#ever had the misfortune to have slept

[twodiamondhoes]

Callout post for my dog: woke me up mid rem cycle 3 hours before my alarm and then didn't wake me up again when it went off smh

[yanderenightmare]

Gojo Satoru

♡ TW: yandere, noncon, incest, twincest, blind!reader, twin brother!satoru

♡ FEM reader

Overprotective twin brother Satoru…

He was born with an abundance of cursed energy, while you got none and no heavenly pact or anything at all to show for being a Gojo.

You can’t even see curses. In fact, you can’t see at all.

It’s as if in the womb, Satoru harvested everything for himself so that you would always depend on him.

He sees it differently, though. He’s the older twin—and that means everything to him. You’re his. His good half. You were born with the heart, and he was born with the rest, all in order to spare and protect you.

“The royal guard walks at the front to keep the princess safe” is something he started saying when you were younger. “That’s why I was born first. To keep my princess safe.” 

He always holds your trembling face in his hands while saying it. And although you can’t see, you still feel it, how he’s sticky and warm, soaked with the blood he’s spilled—all in the name of protecting you.

You don’t think you were scared of your twin brother when you were toddlers, but you’re not sure. You were still young when he learned how to use his techniques. He’d never had any tolerance to speak of and no mercy to spare when that non-existent tolerance was tested. Still, of course, he’d never ever think of harming you.

That’s not what worried you…

No, rather, it was the staff and any other unsuspecting visitor you feared for and how they might have the misfortune of crossing the hair-thin tripwire that triggered your brother’s cold-hearted rage.

Maids were fired every other day—often after having suffered at his hands, sometimes with limbs missing, sometimes with senses lost. None of them could ever measure up to his standards, especially when it came to you. You were to be treated like a goddess, not a child, despite that being what you both were. His sister deserved only the finest and was to be dressed to new perfection every day, hand-fed only your favorites, and never ever allowed to lift even a single finger yourself. That’s how Satoru saw it.

And if anyone were to fail to understand that, they’d meet with his swift judgment. Even being blind, you’d still see the awful glowing blue of his eyes before the screams and the sudden smell of rust all around.

You remember the first time it had happened. Your nurserymaid had insisted it was time the two of you no longer shared the same bed—said it wasn’t proper. You must have been about six years old. One second, she was there. Next, you were covered in her.

The two of you had slept in it. 

No. Satoru had slept, tucked snugly against you as if nothing was amiss. 

You had barely slept since.

You never stopped sharing a bed. You’d tried at a point to tell him how it wasn’t right, how it wasn’t something siblings should do. He’d only asked you who’d put those silly ideas in your head. And you’d been wiser not to raise the thought again, fearing for the lives he might decide were responsible.

Still, despite his lack of moral restraint, you’re older before he decides sleeping in the same bed just isn’t enough anymore.

You’d always known of the way he looked at you. You’ve felt it. Always there as a silent voyeur during your dress fittings and baths, studying you in a way a brother shouldn’t. You’d done your best to ignore that ever-present feeling of yearning coming from him in those moments he’d touch you, feeling his long slender fingers run cold over your bare skin, always insisting on giving you a helping hand, to dress and to undress, to eat, to walk. 

You’ve always known what he’s wanted.

Still, you’d thought some type of decency would hold him back from ever acting on it. 

You realize now how foolish you’d been…

As head of the Gojo clan, he makes decisions as he sees fit and announces your engagement before the entirety of its ranks and members as if it were only obvious. And under the pressure of his six eyes, no one dares even utter a gasp at the outrageous prospect. No, all they do is smile and clap while giving their blessings.

In the end, you’re the only one who objects.

“Satoru?” you ask after the assembly. Walking, or rather wandering, unsteadily on your plank shoes in the direction of his voice, hearing him talk about clan matters he’s never bothered to include you in—it’s not for you to worry about, is all he’ll ever say. Always treating you like a child despite being the same age.

“Princess!” he exclaims, rushing over to you, holding you up as if you were in danger of getting knocked over by a sudden draft. “What are you doing up? How many times have I told you, just tell the carriers where you want to go and they’ll take you there.”

