 2k+

a/n: this takes place after the events of my fic Wherever you go, that's where I'll follow

Would Megumi ever call you mom to your face?

Yes and no. He’s a bit shy when it comes down to it.

After nearly dying, you were sick. Your technique became unstable, a flicker of the shadow of what your flames once were.

Your recovery was hard, harder than anyone could have expected. Your eyes were hollow and sunken; you had lost even more weight, and you were always so tired. Megumi saw you dozing off at the dinner table, in the middle of conversations, and one time while you were even standing. It seemed like a never-ending exhaustion—like your own soul couldn’t withstand being… alive.

It scared Megumi. More than words could describe.

When word got around that you couldn't even conjure up more than a spark, Megumi noticed you started to change. You’d disappear for days at a time, you were eating less and less, and you hardly spoke, evident by the strain in your vocal cords when you addressed him or anyone for that matter. He knew you were depressed; he picked up on the signs quickly and felt the weight of your absence. Eventually, it seemed Yuji and Nobara did as well.

It was starting to get to you, he thinks. But Megumi doesn’t entirely blame you. If he woke up one day unable to conjure his shadows, he thinks he’d lose himself, too.

Megumi could tell Gojo was starting to worry. He found him taking you out on strolls around the block a few times, trying to get you out of the house you’d much rather wallow away in. Gojo kept a bright smile on his face the entire time, and he was more open and apparent with his affection for you. His hands were always on your hip, around your shoulders, or your hand was tightly wrapped in his. Megumi wondered if it was to be closer to you or to help you keep your balance. Probably both; Gojo walked slower than usual, half strides that still never seemed quite slow enough to match yours.

It felt like you were just… disintegrating right before everyone’s eyes. To Megumi, it was like watching an angel fall from grace.

One day, he finds you and Gojo on the couch. After finishing his classes, he went to the store to buy your favorite soup, crackers, and some energy drinks he hoped might perk you up, even just a bit. He let himself into the Gojo estate after knocking and receiving no answer. It wasn't a big deal. Not too long ago, it was his home, too, and it's not like nobody was home. He could sense Gojo's presence. It was oddly overwhelming and dense.

He sees why when he finds you.

The room was warm—warm enough to make him break a sweat in his uniform upon entering. The fireplace was crackling, and the central heat was on blast. You were sprawled out on the couch in the main room, and Gojo was behind you, holding you to his chest while you slept. Megumi was ready to leave the grocery bag on the kitchen counter and leave. It didn’t feel right intruding, but-

You were shivering.

He doesn’t get it—why nothing could keep you warm. His whole life, you’ve always brought a warmth that extended beyond your kindness and soft smiles. It was the kind of warmth you shared with him— from those oversized winter coats you bought him, those knitted gloves you make him every year, and you.

He remembers being small and how you’d heat your hands before holding his tightly. Back then, he never had numb knuckles or fingertips whenever you were around. Not only that, you could just radiate warmth, effortlessly warming the air around you. He’s seen you do it a few times when the people around you got too cold. It was like walking past a sauna, a warm breeze that always caught others off guard.

He remembers you doing it just a few weeks ago. Yuji’s eyes widened, and he jumped up and down, annoyingly asking a million questions about your technique. You looked a bit prideful when he compared you to a fire-breathing dragon, which, ironically, might have been the best comparison for you.

He hated that you shivered now. With several blankets, the room cranked to eighty degrees, and Gojo beside you still wasn't enough. He hated that there wasn’t much anyone could do—anything he could do.

Quietly, he ambles upstairs, yanking the blanket off the bed in his old room. When he returns to the living room, he throws it over you and Gojo.

Gojo doesn’t move much but opens one eye, eyeing Megumi for a moment. He acknowledged Gojo with a nod, knowing that he wasn’t asleep. His six eyes have followed him since he knocked on the front door.

However, he notices that Gojo has sweat beading down his temple, his white hair damp and sticking to his forehead. Megumi hadn’t associated himself with Gojo much since the incident, but… he’s happy he’s with you, doing everything he can to keep you safe, protected, and warm, even at his own expense.

The corner of Gojos' lip twitches before his eye closes again.

Megumi leaves a note on the counter before leaving.

Mom,

I bought you some food from the market. It’s in the fridge. Get well soon.

— Megumi

It’s when Gojo takes a leave of absence from teaching that Megumi can feel it sinking in—a dark foreboding, an anxiousness that tied knots around his heart, keeping him up late into the night.

“I’m worried,” Yuji admitted sullenly. “What if… what if the damage was so bad she won’t fully heal? I know regenerating cursed energy takes a while, but it’s been weeks.”

“I really hope that’s not the case,” Nobara sighs, resting her elbows on the table and looking out into the distance. “It must be serious for Gojo-Sensei to leave.”

“I can’t imagine how painful it must have been,” Yuji winces a bit, merely playing with the fries on his plate. “… Urggg!” Yuji wines, hiding his face in his hands. “I don’t even wanna be at this stupid sandwich shop without Sensei. It’s not right!”

“Relax, I’ll order her something before leaving. I’ll drop it off at their place,” Megumi grouses, pulling himself away from his thoughts.

Yuji peeks at Megumi between his fingers. “…Can I come?”

Hell no, is what Megumi wants to say, but he bites his tongue. Tsk. You’d probably like to see Yuji—Nobara too.

“Fine,” Megumi laments between gritted teeth. “Just- don’t bother her too much. We drop the food off, and then we leave.”

Of course, Yuji doesn’t listen.

“Sensei, it was crazy! First, it went—boom! Then skeeert, and wham! And then, and then- I went flying! Right into the wall! But it was a short wall! I flipped right over it!”

You held a cup of warm tea in your hands and smiled softly, eagerly nodding along and giggling at Yuji. He animated the story with excitement, bouncing on his toes, and his voice echoed through the halls as he made quirky sounds. Megumi rolled his eyes, finding his friend rather obnoxious, but you looked happy. He supposed that was all that really mattered.

However, Megumi wonders if you have a single clue as to what Yuji is talking about. He surely didn’t.

Yuji threw himself down on the couch adjacent to where you sat, right beside Nobara. “Man… they banned me. Can you believe that?”

“They banned you? That’s egregious.”

“I know, right!”

You wiggle your eyebrows before taking a sip of your tea. “Want me to beat up the director?”

Yuji lets out a heartfelt laugh. “No, but that would be kinda funny,” he sighs dramatically. “I guess I’ll just have to start going to other skating rinks.”

“Sensei-” Nobara freezes, your name slipping from her lips.

Megumi couldn’t see what those two saw. He opted for staying in the corner of the room, watching you interact with his two friends. It was hard for him, he realized bitterly, to even look at you. So he stayed in the corner, content with just watching over you from a distance. But suddenly, the air is knocked from his lungs.

Things weren’t supposed to be like this.

Nobara reaches forward quickly, nearly dropping her tea as she does. She rips out three tissues from the tissue box before shoving them in your hands.

However, Yuji freezes. His face goes white as a sheet.

You lean forward, holding the tissue to your nose. Nobara jumps up, putting her hands on your shoulders as she encourages you to stand. “We’ll be right back! Going to the ladies room!”

It’s only when you two walk past him that he sees the bloody tissue, crimson dripping from your nose. Yuji remains silent on the couch, fiddling with his hands and looking at nothing in particular. He looks like he just saw a ghost, and Megumi doesn’t blame him. He felt the same way; however, he had the will to move. In a haze, his feet carry him to the kitchen. He finds Gojo there, plating the food Megumi brought you and putting it in the microwave.

“You want to tell me what’s going on?”

“Well, hello to you too, brat.”

“Just tell me already.”

Gojo sighs. “Yeesh. Everything’s fine, you little gremlin. Nothing you gotta worry about.”

“H-Her nose just started bleeding! Out of nowhere.”

Gojo seems to pause for a moment before going back to what he was doing. “Seems Nobara has it handled. They’re on their way back to the living room now.”

“Just tell me what’s going on,” Megumi nearly pleads. He wants to accuse Gojo of not caring, of not doing whatever he can for you during your difficult recovery, but the bitter words never make it past his lips. Megumi knows he is. Even when anger threatens to blind Megumi, he remembers that you and Gojo have weird dynamics that often leave people’s heads spinning; however, the love is always there, alive and apparent. He just had to know where to look.

Gojo loves you, and more importantly, he makes you happy. Megumi knew that even if he didn’t always understand it.