You purse your lips and bite your tongue from sounding too chagrinned. Embarrassed enough already to want to cause more of a scene. Only muttering, “I can walk fine on my own–”

But Satoru isn’t convinced, nor concerned with the same matters as you, much too busy with protecting you from the terrors of standing on your own two feet. 

“You’ll exhaust yourself. Come,” he decides, dismissing the elders he'd been talking to.

You listen to them leave, lifting a hand to call them back, “No wait, but–”

But nothing. As always, Satoru doesn’t listen. Picking you up without further bickering. He lifts you off your feet and carries you away like an infant, back to the cozy den of pillows and blankets he insists you sit on during assemblies, calling it your throne despite it not being much different from your bed.

He doesn’t set you down. No, instead, he sits down with you, holding you in his lap as he gets comfortable in the plush nest.

“So, princess? Did you like my announcement?” he asks cheerfully. Already picturing you in wedding attire—so hopelessly incapacitated in the heavy layers, how you’d need his help every step of the way, even with walking down the aisle. 

“We can’t marry, Satoru…” You break his line of thought with a mumble. “You’re my brother.”

You're unable to say it with your chest—rather, you only muster enough courage to whisper it. Feeling anxious about his reaction. All he ever seems to care about is dolling you up so you can sit pretty next to him. And for so long, he hasn’t allowed anything else. You have no idea what to expect now that you’ve finally asked. 

Of course, you hope he’ll respect your words and see reason, but somehow, you doubt he’s ever really thought or cared about what you think you want—intent on making all those decisions for you.

“Silly princess,” he starts, closing the distance between the two of you by cupping your face as he so often likes doing, stroking his thumb over your bottom lip. “Who else would we marry if not each other?” 

It’s as you thought. He doesn’t understand, nor does he care to. And still, there aren’t many options other than you trying to reason with him. Despite only being brave enough to do so by mumbling, “It’s—it’s… not right...”

To that, he just hums, nose-kissing you despite how you try to duck your head away—his voice dumbifying your worry, saying “Don’t you love me, princess?”

It’s an unfair question… beside the point, and yet to him, it makes the point. Still, there’s nothing else to say but “Of course, I love you, Satoru.”

It comes out as a croak, somewhat choked in the feeling of hopelessness, all of which he just finds so endearing. Rubbing your cheek with his thumb as he watches those milky eyes of yours grow teary.

“Then who’s to say it’s wrong?” he croons, kissing your forehead as if you’re a silly child crying over silly things, and further explaining it to you just so, “We’ve belonged to each other since birth. Marriage is just to appease society's structures. It means nothing compared to what we already have and have always had.”

His other hand kneads your midriff, keeping you snug against him as if sensing how you wanted to leave. But you don’t try it. No, you barely manage to shake your head.

“I love you,” he says, but it isn’t the same way you say it. No, it’s something far more disturbing. “Sometimes, I wish we were the only two people on earth, like it was when we shared the womb together.”

You shudder, feeling his breath hit your face with your heart causing a ruckus in your chest, telling you to do something to stop what’s coming.

“I want to be close like that again. Just you and me and nothing else.”

You accept it for a moment—his lips against yours. Thinking you had no choice. But as you sit there, willing yourself to stay still, a sickness starts climbing up from the pit of your stomach, until you suddenly can’t stand it anymore. 

And with both hands pushing him away, you shriek, “Don’t!”

Prying yourself out of his embrace, you throw yourself back so fast you end up falling out of the elevated throne bed. Still, the pain in your rear barely registers as you wipe your mouth free of the spit your brother had left behind. Cringing at the stickiness, feeling nothing short of abhorred, as if it were the last thing that should ever touch your tongue.

“It’s disgusting. I won’t. I—” You’ve raised your voice now, for the first time in your life. Your brows furrow as you put all your might into the next words. “I refuse.”

And then, as if almost regretting it, you swallow thickly. Ears burning for any sign of his reaction, everything remains silent, deadly so, only disturbed by the heavy ups and downs of your own labored breath. 

Until…

“Disgusting?” he repeats.