Gojo sighed before reaching for the sink and turning on the faucet. Megumi gives an odd look, but Gojo grins before tapping his ear. Oh. Right. If you wanted to, you could easily pick up on what they were discussing. Megumi imagines you wouldn’t feel great knowing they were speaking about you—even if it came from a place of worry and concern. You didn’t need anything else being added to your plate.

“Is she sick?”

Gojo crosses his arms before leaning his back against the counter. “She is,” he answers honestly. Megumi wanted the truth, yet he flinched when it was handed to him. “She is sick.”

How can he do that? Sound so indifferent? But, as he looks at Gojo, Megumi notices that he's uncharacteristically stoic, almost stern, as he hands him the cold truth. Gojo didn’t like what was happening as much as Megumi, but there was no avoiding the truth and no sense in lying about it.

“What can we do?”

“Not much,” Gojo answers easily. “We just… wait.“

Megumi can’t quite understand that. He hates this, hates waiting, day after day. You were weak; Megumi could sense it, Yuji and Nobara, too.

“She’s outputting more energy than she is retaining… how do you even begin to fix something like that?” Megumi murmurs, his eyes finding the floor. He was afraid. You were his mother, the woman who loved and raised him and always kept him warm. He feels like he’s losing you, like a candle wick running dry of wax.

Suddenly, Gojo reaches up, ruffling Megumi's dark hair. “She’ll be alright, brat.” Gojo playfully pushes his head back as he pulls away, a small smile now gracing his lips. “Leave all the worrying to me, yeah? I’ll take good care of her. I promise.”

“Sensei! I’m praying for you!”

Nobara rolls her eyes. “You’re not supposed to tell her, dimwit.”

“I know, but I want her to know I’m praying for her recovery!”

Megumi groans, stepping away from the shrine. “Just shut up, Yuji.”

You smiled from your spot beside Gojo. You were leaning on him, your head resting on his shoulder. One of your arms wrapped around Gojo’s, your fingers grasping his bicep. Your other hand reached down, intertwining your delicate fingers with his. Clinging to his arm, which you held close to your chest, you smiled sweetly as you observed the scene around you.

You still looked exhausted, and there were still bags under your eyes, but you had enough energy to get out of the house today, at least.

“Thank you, Yuji,” you smiled. “I appreciate it more than anything.”

He beams, giving two big thumbs up.

“Whatever,” Nobara brushed Yuji off, stepping forward. “I, on the other hand, got you an omamori!” She presents the small charm to you with a broad and cheesy grin. It was a Kenko charm—an amulet for good health and protection from illness and disease.

You hesitantly reach for it, clasping it with one of your hands. “Thank you, but you didn’t have to. You have exams coming up that you should be focused on.”

Nobara waves you off harmlessly before looking at Gojo. Her eyes squinted. “You didn’t get her anything. Tsk. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“Wha- I got her something! Look! Show them sweets!”

You laugh, putting Nobara’s charm in your pocket and rummaging around. You pull out two other charms—en-musubi charms. Your cheeks flush a bit as you happily present them, and Gojo perks up, looking the proudest he’s ever looked.

“Two en-musubi? Hm,” Nobara hums passively. “And yet I don’t see a ring on her finger.”

“Hey, that’s not fair!”

Nobara defiantly turns her head from her Sensei. “Whatever, just tell us how you really feel...”

“Y’know, Satoru,” you play along with a slight grin. “She might be onto something…”

“Wait! Hold on, let me buy you a charm!” Yuji dashed away, ignoring how you protested, yelling to him that it was alright and that you didn’t need another charm.

Megumi sighs. He hates to admit it, but that idiot's right. He should get you a charm, too. ”I’ll be right back.”

“Megumi, it's okay! I don’t need another one! My pockets are already full!”

He waves, brushing you off. It was the least he could do. He prayed for you, of course he did, but he wouldn’t say anything about it—unwilling to risk his prayers potentially being unanswered. So, he walks, eventually catching up with Yuji. However, even with the charm in his hands, it doesn’t feel enough.

So, after buying your charm, he walks over to another booth. He takes out his wallet to purchase an ema, a wooden plank on which he can write the wish he has been praying for over the past few weeks.

What Megumi doesn’t see, though, is Gojo nudging you and pointing over to where Megumi stood. Just in time, you see him hanging his ema, placing it alongside hundreds of other wishes. It’s only when Megumi turns around that he notices you and Gojo have been watching him the entire time.

He coughs, cheeks flushing as he walks away. He puts his head down before walking to where Yuji and Nobara are waiting for him, too embarrassed to look your way. Yuji and Nobara’s smiles were sincere. Yuji even offered him a friendly squeeze on the shoulder.

There were tears in your eyes as you read the ema.

I wish for my mother to get well soon.

a/n: just a little blurb following the events of wherever you go, that’s where I’ll follow :p

Let me know your thoughts or if I should write a longer fic detailing the reader's recovery. I have a few ideas in mind…

As always, likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated <3

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shurisneakers · 2 months ago

Note

cold hands in warm hands + hand kisses with my beloved bucky

Warnings: swearing, snow??

A/N: I see that you all like those grumpy x grumpy assholes. well here have some more of them

All it takes is one bad decision, and now the two of you are stuck in what has to be a walk-in freezer. Or maybe Siberia. Either way, it’s cold enough to regret every choice you’ve made today.

"You're not getting my jacket."

"Don't need it."

"Glasses are mine too."

"Don't need that either "

"Not givi--"

"I don't need your stuff," Bucky interrupts, rubbing a hand over his face. "I'm fine."

You’re too cold to argue, so instead, you stomp off to the corner of the freezer to rummage through empty boxes, hoping to find something remotely helpful. Nothing. Just the sound of Bucky’s boots crunching in the snow behind you, breathing down your neck like some clingy demon.

"You’re really looking for gloves?" he deadpans.

"Some of us don’t come with central heating."

He leans against the wall, arms crossed, looking like he’s impervious to the cold. Like this whole thing is a minor inconvenience and not, you know, a potential frostbite situation.

You don't respond, pulling out tins and empty boxes but nothing that can help warm your freezing fingers.

"Give me your hands," he mumbles.

"Get your own."

"You're gonna get frostbite."

"Promise?"

His eye twitches.

Half an hour later, you've turned away from him to hide the fact that you're blowing into your hands for any semblance of warmth.

"Just give me your hands," he sighs, clearly at the end of his patience.

"I’m fine," you grit out.

"You’re an idiot," he says instantly.

You send him the middle finger.

"Gonna be hard to flip me off once your fingers snap off."

You glare at him as he thrusts his flesh hand toward you, clearly daring you to refuse.

Reluctantly, you slap your hands into his, grumbling under your breath the whole time.

"Christ, your hands are fuckin' ice."

"Who's asking you to hold onto them," you snap, trying to tug them away.

"Quit movin'," he mumbles, tightening his grip. "I just said they were cold, nothing else."

Bucky's a space heater in human form. His hand radiates heat, almost immediately warming your fingers. You hate how good it feels. The additional heat the annoyance he provides you with also helps.

"Where'd the metal one go?"

"It's metal," he replies, tone flat. "What d'you think happens to metal in the cold?"

You narrow your eyes at him. "Pipe down, Mr Science. You're so fuckin' bitchy."

"Shut up," he groans, "Five minutes. That’s all I’m asking for."

Still, he stays where he is. The warmth from his hand is enough to have you regain feeling in your fingers, the sting of thawing making you wince.

"Give it," you demand after a moment.

"What."

You pry one hand loose of his, holding it out expectantly, sending an eyebrow at his metal hand that hung loose over his knee.

"What, one's not enough for you?" he evades.

"It's only fair," you argue.

"Fair? You think this is a democracy?"

"It's called paying it forward, asshole," you retort. "I'm not gonna let your one hand stay cold."

"No."

"It's so funny that you say that, because I don't remember asking."

"You’re cold enough as it is. It’d freeze your hands solid in seconds."

"Good to know you’re selectively useful," you mutter, but your voice is quieter now.

The two of you stare at each other, deadlocked, frost gathering in the air between you.

You pull your hands back.

"Christ alive, what are you? Six?"

"Either both hands are getting warm or neither are," you declare. "Cry about it. You've got both hands free to wipe your tears."

He sighs irritatedly.

You both sit in the cold, arms crossed over your chests.

"Give me your hands," he says, voice low.

"You first."

Finally, with a muttered curse, Bucky thrusts his metal hand at you. "Happy now?"

You clasp both his hands, and the two of you sit in sulky silence as the warmth slowly spreads.

You glance at him after a moment. "We look like we’re auditioning for Les Misérables."

He huffs a laugh, his breath freezing in the air.