And you don’t know why, but something about the edge in his tone makes you whimper and shuffle back. It was as if something about the very air changed, feeling heavy, crushing, all of a sudden.

“No… You don’t mean that, princess.”

You hear his steps come after you, soft first, stepping through the pillows, then light against the marble tiles, unhurried, knowing you’re not able to go anywhere. 

“You’re just reciting whispers you’ve heard,” he hisses under his breath. Then, darker, growling, “I ought to cut out everyone's tongue. That’ll teach them.”

“No–” you object, but he’s done now with listening to you. 

Shutting you up instantly with a dismissive, “Don’t you worry your pretty little head, princess. I’ll teach you too. This is how it’s meant to be.”

You kick off your plank shoes at that, struggling in your heavy dress as you twist around onto your hands and knees before getting up, holding the many fabrics in your arms as you run—only… you have no idea where. 

Anytime you’d snuck out of your room to explore the grounds, trying to map out a route you’d never dared admit was for an escape attempt, your brother had always come and collected you before you’d made it down the first hallway. And so, blinder than blind, you’re completely lost even in your own home. And the panic makes you slip on your skirt before you’ve even made it halfway down the assembly chamber, accompanied by the awful sounds of your own fumbling being echoed back as if mocking you.

You hear him sigh heavily behind you. And then his hand grips your upper arm, harshly—in a way you’ve never felt. 

It’s enough to make you yelp, starting to thrash—panic in your chest, you’re shaking your head, trying to pull yourself free by pushing him away. “Please, Satoru—please, let go–”

Before you know it, you’re pushed flat against the floor. Cushioned by your weighty dress, it’s like a soft bed, but with the way Satoru holds a hand over your mouth and forces you down, you feel as if you’re drowning.

“Keep this up, princess, and eyes won’t be the only thing you’ll be missing,” he barks. Not even giving you enough time for the freight in your chest to settle before worsening it. “Run away, and I'll take your legs. Fight me, and I’ll take your hands. Keep talking back, and I’ll take your tongue too.”

Balanced between your legs in the mess of your skirt’s many layers, bearing over you with his back hunched, he keeps you pinned as your whole body starts to quiver. 

“Is that what you want?” he questions. “Is that what it’ll take for you to behave?”

More tears flow then, in nothing short of a storm. Flooding down your cheeks, wetting the hand he’d locked over your mouth.

It brings a pang to his chest, and he realizes what he’d just said.

He peels his fingers off your lips, then cups your cheeks instead, shaking his head. 

“No, princess, I didn’t mean that—you know I didn’t. I would never hurt you—you know that—”

He kisses your forehead again, then your nose, then your lips, then your neck, where he nuzzles himself as he continues to coo at you, “Sh-shh, princess. Listen to me. Listen to your big brother. I just want to love you. Won’t you let me love you?”

You sob, shaking your head, trying to crawl out from beneath him and the tongue he has against your neck, sucking and biting at your collar with a mouthful of heated words, “Trust me, princess. I’ll take care of you. You’ll see. Just like always. And there’s never been anything wrong with that.”

♡ GOJO SATORU masterlist ♡ JUJUTSU KAISEN masterlist

[madschiavelique]

﹒ ✦ 𝐀 𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐈𝐍𝐊 : 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟔 — 𝐓𝐰𝐨 𝐨𝐟 𝐂𝐮𝐩𝐬 & 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐫

✦﹒ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 : it is your final day in Demacia, and after you wave your goodbyes, it seems that help is more than needed.

✦﹒ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 : hurt/comfort, friendship (wow), denial is a river in egypt but reader is finally off its boat? some backstory bit, palmistry, and extra card bc i'm that extra

✦﹒ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 : 16,3k

✦﹒ 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 : hey so this chap tops the previous chap in terms of who's the longest, woopsie. sorry i took so long but life happened. this chap marks the end of the demacia arc and opens up another one that is going to be very juicy.

✦﹒ 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐁𝐘 : the pretty boy @oneoftheextras

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓．．𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐃 ．．𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓．．𝐌𝐘 𝐊𝐎-𝐅𝐈

When you woke up, it was with great difficulty and a scratch in the back of your throat that you struggled to clear before getting up. You glanced at the time, 11:30, you still had a little time to eat.