Bucky lifts the arm holding his metal hand, and presses a kiss to your open palm, lingering for a second, before letting it down again.

"You argue too damn much," he mumbles.

The tips of your ears feel warm, and you don't think it's from the cold.

You roll your eyes, "You're the one who threw a hissy fit."

Either way, you shuffle closer to him as you wait for someone to come pick you both up.

#ari answers #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fluff #friends #wlwloverwrites #requests #grumpy x grumpy

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moonselune · 3 months ago

Note

oh nooo, tavs tent got flooded by rain ans now theyre forced to share a bed with someone! can i rq a one bed troupe with male tav with karlach, wyll, astarion, halsin?

oh noooo how could this happen??

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Karlach:

The storm rolled in unexpectedly, drenching the camp in a relentless downpour. You were still trying to salvage what you could when a deafening crack of thunder shook the ground, sending the rivers of rainwater cascading directly into your tent. By the time you managed to crawl out, sputtering and soaked, your belongings were hopelessly waterlogged.

Karlach, of course, was there to witness your predicament. She jogged over, her broad grin illuminated by the occasional flash of lightning.

“Rough night, huh, soldier?” she teased, shaking her head at the state of your tent.

You groaned, wringing out your shirt. “You could say that. Looks like I’m going to be sleeping under the stars tonight—well, under the rain, more like.”

“Nonsense!” Karlach’s voice was as warm as the heat radiating from her. She slapped a hand on your shoulder, the gesture surprisingly gentle. “You can bunk with me. My tent’s dry, and, uh, let’s just say I come with central heating.”

The thought made your stomach twist with equal parts relief and trepidation. Sharing a tent—no, a bed—with Karlach? The woman you’d been nursing an embarrassingly obvious crush on for weeks? Your throat went dry despite the rain drenching you.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to—”

She cut you off with a wave of her hand. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’ll freeze to death out here otherwise. Let’s go.”

Her tent was modest but well-kept, and most importantly, dry. You hesitated at the entrance, dripping onto the canvas floor. Karlach turned, hands on her hips, and raised a brow.

“Get in here before you catch something, will ya?” She rummaged through her belongings, tossing a dry blanket your way. “Strip out of that wet stuff and wrap yourself up. I’ll, uh, look the other way if you’re shy.”

You managed a weak laugh, your heart thudding in your chest as you turned your back to her. Peeling off your soaked clothes felt awkward under her presence, even though she kept her word and busied herself adjusting the bedroll. Once you were as dry as you could get, you turned around, clutching the blanket like a shield.

Karlach motioned to the bedroll, sitting down and patting the spot beside her. “Come on. I don’t bite... unless you ask nicely.”

Her teasing tone was lighthearted, but it didn’t stop your face from burning as you awkwardly settled beside her. The proximity was unavoidable; the bedroll wasn’t made for two people. Your shoulder brushed against hers, and despite the chill of the rain, her warmth seeped through the thin blanket you shared.

“You’re shivering,” she said, her voice softening. “Hang on.”

Before you could protest, Karlach shifted closer, wrapping her arm around you. The heat from her infernal heart radiated through her skin, chasing away the chill almost instantly. It was overwhelming—comforting, yes, but also intensely intimate.

“You’re like a living furnace,” you muttered, trying to sound casual despite the way your pulse hammered in your ears.

She laughed, a sound that was equal parts amusement and kindness. “Perks of the infernal engine, huh? You should take advantage of it. No sense in freezing when you’ve got me around.”

The words were innocent enough, but the tension in the air was anything but. Every small movement felt magnified—the way her arm lingered around your shoulders, the way her breath tickled your neck when she laughed. You could swear she noticed your nervousness because her fingers gave your arm a small squeeze, grounding you.

For a while, you sat in companionable silence, the sound of the rain pattering against the tent mingling with the steady hum of Karlach’s warmth. But the tension remained, unspoken and heavy.

“You’re awfully quiet,” she said eventually, tilting her head to look at you. Her voice was low, almost hesitant.

“Just... thinking,” you managed, cursing yourself for how obvious your voice sounded.

Her brow furrowed, her expression softening. “You’re not still worried about being a bother, are you? Because if you are—”

“No!” you blurted, turning to face her. You realized too late how close you were, your noses almost brushing. Your voice caught in your throat, and for a moment, neither of you moved.

Her gaze flicked between your eyes and your lips, something unspoken passing through her expression. But then she smiled—gentle, teasing, and yet somehow protective. “You’re really something, you know that?”

The moment stretched, and your heart thundered in your chest. You weren’t sure what would’ve happened if she hadn’t leaned back, breaking the tension.

“Get some sleep,” she said, her voice quieter now. “I’ll keep you warm.”

As you lay down beside her, her arm still draped around you, you couldn’t help but think about how much you wanted to stay like this forever. It was comforting, yes, but it was also maddening—being so close to her, feeling her heat, and yet knowing the line between you remained unspoken.

But for now, you let yourself savor the moment, even if it left you yearning for something more.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Astarion:

The storm came out of nowhere, drenching the camp in sheets of rain so thick you could barely see beyond your own hands. You’d thought your tent was secure, but the deluge proved you wrong. By the time you realized the rain was seeping in, it was too late—your bedroll was soaked, your belongings waterlogged. Swearing under your breath, you tried to salvage what you could, shivering in the cold.

“Oh, darling,” Astarion’s lilting voice rang out from the shadows, cutting through the sound of the rain. “What have you gotten yourself into this time?”

You turned to see him leaning against a nearby tree, his arms crossed, an infuriating smirk playing on his lips. Despite the weather, he looked immaculate, as always, his pale skin almost glowing against the dark backdrop of the storm.

“My tent flooded,” you muttered, trying not to sound as miserable as you felt.

Astarion’s smirk widened as he sauntered closer, looking you up and down with a mockingly critical eye. “My, my, such a pitiful sight. You’re dripping like a wet dog. And here I thought you’d have more... dignity.”

You shot him a glare, though your teeth chattering probably undermined the effect. “Unless you’re here to help, Astarion, maybe keep walking.”

“Help?” He placed a hand dramatically on his chest, feigning offense. “Darling, I’m not in the business of charity. But... I suppose I could take pity on you, just this once. After all, I’m nothing if not magnanimous.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning,” he drawled, leaning in closer, his crimson eyes glinting with mischief, “you’re welcome to my tent. Though, I must warn you, it comes with a price.”

“What price?”

He tapped a finger against his lips, pretending to think. “Hmm... let’s see. Enduring my company, for one. My delightful teasing, for another. And, of course, you’ll have to control yourself. Sharing close quarters with someone as devastatingly attractive as me? Quite the challenge, no?”

You flushed, heat creeping up your neck despite the cold. “I’ll manage.”

Astarion’s tent was—unsurprisingly—pristine. The interior was lit with a soft glow from a single lantern, casting flickering shadows on the canvas walls. His bedroll was luxurious compared to yours, layered with thick blankets and pillows that looked far too indulgent for a camp in the wilderness.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he said, gesturing grandly. “And by that, I mean don’t ruin anything.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help but feel a little self-conscious as you stepped inside. Your wet clothes clung to you, and you were acutely aware of every move you made. Astarion, of course, noticed.

“Oh, do take those off,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “You’ll freeze otherwise, and I’m not about to have you shivering all over me all night.”

“I’m fine—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he interrupted, already digging through his belongings. He tossed you a dry shirt and a blanket. “Here. Change. I’ll avert my eyes, though it’s hardly necessary.”

Your face burned as you turned your back to him, peeling off your soaked clothes and quickly pulling on the shirt he’d given you. It was soft, and it smelled faintly of him—a mix of something earthy and rich, with a hint of sweetness.

When you turned back around, Astarion was already lounging on the bedroll, propped up on one elbow, watching you with a smug expression.

“You clean up nicely,” he remarked, patting the spot beside him. “Now, come along. Let’s get this over with before you catch your death.”

Reluctantly, you sat down, pulling the blanket over yourself. The space was tight, and you couldn’t avoid brushing against him as you lay down. His body was cool, his proximity sending a shiver down your spine—not from the cold, but from the unspoken tension that hung between you like a storm cloud.

“Comfortable?” he asked, his voice low and teasing.

“Not really,” you muttered, though that was a lie.

He chuckled, his breath brushing against your ear. “I can feel your pulse racing, you know. Are you nervous, darling? Or is it just... me?”

You turned your head to glare at him, only to realize how close he was—his face mere inches from yours, his crimson eyes glinting with something unreadable. Your breath caught, and for a moment, the world outside the tent seemed to disappear.

“Relax,” he murmured, his voice softer now, almost gentle. “I’m only teasing. Mostly.”

You swallowed hard, trying to steady your breathing. “This is going to be a long night, isn’t it?”

Astarion grinned, his fangs catching the light. “Oh, you have no idea.”

Despite his teasing, he shifted slightly, giving you a bit more space. The tension between you remained, unspoken but palpable, as the rain continued to patter against the tent. It was both maddening and exhilarating, being so close to him, knowing he could probably hear every erratic beat of your heart.

Eventually, the exhaustion of the day began to catch up with you. As you started to drift off, you felt him shift beside you, his voice a quiet murmur in the dark.

“Sleep well, darling,” he said, his tone surprisingly sincere.

And despite everything—despite the teasing, the tension, and the racing thoughts that refused to quiet—you did.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Wyll:

The rain had started as a drizzle, an annoyance more than anything, but by midnight it had turned into a full-blown storm. You’d woken to the sound of water pooling under your bedroll, the fabric of your tent flapping wildly in the wind. It didn’t take long to realize your tent wasn’t holding up—water seeped in through every seam, soaking everything in its path.

Soaked and miserable, you stumbled into the camp’s common area, clutching your blanket and trying not to curse the heavens too loudly. That’s when Wyll, ever the gentleman, emerged from his own tent, lantern in hand.

“You look like a drowned rat,” he teased gently, his voice warm despite the storm.

“My tent flooded,” you muttered, feeling like a fool as you wrung out your blanket.

Wyll’s brow furrowed in concern, and he quickly stepped forward, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder. “You can’t stay out here in this. Come, share my tent. It’s dry, and there’s enough room for both of us.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to—”

“I insist,” Wyll interrupted, giving you a reassuring smile. “I’d never leave a friend out in this storm.”

Wyll’s tent was cozy, far better maintained than yours. The interior was neat and organized, his bedroll lined with extra blankets that gave it an almost luxurious appearance. A small lantern cast a warm glow, the storm muffled by the sturdy canvas walls.

“Here,” he said, gesturing to the bedroll. “You take the left side.”

You hesitated, feeling a little self-conscious as you stepped inside. Your clothes clung to you, damp and uncomfortable, and you were acutely aware of the unspoken tension between the two of you. Wyll had always been kind, always so composed, but there was something about the way his eyes lingered on you for just a second too long that made your heart race.

“You’re shivering,” he observed, pulling a dry blanket from his pack. “Get out of those wet clothes before you catch your death.”

You flushed, your mind immediately racing to places it shouldn’t. “I’m fine,” you said quickly, though your teeth were chattering.

Wyll raised an eyebrow, his expression a mix of amusement and concern. “Fine, is it? If you fall ill, it’s on my conscience. Here.” He turned his back, giving you privacy as he busied himself with the lantern. “I promise I won’t peek.”

Reluctantly, you stripped out of your wet clothes, replacing them with the spare shirt and pants Wyll handed you. The fabric was soft and warm, and it smelled of him—a subtle mix of cedarwood and something earthy, like freshly turned soil.

When you finally settled onto the bedroll, Wyll joined you, keeping a respectful distance. But the space was tight, and no matter how you tried to position yourself, you couldn’t avoid brushing against him.

“Comfortable?” he asked, his voice low and soothing.

“Yeah,” you murmured, though your heart was pounding in your chest.

The storm raged on outside, but inside the tent, the air was thick with an entirely different kind of tension. You were hyper-aware of every little movement, every rustle of the blankets, every time his arm brushed against yours.

“You’re still shivering,” Wyll said after a moment.

“I’m fine—”

“You’re not,” he insisted, his tone gentle but firm. “Here.” Before you could protest, he shifted closer, draping the blanket over both of you and wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “Body heat. It’s the fastest way to warm up.”

Your breath hitched as you felt the warmth of his body against yours. He was so close, his scent enveloping you, his touch sending shivers down your spine for an entirely different reason now. You were just glad you were facing away from him for less than gentlemanly reasons.

“Better?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, unable to trust your voice.

The minutes stretched on, the storm outside fading into the background as the tension between you grew. Every time his hand shifted against your shoulder, every time his breath brushed against your temple, it sent your thoughts spiraling.

At one point, you turned your head slightly, only to find his face inches from yours. His dark eyes met yours, and for a moment, neither of you moved. The air between you felt charged, every unspoken feeling hovering just out of reach. Wyll was the first to break the silence, clearing his throat and pulling back slightly.

“You should get some rest,” he said, his voice a little too even, as though he were trying to mask his own thoughts.

“Yeah,” you replied, your voice barely audible. “Good idea.”

But sleep didn’t come easily. Not with the way his arm stayed draped over your shoulders, his warmth seeping into you, his presence so close it was almost overwhelming.

As the storm began to wane, the tension in the tent softened, replaced by a quiet comfort. And though neither of you said anything more, you couldn’t help but wonder if Wyll felt the same way you did—that unspoken pull, the lingering desire that neither of you dared to yet acknowledge.

For now, though, it was enough to simply be near him, the storm outside forgotten as you drifted off to the sound of his steady breathing, wrapped in his warm, strong arms.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Halsin:

The storm that swept through camp hit with an intensity no one had anticipated. Rain lashed against the tents, and your own—already a little worse for wear—didn’t stand a chance. You woke to water pooling around you, your belongings soaked, and your blankets utterly useless. Grumbling, you gathered what you could and sloshed through the camp to find somewhere dry.

Halsin’s tent stood out, sturdy and secure against the storm, its entrance softly illuminated by a warm glow. You hesitated for a moment before calling out.

“Halsin? You awake?”

The flap of the tent opened, revealing the towering figure of the druid, his expression immediately softening when he saw your drenched form. “Your tent couldn’t withstand the storm?”

“No,” you admitted, shivering slightly. “Do you mind if I...?”

“Of course,” he said with a reassuring smile, stepping aside to let you in.

Halsin’s tent was everything yours wasn’t: dry, spacious, and undeniably cozy. The thick pelts lining the floor and the earthy, woodsy scent made it feel like a sanctuary. The warmth inside hit you immediately, and you realized it wasn’t just from the well-insulated tent—it was Halsin himself. He radiated heat like a furnace, the air around him almost stiflingly warm.

“You can set your things over there,” he said, gesturing to a corner before kneeling to adjust the blankets on his bedroll. “And don’t worry, there’s plenty of room for the both of us.”

You tried not to overthink that last part as you settled in, draping a dry blanket over your shoulders. But as the rain continued to hammer against the tent, the unspoken tension between you became almost palpable. You’d always felt a certain pull toward Halsin—his kindness, his strength, the way he carried himself with such quiet confidence. Sharing a space with him now, so close, was enough to make your heart race.

“Warm enough?” he asked, his voice low and soothing as he settled onto the bedroll beside you.

“More than enough,” you said, trying to sound casual, though the heat radiating from him felt almost overwhelming.

The silence stretched between you, comfortable at first but quickly giving way to that same tension. You couldn’t help but notice the way Halsin shifted slightly, as though trying to find a position that didn’t discomfort him. His brow furrowed, and for a moment, he looked almost... uneasy.

“Is everything okay?” you asked softly, turning to face him. “If this is too much, I can—”

“No, no,” he interrupted, chuckling quietly. “It’s not that. You’re welcome to stay as long as you need. I just...” He hesitated, his cheeks darkening slightly, which was rare for someone so self-assured.

“What is it?” you pressed, your curiosity piqued. Halsin exhaled a laugh, running a hand through his hair.

“I’m not used to sleeping with clothes on,” he admitted, his voice laced with amusement but also honesty. “It’s a little... restrictive.”

You blinked, his words sinking in as your mind instantly spiraled into dangerous territory.

“Oh,” you managed, your voice embarrassingly high-pitched with a voice crack that could rival teenage you.

“If it makes you uncomfortable, I won’t...” he started, but you quickly shook your head.

“No, it’s fine! I mean, you should be comfortable,” you said, your words tumbling over each other in your attempt to sound unaffected.

Halsin gave you a knowing smile, his eyes glinting with that same warmth that seemed to envelop the entire tent. “You’re kind to say so, but I think I’ll manage for one night.”

You nodded, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from saying something you’d regret. The unspoken tension thickened as the storm continued to rage outside, the sound of the rain mingling with the steady rhythm of Halsin’s breathing.

The heat he radiated wasn’t just physical—it was in the way his presence seemed to fill the space, in the way his voice lingered in the air, deep and comforting. You found yourself hyper-aware of every movement, every shift of the blankets, every time his arm brushed against yours.