You simply put on a sweatshirt and a comfortable pair of jogging pants, lightly tidying your hair and rinsing your mouth before setting off for the hotel restaurant.

In the hall, the students who hadn't yet slept soundly were all hunched over their breakfast trays. Some of them had undoubtedly overdone their drinking the night before, and you could see their faces grimace as soon as a voice or a sound that was even a little too loud had the misfortune to rise in volume.

With a coffee in one hand and a pastry in the other, you took your place at one of the tables in silence. There was no sign of Jayce, Sky or Viktor. They were probably asleep, enjoying their morning to relax after a night full of entertainment.

You ran your index finger over the skin of your thumb, not trying to tear it off, but to find the sensation of Viktor's hand on yours again. If the dreams hadn't left you with any memories during your slumber, last night had filled you with feelings and new sensations that you couldn't quite grasp just yet.

You found yourself in a place where the eye cannot see, where the feelings and other ideas you had buried within yourself all your life were rushing to the surface and breathing for the first time.

You'd always rationalised and intellectualised every feeling you'd ever had, or bottled them up so that they never escaped out there in a wild that could use it against you, and it seemed to you that the hundreds of shelves containing these feelings were shaking and bringing each vial to the floor to let them explode into thousands of tiny pieces of glass.

You engulfed your breakfast, hoping that the weight of it would soften their each and every fall. The buffet was about to end to let the midday menu take place, and neither Jayce nor Viktor was in sight yet. You imagined that Sky was still at Fiora's, having breakfast there.

They wouldn't have anything to eat if they didn't come soon, so you went over to the buffet and took two napkins. In one you wrapped an apple turnover for Jayce. In the other, you took a scone, a loaf of raisin bread, and a slice of financier, since that was some of Viktor's usual purchases at the café.

With your two little makeshift parcels in hand, you headed for Viktor's room. Given that Garen had probably slept at his own place, and that Jayce had gone home with Viktor, they were probably sharing the room.

Once you arrived at the door, your hand raised in the air and ready to knock, you hesitated. What if you woke them up? What if you disturbed them? What if you suddenly appeared clingy to Viktor?

You quickly dismissed the idea; you were just bringing them breakfast. With a sigh and your heart racing slightly, you knocked on the door, waiting for it to open or to hear a ‘come in’ from the other side.

You waited for a few seconds, without any answer. Maybe they were still asleep, or maybe they were busy, or maybe they'd got up earlier than you and you were uselessly bringing them this pitiful breakfast.

You were just about to turn away from your door to crawl back under your blanket when the door opened.

Viktor was standing there, hair slightly out of place, still in his pyjamas. He seemed surprised to see you, his eyes dropping for a moment to your two folded napkins in hand, perhaps originally expecting Garen to be the one who'd come to collect his things. As for you, you'd expected...

"Jayce is in the shower," he began, a little smile on his face, "what's that for?"

You remembered the scene as if it were yesterday, your brown paper bag of bread for Jayce held out towards him as your annoyance filled the air of a bickering conversation.

"I'm bringing you breakfast," you said in a more playful and relaxed tone than the first time, handing him the two small packages.

He smiled, raising his eyebrows. "Your grace is too good to offer pittance to the lowly plebs," he said, pressing himself against the doorway and resting his temple against the doorframe. "Your candor is delicious."

You smiled at him for a moment, bringing his little packet of sweets close to his hand. You felt his fingertips against your skin for a moment as you placed your own little food basket in his palm. 

"This one is yours," you murmured as your eyes returned to his.

With his head tilted to one side, he watched you with a certain gentleness, a nostalgia deeply rooted in the taste of the ginger and tomato pasta you had fought so fiercely over on the very day you met.

So many stupid quarrels, so many pointless grudges... how would the version of you from just a few months ago react if she learned that you were friends with Viktor? A friendship that was evolving and totally different from the few you'd had over the years?

How could you explain to her that you wanted to be in his presence more and more? To find out more about him? To take an interest in what he was doing and to be in his life not as a negative dot in the sea of people but as something more?

You inhaled harshly, silence taking over the corridor. When had you ever been nervous about saying anything to him? You'd always managed to let your disinterest and frustration get the better of you, but now that both had died down, you found yourself carrying on a... normal conversation.

"So um," you began eventually, "that was a pretty fun night."

"It was," confirmed Viktor instantly, not seeming to share your nervousness.

"We..." you tried to change your balance on your hips, "we played really well, together."

"We did," he smiled, his eyes resting on you expectantly.

You gazed at him for a moment, feeling light-headed. If your eyes dared to look even at his hand or his leg, you feared you'd have to cut the conversation short - and you didn't want that to happen.

You squeezed the air from your lungs before releasing it. You might as well be honest. "I'm glad we had that discussion last night."

His eyes softened for a moment at the mention of the event. "Me too."

Knowing that the feeling was mutual made you feel all warm and fuzzy. There was this comfort in the idea of being able to share something as intimate as last night with him, to speak softly to each other, with raw hearts, without fear.

He placed the handle of his cane in the crook of his elbow, letting it hang over his side, his two hands carefully unfolding your little makeshift parcel. He looked at the contents, a subtle flutter of his eyelashes indicating his emotion - a pleasant surprise.

"I..." you observed the little package, now appearing more like an apology than anything else, even if it didn't disguise your original intention. "I'm really sorry that I've been nothing but a terrible friend to you."

His gaze rose from the contents of his packet, settling on you with an emotion you couldn't decipher this time. There was this sensitivity, this tenderness, this vulnerability that you had seen the day before.

Pressing his head against the corner of the door again as he watched you, he seemed to consider you as a whole. "You're more than I could have ever wished for."

Your lips parted in surprise - how could you be everything he was describing? It seemed he was painting a picture of you that wasn't your own, or from an angle you'd never seen through blinkered eyes.

"Even with all my remarks?" you questioned.

"Even with all your remarks," he confirmed.

You chuckled for a moment. "Even if I told you you stink of burnt coal, candied apricot and cold tobacco?"

He shook his head, remembering that remark. "Yes, even with that."

You smiled diffidently, biting the inside of your lip for a moment in hesitation. "Even if I haven't told you everything yet?"

He smiled, his eyes calming your stream of thoughts as much as they triggered them. "Especially because of that.”

When were you going to tell him about all this? When were you going to finally open up to him and give him the key to a lock he couldn't see any light in? When were you going to find the vulnerability to let him get to know you?

You took a breath, looking for a way to continue the conversation, but the bathroom door opened, letting a small cloud of steam spread across the room. Viktor sighed, turning his head towards Jayce for a moment before regaining your gaze.

"Duty calls under the petricite filtered water of Demacia," he confirmed, a single corner of his lips stretching and raising one of his cheeks, his eye narrowing slightly and almost winking.

"Right," you nodded, a bit disappointed.

"Oh hey there!" greeted Jayce just behind, body seemingly still scarfed in smoke wisps from the heat of his shower.

Viktor pressed his lips into a thin line before turning away from you and heading for the bathroom, taking care to place his makeshift pack on his bedside table first.

Then you snapped back to reality, realising that you still had Jayce's parcel in your hand. "Here," you handed him, "didn't know if you had breakfast already and since it was getting late I thought I'd get you these."

His eyes widened as an almost euphoric smile took hold of his lips. "You're an angel sent by whatever deity they worship here," he took the small package in hand, opening it hastily and grabbing the pastry. He sighed at ease, humming. "Thank you."

"No problem," you smiled.

"See, I wasn't wrong," he mumbled, his mouth full.

You frowned. "About what?"

"About you two getting along," he said, his thumb pointing behind his back for a moment before his hand came back to point at you with his index finger. "You and Viktor."

You rolled your eyes. "And you want me to admit that you were right?"

"Nah, don't need it, seeing it is enough," he smiled. "Sugar and salt might not look the same, but you can't live your life without them. Same word, different font."

You could tell Jayce had been rehearsing this line hours on end in front of his mirror, but you didn't point it out.