“Try to rest,” Halsin murmured, his voice low and velvety. “The storm will pass by morning.”

You nodded again, lying back and trying to focus on anything but the warmth of his body so close to yours, or the way your heart seemed to pound louder with each passing second.

And though sleep didn’t come easily, you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of gratitude for the storm that had brought you here, to this moment, even if it left you feeling like you were on the edge of something both thrilling and terrifying.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

This was so fun to write, it came out more gn, but i did my best to do allusions that it was a male tav. Hope you guys enjoyed this! - Seluney xox

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novaursa · 1 month ago

Text

Legacy (what whispers)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: what burns

- Next part: of the past

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxi @alkadri-layal @butterflygxril @urdxrling

The settlement below was eerily silent, cloaked in the thick, oppressive darkness of the endless winter. Viserion circled above, her powerful wings stirring the snow-covered earth with gusts of wind as she descended into the abandoned village. Her scales shimmered faintly in the moonlight, reflecting off the snow-covered roofs, and her low growls resonated through the empty air like a warning.

You slid down from the saddle, boots crunching against the frozen ground, and felt the chill seep through your heavy fur-lined cloak. The air was unnaturally still, carrying an edge that made the hair on the back of your neck rise. You rested a hand on Viserion’s side, her warmth a sharp contrast to the icy surroundings. The she-dragon sniffed the air, her head jerking toward the far edge of the settlement, and let out a guttural hiss.

“Easy,” you murmured, brushing your gloved hand against her scales. “Stay close.”

The village was small, no more than a collection of cottages clustered around a central square, where a well sat frozen in the heart of it. Snow blanketed everything, but the absence of life was the most unnerving part. No footprints, no sounds of animals, no flickering lights in the windows. It was as if the village had been wiped clean of any trace of its people.

“Where is everyone?” you whispered, though no one was there to answer.

You stepped carefully through the main path, your boots crunching against the snow. Viserion followed closely behind, her massive body moving with an almost feline grace as she sniffed at the air. Her golden eyes were wide and alert, scanning the darkness around you. Every so often, she let out a low, rumbling growl, as though sensing something unseen.

The first cottage you approached had its door wide open, swinging faintly in the wind. You pushed it open further, the creak of the hinges unnaturally loud in the stillness. Inside, the hearth was cold, its ashes scattered across the stone floor as if someone had left in a hurry. A wooden table was overturned, and scattered plates and mugs hinted at a meal interrupted. You crouched to pick up a child’s toy—a small, carved horse—its surface smooth from years of use.

“They left in a hurry,” you muttered to yourself, your voice barely above a whisper. “Or… something drove them out.”

Viserion rumbled outside, her claws scraping against the stone as she turned her head toward the woods bordering the village. She hissed, her breath visible in the frigid air, and you felt a knot of unease tighten in your stomach.

You stepped out of the cottage and scanned the surroundings. The woods were dense, their skeletal branches reaching out like claws against the black sky. You couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched, as though eyes were following your every move. Your breath came in visible puffs as you turned to Viserion, her agitation matching your own.

“What do you see?” you asked softly, your hand instinctively moving to the hilt of your sword.

The dragon let out a sharp roar, her head snapping toward the shadows near the edge of the village. The sound echoed through the empty streets, sending a flock of crows scattering from the treetops. You turned to face the direction she was looking, your heart hammering in your chest.

“Who’s there?” you called out, your voice firm despite the unease crawling up your spine.

There was no answer, only the sound of the wind howling through the trees. You stepped closer to Viserion, her body radiating heat as she shifted uneasily, her wings half-unfurled. You could feel the tension in her muscles, ready to pounce or take flight at a moment’s notice.

“Something isn’t right,” you muttered, your grip tightening on the hilt of your sword. “We should—”

A sudden movement caught your eye—a flicker of shadow darting between the trees at the edge of the village. You turned abruply, drawing your sword in one smooth motion. Viserion roared again, louder this time, her golden eyes locking onto the same spot.

“Show yourself!” you demanded, your voice cutting through the stillness.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence. Then, faintly, you heard it—a low, guttural growl, almost animalistic but not quite. It sent a shiver down your spine, and you instinctively stepped closer to Viserion, who crouched low, her tail swishing behind her.

The growl grew louder, joined by the sound of branches snapping and snow crunching. Your heart raced as you scanned the treeline, searching for the source. Then, just as suddenly as it had started, the sound stopped.

The silence was deafening.

“We’re leaving,” you said firmly, sheathing your sword and turning to Viserion. “Now.”

You climbed back into the saddle, your hands gripping the reins tightly. Viserion shifted beneath you, her body coiled like a spring. As you urged her to take flight, she let out one final roar, the sound reverberating through the empty village. Her powerful wings beat against the air, lifting you both into the sky.

From above, the village looked even smaller, its emptiness more pronounced against the vast, dark expanse of the woods. You glanced back once, and in the faint moonlight, you thought you saw movement—shadows slipping back into the forest.

Viserion growled low in her throat, and you patted her neck. “Let’s go home.”

The she-dragon soared higher, her scales gleaming faintly in the darkness as she carried you away from the haunting emptiness below. But the feeling of being watched lingered, like a weight pressing down on your chest. Whatever had happened in that village, you knew it was only the beginning.

The road below stretched like a silver ribbon through the snow-blanketed land, leading to a lone watchtower standing sentinel in the endless dark. It was a vital point for supply deliveries, one of the last strongholds along the route back to Casterly Rock. From high above, Viserion's growls were low and uneasy, rumbling like thunder against your back.

You narrowed your eyes as the watchtower came into view. Something was off. The tower was surrounded by an eerie stillness, the usual activity of sentinels entirely absent. The wooden gate at the base of the structure hung ajar, swinging gently in the wind. Your heart tightened with unease.

“Where are the sentinels?” you muttered, gripping the reins tightly. “This isn’t right.”

Viserion rumbled again, her massive wings beating against the frigid air as you urged her to descend. The ground rushed up to meet you, the snow crunching beneath her claws as she landed a short distance from the tower. You slid down from the saddle, your boots sinking into the frost-covered ground. Viserion’s head snapped toward the tower, her eyes narrowing as a low growl escaped her throat.

“Stay close,” you whispered, resting a hand on her warm flank before stepping forward.

The tower loomed over you, its stone walls worn by time and weather. The faint flicker of a torch burned in one of the upper windows, but no voices called out to challenge your approach. You stopped at the base of the structure, your breath visible in the frigid air.

“Sentinel!” you called, your voice echoing through the stillness. “This is Lady Lannister. Report your status!”

Silence.

You felt a chill crawl up your spine that had nothing to do with the cold. Viserion shifted behind you, her tail sweeping through the snow as she growled softly, her gaze fixed on the shadows clinging to the edges of the tower.

Then you saw it.

A pale, humanoid creature clung to the side of the tower, its long, spindly limbs moving with unnatural ease as it crawled upward. Its flesh was almost translucent, its head jerking toward you with a grotesque speed. Glowing blue, empty pits stared at you where eyes should have been, and a wide, toothy grin stretched across its face.

Your heart stopped. You stumbled back, your hand instinctively going to the hilt of your sword. “What in the name of the Seven…”

The creature hissed, the sound sharp and inhuman, before skittering around the tower like a spider. Viserion let out a deafening roar, her wings flaring as she bared her teeth at the abomination. The creature froze for a moment, tilting its head unnaturally, before vanishing into the darkness.

“Viserion, what was that?” you whispered, your voice shaking.

Before you could make sense of what you had seen, a voice called out from within the tower, cutting through the silence like a knife.

“Y/N.”

You froze. The voice was soft, familiar, and achingly distant. A voice you hadn’t heard in more than two decades.

“Rhaegar?” you whispered, your eyes wide as you turned toward the open gate.

“Y/N,” the voice called again, filled with a strange warmth that made your chest tighten. “Come to me.”

It felt like your legs moved on their own, your heart hammering in your chest as you took a step forward. The cold seemed to disappear, replaced by a strange, almost soothing warmth. You couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, only the sound of that voice pulling you closer.

“Rhaegar…” you murmured, your hand reaching out toward the gate.

Viserion let out a piercing shriek, the sound breaking through the spell like shattering glass. You stumbled back, gasping as the chill of the air hit you once more. The weight of what you were about to do crashed down on you like a tidal wave.

“No,” you whispered, shaking your head violently. “That’s not possible.”

The she-dragon stepped closer to you, her massive body a barrier between you and the tower. Her growls were low and menacing, her gaze fixed on the structure as though daring anything within to come closer.