In this incessant waltz with its frenetically changing rhythm that you had been dancing since the beginning of the year, you had persisted in denying your resemblance with Viktor. Yet it was there in your excellence, in your playfulness, in the same toughness and determination of having grown up in a bitter town.

Yes, you had to admit that you shared more than you thought. But did he share those feelings you've been having lately? The same burning of your heart and of your skin when you happened to share the same space, the same air?

"I could see that," you affirmed with a sigh.

He stopped chewing, surprise filling his face.

"You... agree with me on that?"

You rolled your eyes. "Calm down big guy," you stepped towards your door and placed your hand on the handle as you turned to face him. "Even if this is a rare occurrence, don't let it get to your head."

He raised both hands in the air as if in innocence. "I'll take this win and remain silent."

You gave him one last smile before pressing your door handle and going back to your room. There wasn't much of your stuff left to put away, since you hadn't particularly spread out in the room.

You took a shower, relieved that you wouldn't have to endure the sensation of Demacia's petricite-filled water until tomorrow. You looked at the white walls of the bathtub in which you had calmed down, the coolness and steadiness of it still inked in the corners of your skin.

You brushed your teeth, facing a mirror made to reflect two people. Fiora's speech came back into your head, and your discussions, however jagged like the teeth of a saw, would stick in your mind more than you would have preferred.

You gathered up your toilet bag, came out of the bathroom and stuffed it into your suitcase. You took the opportunity to pick up your deck of cards, hoping to end your stay on a positive note with a card that wouldn't tackle you.

The two of cups came out, and you frowned. You'd read this card before, the two characters on the arcana looking familiar, but you'd mostly got it in reverse. Its meaning was therefore different, and you took the opportunity to refresh your memory of its description.

Attraction. Self-recognition in others through the heart. Closeness. Affinity. Healing of the soul.

Was it about Viktor? you wondered. You kept associating everything with him, and no matter what, you couldn't seem to shake it off. Not everything was necessarily linked to him, but you couldn't help associating every possibility with him.

This card echoes the Lovers card: two people approaching each other. A house, implying domestic bliss and housework, stands behind them, reflecting cohabitation. This is the card of balance between masculine and feminine and can be read metaphorically. It's the card of discovering what you love, applied to all areas of your life.

Was this card representative of you and Viktor? Your finger passed over the word ‘Lovers’ in the text. No, it wasn't love, was it? It couldn't be, it had to be platonic love that they meant, right?

You looked at the card for a few seconds longer and forced yourself to put it back in its deck. You needed to go out one last time, to clear your head, to mourn your very first trip.

Once you'd packed your suitcase, you left the hotel, walking towards the campus of the University of Demacia for the last time. Under the blue sky and bright sunshine, the blue slate slabs of the campus buildings gleamed like fish for sale. Some students were taking their lunch break on the perfectly mown grass of the lawn, sharing laughter and anecdotes.

And, not surprisingly, your steps led you back to the training area. You felt anxious about going back there, especially after the events of the beginning of the week, but you had to go back, face up to your anxieties and get it over with once and for all.

The training ground was virtually empty, the students taking advantage of the time to have lunch rather than train. Empty, except for one person.

Swinging between the wooden and sandbag dummies, Fiora drew arcs in the air which, if the burlap cloths had been skinned, would have caused great damage. In a theatrical move, she managed to make a cut in the leather of one of them with a blow to the side, sending a small cascade of sand flying out.

You crossed your arms over your chest as you approached her. "What did that poor dummy do to you?" you asked.

She turned to you, her frown slowly fading to reveal a smile on her lips.

"Looked at me weird," she giggled as you glanced at his face.

Of the two buttons that served as his eyes, one was dishevelled and dangled wearily in the air, reaching the line drawn in thick black marker on the hessian by way of a smile.

"Ready for a rematch, Zaunite girl?" she questioned as she grabbed her water bottle. "Or are you just here to enjoy the show."

You raised your hand in the air as if to dismiss those two flies of possibility. "If it's to end up with the same face as him, no thanks."

She finished her gulp, resting her bottle on the floor. "You manage, though."

You shrugged. "With my fists maybe, with a staff? I prefer to use it for hiking."