“Thank you, girl,” you said breathlessly, placing a trembling hand on her side. “Let’s get out of here. For good this time.”

With a final glance at the tower, you climbed into the saddle, your hands shaking as you gripped the reins. Viserion roared again, a sound that echoed through the silent night, before launching into the air. The wind rushed past you as she ascended, her powerful wings carrying you far from the cursed place below.

As the tower disappeared into the distance, you couldn’t shake the lingering feeling of those empty, blue eyes watching you. Or the sound of your brother’s voice calling your name.

The heavy flapping of wings filled the air as Viserion descended into the courtyard of Casterly Rock, her golden cream scales were brilliant in the dim light of the endless winter. Snow swirled around the she-dragon as her talons struck the ground, her massive form creating a gust of wind that sent cloaks and banners fluttering. Servants and guards scrambled to clear her path, their faces a mixture of awe and unease.

You dismounted from the saddle, your heart heavy after the troubling discoveries you had made during your journey. The cold bit at your cheeks, but you barely noticed as you glanced back at Viserion, who fixed her molten gaze on you. For a moment, the she-dragon simply watched, her posture stiff and alert, before letting out a low, rumbling growl and retreating toward the mines beneath the Rock, her wings folding tightly against her body.

Tywin was already striding into the courtyard by the time you turned around, his expression set in a rare display of urgency. His crimson cloak billowed behind him, and his piercing green eyes locked onto you the moment you dismounted. There was no mistaking the relief that flashed across his face, though it was quickly replaced by something far graver.

“Tywin,” you began, your voice edged with worry. “I’ve seen things out there—things I cannot explain. Something is—”

“Later,” Tywin interrupted, his voice firm but strained, his usual composure cracking ever so slightly. “It will have to wait. There’s been an incident.”

The way he said it made your stomach twist. “What happened?”

“It’s Damon,” he said, his tone clipped and heavy with frustration. “The boy sneaked into the mines again. He tried to claim the black dragon.”

The air seemed to leave your lungs all at once. “No...” you whispered, your heart pounding. “No, no, no.”

“The dragon rejected him,” Tywin continued, his face hard. “It burned him.”

You didn’t wait to hear more. Without a word, you turned and ran toward the keep, your boots crunching against the snow as you pushed past the startled guards. Tywin called after you, but his voice was distant, drowned out by the blood rushing in your ears.

The warmth of the castle did little to ease the chill that had settled in your bones. Servants and guards stepped aside as you hurried past, their murmured words falling on deaf ears. All you could think about was Damon, your eldest son, your lion cub.

When you reached his chambers, you pushed the door open to find Maester Aldren bent over Damon’s bed, his hands steady as he applied a salve to the boy’s burns. The air was thick with the pungent scent of herbs and ointments. Kevan Lannister stood near the hearth, his face pale and drawn, while Ser Barristan Selmy lingered by the door, his expression grim.

Damon lay still in the bed, his small frame dwarfed by the thick blankets piled around him. His left side, from his shoulder down to his chest and arm, was covered in bandages. The skin that was visible bore angry red burns that stretched across his face, pulling the corner of his lips into a permanent, pained sneer.

You froze for a moment, your breath catching in your throat as you took in the sight of your son. Then, with trembling hands, you moved to his bedside, sinking into the chair beside him.

“Damon,” you whispered, your voice cracking. His eyes fluttered open, dull and unfocused, but they met yours, and for a brief moment, the corners of his lips twitched into something that might have been a smile.

“Mother,” he rasped, his voice hoarse.

You reached out, brushing your fingers gently against his uninjured cheek. “I’m here, my love. I’m here.”

Tywin entered the room then, his boots heavy against the stone floor. He stopped beside you, his gaze shifting between you and Damon. “The boy was reckless,” he said, his voice low. “He could have—”

“Not now, Tywin,” you cut him off sharply, not taking your eyes off Damon. “Please.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing more, stepping back to allow you your moment.

Damon stirred weakly, his small hand reaching for yours. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

“Don’t,” you said quickly, tears blurring your vision. “Don’t you dare apologize, Damon. Just rest. That’s all you need to do right now.”

Maester Aldren straightened, wiping his hands on a cloth. “He’s strong, my lady,” the maester said softly. “But the burns are severe. It will take time for him to heal.”

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Thank you, Maester Aldren.”

As the room fell into a heavy silence, you leaned closer to Damon, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “You’re going to be fine, my sweet boy,” you murmured, more to yourself than to him. “You’re strong. Stronger than you know.”

Damon’s eyes drifted closed, his breathing shallow but steady. You stayed by his side, your hand never leaving his, as the weight of what had happened settled over you. Somewhere in the distance, you thought you heard the low rumble of Viserion from the mines, as if the she-dragon, too, mourned the pain of your lion cub.

Maester Aldren adjusted the bandages around Damon’s burns with meticulous care, his movements steady despite the weight of the moment. His weathered features betrayed nothing, though the faint lines around his eyes deepened with concern. You stood by the bedside, your hands trembling as you smoothed Damon’s blanket, unable to tear your gaze away from his fragile form.

Finally, Aldren straightened and turned to you, his voice measured but soft. “He’s stable for now, my lady. I managed to save his left eye—it was touch and go for a time, but it remains intact.”

Relief mingled with the anxiety already churning in your chest. “And the burns?” you asked, your voice cracking despite your effort to stay composed.

“The burns are severe, but not insurmountable,” Aldren replied, his expression grave. “The greatest threat now is infection. That’s what we must guard against. He is young, strong. That works in his favor.”

You nodded, clutching the edge of the chair for support. “Thank you, Aldren,” you murmured. “Do everything you can. He’s—he’s just a boy.”

Aldren inclined his head, his tone quiet but firm. “I will, my lady. He has the best care I can provide.”

As he turned to gather more salves and tinctures, you stood motionless, staring at Damon’s face. His breaths came slow but steady, and his small hand twitched faintly beneath the blanket. He looked so vulnerable, so unlike the spirited child who often darted through the castle halls.

A quiet presence at your side made you turn slightly. Tywin, his face carved in stone, placed a hand on your shoulder. His grip was firm, grounding, yet there was a rare gentleness in the gesture. For a moment, the weight of his touch was the only thing keeping you from crumbling entirely.

“Come,” Tywin said, his voice low but commanding. “There is nothing more you can do here.”

You shook your head, your tears spilling freely now. “He’s just a child, Tywin. Our child. He was trying to prove himself—trying to be brave, like he thinks we want him to be.”

“He will recover,” Tywin said firmly, though there was an undercurrent of tension in his tone. “You must compose yourself. Damon needs his mother strong, not broken.”

His words, though harsh, carried a truth that cut through your grief. You nodded slowly, wiping at your tears, but your legs felt heavy as if they didn’t want to carry you away from Damon’s side.

As if sensing your hesitation, Tywin’s hand slid from your shoulder to the small of your back, guiding you toward the door. His touch was steady, unyielding, but it wasn’t until the two of you stepped into the corridor that your resolve crumbled completely. You let out a choked sob, covering your mouth as tears streamed down your face.

Tywin stopped, turning to face you. His green eyes, normally so piercing and unreadable, softened for just a moment. Without a word, he pulled you close, his arms wrapping around you in a gesture so rare it felt almost surreal. You buried your face in his chest, your shoulders shaking as the weight of the day overwhelmed you.

“I can’t lose him,” you whispered, your voice muffled. “I can’t, Tywin.”

“You won’t,” he said quietly, his voice steady. “We won’t.”

For several moments, you stayed there, clinging to him as if he were the only thing keeping you upright. The chill of the stone corridor faded in the warmth of his embrace, and though the fear for Damon’s life still gripped your heart, there was a flicker of solace in Tywin’s presence.

When your sobs finally began to subside, Tywin stepped back just enough to look at you. His hand came up to brush a strand of hair from your face, his expression calm but resolute. “Come,” he said again, his voice softer this time. “The great hall awaits.”

You nodded, though your tears continued to fall. Together, you walked toward the great hall, Tywin’s hand remaining firm at your back. The world outside felt colder, darker, but with him beside you, you allowed yourself the faintest hope that the storm, for now, would pass.

Tywin guided you to a chair near the head of the room, his hand firm but not unkind on your arm. You could feel his silent command to sit, to breathe, to collect yourself after the turmoil you had just endured.

“Sit,” Tywin said, his tone calm yet unyielding. “You need to steady yourself before we discuss anything else.”

Reluctantly, you sank into the chair, the weight of your worry for Damon still pressing heavily on your chest. Tywin stood over you, his green eyes scrutinizing your every move, ensuring you would not crumble further.

“You mentioned before,” Tywin began, his voice measured as he pulled out a chair for himself, “that you saw something while you were away. Something disturbing. Tell me what it was.”

You hesitated, your hands trembling as you clasped them in your lap. “It was… shadows,” you started, your voice uneven. “The settlement I went to was abandoned—completely empty. No signs of a struggle, no bodies. Just silence. Viserion was agitated the entire time.”

Tywin leaned forward, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. “Shadows?”

You nodded, your gaze distant as the memory surfaced. “There was… something near a watchtower, Tywin. Something climbing its walls. It wasn’t human. It moved on all fours, pale and unnatural. And then…” You faltered, your voice catching.

Tywin’s expression remained unreadable, but his attention was unwavering. “And then what?”

You swallowed hard, your eyes meeting his. “I heard his voice, Tywin. Rhaegar’s voice. Calling my name from inside the tower.”

The hall fell silent, the crackle of the torches the only sound as your words hung in the air. Tywin’s lips pressed into a thin line, his brow furrowing slightly. “Rhaegar?” he echoed, his tone disbelieving but not dismissive.

“Yes,” you said softly, your voice trembling. “I haven’t heard my brother’s voice in decades, but I know it was him. It froze me in place. I almost—” You stopped, shivering at the thought. “If it weren’t for Viserion, I don’t know what would have happened.”

A movement to your right drew your attention. Beric Dondarrion, who had been sitting with his men near the hearth, had gone still, his one good eye fixed on you. His usual casual demeanor was replaced with something far more solemn.

“What did the voice say?” Beric asked, his voice low but carrying across the hall.

You turned to him, startled by his sudden interest. “It called my name. Nothing else. Just my name, over and over.”

Beric exchanged a glance with Thoros of Myr, who sat beside him. Thoros’s expression was grave as he leaned forward. “And the creature? The one on the tower?” Thoros asked. “Did it vanish when the voice spoke?”

You shook your head. “No. It climbed higher, faster. It was watching me, I think. And then Viserion shrieked, and it was like a spell was broken. I ran back to her and flew away.”

Beric’s gaze darkened, his expression contemplative. “Shadows and voices of the dead,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. “The Long Night brings horrors we have yet to understand.”

Tywin’s focus snapped to Beric. “What do you know of this?” he demanded, his voice cutting through the growing tension in the room.

Beric met Tywin’s gaze evenly. “Only that the dead do not rest as they once did, Lord Lannister. And the creatures of shadow serve no master we know.”

Tywin exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair. “And now we know nothing more than before: that the enemy is not content to stay in the North.”

You looked down, the weight of his words sinking in. “I’ll go back if I have to,” you said quietly. “I’ll find out what—”

“No,” Tywin interrupted, his voice firm. “You’ve done enough. We will find another way.”

Beric rose from his seat, his men following his lead. “If you wish it, my lord,” Beric said, addressing Tywin, “we can investigate this further. My men and I have dealt with shadows before.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed. “You offer much, Dondarrion. And what do you expect in return?”

Beric smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach his eye. “The same thing you want, my lord. Survival.”

The room grew quiet again as Tywin considered the offer. You glanced at Beric, grateful for his words but still uneasy. Tywin finally nodded, though his expression remained guarded. “We’ll discuss it further in the morning.”

Beric inclined his head and led his men out of the hall, leaving you and Tywin alone once more. He turned back to you, his gaze softening just enough to reveal the concern beneath.

“You should rest,” Tywin said, his tone gentler now. “There’s nothing more you can do tonight.”

You nodded, though the heaviness in your chest remained. As he stood and offered you his hand, you took it, letting him guide you from the hall. The shadows that haunted your thoughts felt no less distant, but with Tywin’s steady presence beside you, you allowed yourself a moment’s reprieve.

The chamber was quiet except for the crackle of the hearth and the soft rustling of Maelor’s toys as he played on the rug nearby. Damon, still confined to his bed, was propped up against a pile of pillows, his face a blend of youthful determination and regret. The burns on the left side of his body had begun to scar, leaving his cheek taut and pulling his lips into a permanent sneer. Despite his injuries, the boy’s spirit had not wavered entirely. He watched his mother with a mix of guilt and yearning as she gently dabbed a cloth against his unburned cheek, her touch careful and tender.

“You should rest more,” you said softly, your tone warm but firm. “Healing takes time.”

Damon shifted uncomfortably, his right hand gripping the edge of his blanket. “I’m tired of resting, Mother,” he muttered, his voice tinged with frustration. “I feel useless.”

Maelor, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a wooden lion in his hands, glanced up at his brother. “You’re not useless,” he said with the blunt honesty of a child. “You’re just burned.”

A faint smile tugged at your lips, though you quickly suppressed it, turning your attention back to Damon. “Maelor’s right,” you said, smoothing Damon’s hair. “And I don’t ever want to hear you call yourself that again.”

Damon’s eyes lowered, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of the blanket. “I only wanted to help,” he admitted after a moment, his voice barely above a whisper.

You stilled, your hand pausing mid-stroke. “Help with what?” you asked gently, though you already suspected the answer.

“To help like you,” Damon said, his gaze meeting yours, his expression earnest. “I thought… if I had a dragon, like you, I could make a difference. I could protect everyone.”

Your chest tightened, a mix of pride and heartache swelling within you. You took his hand in yours, careful not to brush against his bandages. “Damon,” you said softly, “you have nothing to prove. You are still so young. The weight of protecting others is not yours to bear, not yet.”

He frowned, his youthful determination bubbling to the surface. “But you do it,” he said. “You and Viserion. You’ve always been so strong, so brave. I wanted to be like you.”

The words struck you deeply, and for a moment, you couldn’t find the right response. Maelor, oblivious to the gravity of the conversation, crawled up onto the edge of Damon’s bed, his tiny hands clutching the blanket as he peered at his brother.

“You’re already brave,” Maelor said matter-of-factly. “Even when you got burned, you didn’t cry.”

Damon let out a soft, humorless laugh. “I cried plenty,” he admitted, his gaze shifting back to you. “But it still wasn’t enough. Arraxes rejected me.”

The name hung in the air, heavy with significance. You hadn’t heard him speak it before, but it was clear he had already claimed it in his heart.

You squeezed his hand gently, leaning closer. “Damon,” you said firmly, “dragons are not easily won. They choose their riders, just as Viserion chose me. Arraxes may not have been meant for you, and that’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“But what if no dragon ever chooses me?” he asked, his voice cracking slightly. “What if I’m not like you after all?”

You reached out, cupping his unburned cheek and guiding his gaze to yours. “You are my son,” you said, your voice filled with quiet strength. “You are strong and brave in ways you don’t even realize yet. A dragon will come to you when the time is right. But until then, you have no need to rush. You are already more than enough.”

Damon’s eyes glistened, though he blinked rapidly, refusing to let the tears fall. “I just wanted to be like you,” he murmured again.

“And you are,” you assured him, brushing your fingers through his hair. “You are more like me than you know. But you are also your father’s son, and he would say the same thing I’m saying now: your time will come. Until then, you must heal, learn, and grow.”

Maelor clambered onto the bed fully now, his small arms wrapping around Damon in a clumsy but heartfelt hug. “Don’t worry,” Maelor said. “You’ll get your dragon. I know it.”

Damon let out a soft laugh, though it was tinged with emotion. “Thanks, Maelor.”

You watched the two boys, your heart swelling with both love and sorrow. No mother wanted to see their child suffer, and Damon’s ordeal had been almost as painful for you as it had been for him. But as you sat there, watching Maelor’s unwavering faith in his older brother, you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of hope.

Leaning down, you pressed a gentle kiss to Damon’s forehead. “Rest now,” you said softly. “Both of you.”

As you tucked the blanket around them, Damon’s eyes began to flutter shut, exhaustion finally overtaking him. Maelor stayed close, his small hand resting protectively on Damon’s arm.

You stayed for a while longer, watching over them, your thoughts a swirl of gratitude, worry, and resolve.

The private chamber of Casterly Rock was heavy with silence, save for the faint crackle of the hearth in the corner. Tywin Lannister stood near the tall windows, his hands clasped behind his back as he gazed out over the snow-covered courtyard below. His expression was as stern as ever, but there was an air of tension about him, a tightness in his jaw that betrayed the thoughts swirling in his mind.

The door creaked open, and Maester Aldren entered, his chain jangling softly as he carried a worn leather satchel. His lined face was solemn, the weight of his duty evident in his weary posture. Tywin turned slightly, his sharp eyes narrowing as the old maester approached.