"And would you like to learn," she approached the stall grouping wooden swords, "with the sword?"

"So you can shrivel me up and I can go home with a map of blue on my body?" You giggled.

"Relax," she rolled her eyes, grabbing one of the swords by its sanded blade and handing you the pommel, "just because everything's gone to shit around here doesn't mean I can't teach you a few things."

You looked at the pommel, considering the possibilities. Fiora didn't seem to want to start a new quarrel or regain a moment of glory, especially with such a lack of audience.

Your hand reached out and grasped the smooth wood of the pommel. It was heavier than you would have thought, and you gave it a few twists in your hand to get used to its mass.

"Good," Fiora thundered, stepping aside to observe you, "now show me how you would guard yourself."

Having Fiora as a teacher, knowing how judgmental she is, wasn't easy. Every micro gesture you made was going to be analysed and dissected in front of your eyes with possible condescension.

You huffed and puffed, trying all the same to get caught up in the exercise. You held back from gripping the pommel with both hands, and leaned slightly to one side. She watched your position carefully, her eyes roving over your posture before she stepped forward.

"You need to find a way of ensuring that the weight of the sword isn't something extra to carry," she came and took your arm between her hands to reposition it in the air. "If you let your opponent see that you have a problem with your weapon, that tells them a lot about where they should strike."

She repositioned your hips, pressing the wood of her sword close to your ankle to shift it. She stepped back again, watching your posture to make sure everything was correct.

"Good," she said, "now, hit the dummy."

You turned to her, confused. "How?"

"Do I have to explain the definition of hitting to you?" she questioned sarcastically. "I thought you were an expert at it."

You shook your head in exasperation, and hit the dummy. She eyed you up and down.

"Do you usually hit Tyler this softly?"

You frowned. "It was a one time occurrence."

"But if you still did that's how you'd hit him?"

"So he'd find another way to wind up friends and make me suffer? No thanks."

‘’Right," Fiora sighed, “then imagine the person you hate most in the world standing in front of you, and strike.”

You turned to the dummy, only one person in mind. It wasn't difficult to imagine him, his appearance ingrained in your mind.

A man of average height, with a sympathetic face, his eyelids drooping over his brown, almost black eyes, surrounded by the wrinkles of the sun in the skin of a man in his forties.

The mere image of him running his hand over his Venetian blond hair, neatly separated by an asymmetrical parting, made your blood boil. 

So you struck again, harder this time, obviously enough to satisfy Fiora.

"Whoever gets those hits has a lot to worry about," she remarked, pressing her lips into an inverted smile as her perfectly drawn eyebrows rose.

"I hope he gets them," you sighed, your shoulders slumping.

"Don't worry, he will," Fiora resumed, stepping back slightly as you turned to face her. "Good, now try attacking me."

"Already?" you questioned, expecting more practice from her.

"Theory is nice, but theory won't get you out of every situation."

You breathed out, trying to position yourself as she had shown you before. She was watching you, waiting for your move with unvarying weariness. Almost timidly, you described an arc in the air, as if you were getting rid of the move, and she parried it with the greatest of ease.

"I'm not made of sugar," she'd grumble, "make a move, a real one."

You let out a frustrated ‘hmpf’ as you took another step closer and arced through the air, which she simply blocked with a blow that felt deeply light and effortless.

She sighed, seeing that it would take more than a few hits on a dummy to relax you and make you realise that this wasn't a punishment session, but a learning one.

"Look," she breathed as she began to circle you, "although we're in a goldfish world, I know you're not one."

"What a beautiful egalitarian spirit," you commented.

"You just have to realise that you're not going to let commas walk all over you when you're capital letters," continued Fiora, swinging her sword in the air like a metronome. "Anyway, if you've got so much anger inside you, and you don't know what to do with it, turn it into fuel. It's what's stirring inside you that's going to make things interesting and may lead you to overcome more than you think."

You tightened your grip on your sword, moving your arm to get used to its weight and the change in balance. Garen had told you, you had to get it out in the open. Keeping it inside would not only be pointless, it would be your undoing.

"So, what do you say to this Zaunite girl?" she continued.