“You sent for me, my lord?” Aldren asked, inclining his head respectfully.

Tywin gestured to a nearby chair, his voice clipped but calm. “Sit. I wish to discuss my son’s condition.”

Aldren obeyed, settling into the chair and placing the satchel on the table between them. He began to retrieve small vials and folded parchments, his movements deliberate. “How is young Damon faring, my lord? Has there been any change in his behavior since the incident?”

Tywin’s gaze hardened, and he turned fully to face the maester. “He is restless,” he said bluntly. “The burns trouble him, and his demeanor has grown… quieter. He refuses to look at himself in the mirror, and I do not tolerate weakness, even in children.”

Aldren nodded, though his brow furrowed slightly. “The physical scars will heal in time, my lord, though some will remain as reminders. But the wounds of the mind and spirit… those require a different sort of care.”

Tywin’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Speak plainly, Aldren. What are you suggesting?”

The maester folded his hands on the table, his eyes meeting Tywin’s. “Damon is a boy of strong will, my lord. But what he endured in the mines—the fire, the pain—it has left an impression. He will need guidance and patience to process it. If he does not face what happened, those fears may fester and grow.”

Tywin scoffed quietly, though there was no true derision in the sound. “My son will not wallow in fear. He is a Lannister.”

“Of course, my lord,” Aldren said carefully. “But even lions have moments of doubt, especially at such a tender age. If Damon feels unsupported in his struggle, it may lead to anger or recklessness. Both are dangerous paths for a boy with his lineage.”

Tywin stepped closer to the table, his sharp gaze locking onto the maester. “What do you propose? I will not coddle him.”

Aldren opened one of the parchments, revealing a detailed sketch of a burn salve recipe. “There are herbs and ointments that will soothe the physical discomfort, making it easier for him to rest. As for his mind, it may help to allow him small victories—to rebuild his confidence. Teach him that the fire did not defeat him, and that he is still strong.”

Tywin considered this, his expression unreadable. “And his schooling? Can he continue?”

“With some adjustments, yes,” Aldren replied. “His burns require careful tending, and strenuous activities may irritate the skin. But keeping his mind occupied with his lessons will be beneficial—it will give him a sense of purpose.”

Tywin’s gaze drifted toward the fire, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. After a long pause, he spoke again, his tone quieter but no less resolute. “What of the scars? They will mark him for life.”

Aldren hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, my lord. But scars are not merely blemishes—they are stories, reminders of survival. If Damon learns to see them as a symbol of his strength rather than his pain, they may serve him well.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened, his sharp mind weighing every word. “He is my heir, Aldren. The weight of our house will rest on his shoulders one day. I will not allow this incident to weaken him.”

“It will not, my lord,” Aldren said firmly. “With your guidance—and that of Lady Lannister—he will emerge stronger. But he needs to feel your support, even if it is not spoken outright.”

Tywin turned his gaze back to the window, his expression contemplative. For a moment, he said nothing, the only sound the faint crackling of the fire. Then, with a nod, he straightened his shoulders and looked back at Aldren.

“Very well,” he said. “Prepare the salves and the necessary herbs. I expect a full regimen for his care by tonight.”

“Of course, my lord,” Aldren said, rising from his chair and bowing his head.

As the maester gathered his belongings and prepared to leave, Tywin’s voice stopped him at the door. “One more thing.”

Aldren turned, his brow raised in question. “Yes, my lord?”

“Do not let anyone speak of weakness in my son,” Tywin said, his tone cold and commanding. “Not the servants, not the guards, not anyone. Is that understood?”

Aldren inclined his head once more. “Perfectly, my lord.”

With that, the maester exited the solar, leaving Tywin alone in the flickering light of the hearth. He remained still for a long moment, his mind heavy with thoughts of his son and the future of House Lannister.

Finally, he turned back to the window, his gaze piercing the dark horizon. The weight of his name, his house, and his legacy bore down on him—but Tywin Lannister had never been one to yield.

The heavy wooden door to Damon’s chambers creaked slightly as Tyrion Lannister pushed it open, a faint smirk playing on his lips. Inside, the room was warm, the hearth crackling brightly against the harsh chill of the endless winter outside. The golden lion banners draped on the walls swayed faintly in the draft, and near the window, Damon sat in a cushioned chair, his face turned away as he fiddled with a wooden lion toy.

Tyrion stepped inside, his movements slow and deliberate. The guards at the door had hesitated to let him pass, but his sharp tongue and reputation for stubbornness had won out. As the door shut softly behind him, Damon glanced over his shoulder, his left side still visibly marked from the burns he had sustained weeks ago. The scars pulled at his features, making his expression harder to read, but his bright eyes gleamed with curiosity.

“Do my eyes deceive me,” Tyrion began in a theatrical tone, “or has the great lion cub of Casterly Rock decided to hide himself away from the world?”

Damon frowned slightly but didn’t respond immediately, instead watching Tyrion as he approached. “What are you doing here?” the boy asked, his tone guarded but not unkind.

Tyrion gestured to the chair opposite Damon, lowering himself into it with a groan of exaggerated effort. “I thought I’d pay a visit to my youngest half-brother. I’m told you’ve become quite the talk of the Rock. Though, judging by your expression, it seems the stories of your charm may be a touch exaggerated.”

Damon frowned deeper, crossing his arms. “Father said you’re not supposed to be near me or Maelor.”

“Ah, yes,” Tyrion replied with a mockingly serious nod. “Father did mention something to that effect. But, as you’ll soon learn, Damon, rules set by Tywin Lannister are often more… suggestions than absolutes.”

Damon tilted his head, unsure how to respond. “Father won’t like it if he finds out.”

Tyrion chuckled, his mismatched eyes gleaming with mischief. “No, he won’t. But I’ve found that annoying him is one of life’s greatest small pleasures. And you, my dear brother, are far too interesting to avoid simply because of a decree.”

Damon shifted in his chair, the toy lion now forgotten in his lap. “Why do you want to talk to me?”

Tyrion leaned back, steepling his fingers. “Why wouldn’t I? You’re my family, Damon. My blood. Besides,” he added with a sly grin, “I hear you’ve been getting into all sorts of trouble lately. Sneaking into mines, naming dragons, and now brooding by windows like a proper young lord.”

Damon flushed slightly, looking away. “I wasn’t brooding.”

“Of course not,” Tyrion said, his tone light. “You were contemplating, which is a much more respectable pastime. Tell me, Damon, what does a young lion like you think about when the days are dark, and the world feels too big?”

Damon hesitated, glancing back at Tyrion. Despite his father’s warnings, there was something oddly comforting about Tyrion’s presence—his wit, his easy manner, the way he seemed to see right through the walls Damon tried to build. “I think about… the dragons,” Damon admitted quietly.

Tyrion’s expression softened, though his voice remained teasing. “Ah, yes. Our fiery friends beneath the Rock. I hear you’ve named the black one Arraxes. A fine choice, though I hope he doesn’t mind the name.”

Damon’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “He didn’t seem to.”

“Good,” Tyrion said with a nod. “Dragons are temperamental creatures, much like our father. Best to keep them on your good side.”

At that, Damon let out a small laugh, the sound surprising them both. Tyrion leaned forward slightly, his tone more earnest now. “You’re going to be great one day, Damon. I can see it. The scars you bear, the burdens you carry—they’ll shape you into someone strong, someone clever. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Damon’s smile faltered, and he looked down at his hands. “But Father says I shouldn’t have gone into the mines. That I was reckless.”

Tyrion reached out, placing a reassuring hand on the boy’s knee. “Father says many things, and most of them are true. But do you know what I see? I see a boy who wanted to claim his place in the world. A boy who was brave enough to face fire and live to tell the tale. That, Damon, is something no one can take from you.”

Damon met Tyrion’s gaze, his eyes searching for something—approval, perhaps, or understanding. After a moment, he nodded, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “Thanks,” he said softly.

Tyrion patted his knee before pulling back. “Anytime, my boy. Just remember, if you ever want to annoy Father, you know where to find me.”

The door creaked open then, and one of the guards poked his head inside, his expression wary. “My lord Tyrion, Lord Tywin is asking for you.”

Tyrion sighed dramatically, rising from his chair with a mock groan. “Ah, duty calls. Or perhaps it’s my sentencing—always hard to tell with Father.”

He winked at Damon before heading for the door, pausing briefly to look back. “Take care of yourself, Damon. And try not to burn down the castle.”

Damon smiled faintly, watching as Tyrion left the room. For the first time in days, the weight on his chest felt a little lighter.

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