You sighed, chewing your cheek as a small smile spread across your lips. "Stop circling me like a roundabout, and show me what to do."

She smiled, and you were back on guard.

More than an hour passed during which you trained together, Fiora twirling in the air, supple and free as a petal, while your flexibility was closer to that of a pebble, which didn't stop you from managing to get by with the simplest basics. You'd probably find it hard to walk in the next few days, or to hold anything in your dominant arm, but you tried not to think about it.

After your request for a time-out, you sat down side by side on the lawn, breathing heavily as your skins were covered in a film of sweat. She took her flask in her hand and passed it to you.

You looked at it for a moment, surprised, before accepting it and uncorking it. You were careful not to let the neck touch your lips.

"You're not doing too badly," she remarked, placing her hands back on the grass as her shoulders rose to the level of her chin.

"Don't try to flatter me," you replied, handing her flask back to her.

She took it in her hand. ‘’Alright, you suck.‘’

You chuckled, a small laugh catching you both before she finished drinking in her turn. Your eyes roamed the horizon of hills and green mounds of grass. You were going to miss being surrounded by so much vegetation all the time.

The air here was so pure, and the idea of returning to Piltover or Zaun, where everything was a huge wall of copper and iron, didn't appeal to you any more than that.

"What's it like, Piltover?" questioned Fiora, articulating the last word as she forced her accent to bend to the demands of those in the golden city.

"High, clean, pretentious," you listed, resting your elbows on each of your knees.

"And Zaun?"

You shrugged. "A sly, dirty anthill."

"Well, one sounds more inviting than the other," Fiora remarked. You could feel her gaze on you in your peripheral vision. "Did you learn how to crack your knuckles in Zaun?"

Your eyes lowered instinctively to your joints, clenching your fist instinctively before it relaxed at the memory of Viktor's thumb caressing it.

"I learned on the job," you confirmed, pointing your chin at the dummy before your eyes settled on her, "the kind of thing where you don't have a teacher to learn from."

"Were you fighting so you wouldn't get your little afternoon snack taken away?"

You pressed your lips into a thin line, shaking your head. "You could put it that way. Being a kid in the big leagues teaches you a few things."

"Are those grown-ups still alive?" she straightened.

You sighed. "Yes, they are."

She pressed her shoulder against yours as encouragement. "It's a good thing the greatest duelist in Demacia showed you how to deal with them better then."

You smiled. "Lucky I crossed her path," you confirmed, turning towards her.

She returned your smile, her eyes regaining their seriousness. "I'm sorry, about all I did and said to you." Her playful, condescending tone had faded from her voice. "Really, I wish I could get those words back, to pull them out of your ears and shove them back into my own mouth."

You wondered for a moment whether, every time Fiora set foot on that training ground from now on, she would think back to your first quarrel, or this session, or both as a whole.

"What's done is done," you shook your head, not defeatist, but appreciative. "We can at least be grateful that we've moved on from it, and hope never to go back."

She nodded, watching you with consideration. "We should keep in contact," she finally suggested, "send each other letters, or something."

You nodded, the idea not sounding too horrible. "Okay."

She acquiesced, and a few seconds later straightened to push herself onto her knees and stand. ‘’Well," she dusted her bottom to remove any grass browns, “time's ticking, you won't be leaving in too long.”

She held out her hand to you, the other still holding her sword as the very extension of her arm. You hesitated to take it, to simply stand up and ignore the gesture. But you dismissed it as pity and mockery, grabbing her forearm and pushing on your legs in turn to stand up.

"Let's go, before Lolanthe or Heimerdinger faints," she sighed.

So you walked back together, the eyes of the students outside on the two of you as some whispered to their friends when you passed. You wondered whether they were watching Fiora, or you, or both of you - a particular union of anger leading the way with the elegance and poise of your determination.

When you arrived at the hotel, the students had already started to take their suitcases out into the corridors and bring down their belongings. In your own corridor, you found Garen in Viktor's room, packing up his own things to take home. You finished off with your own, hoping to take a shower on The Young Prince so you wouldn't stink of sweat all day.

So you took your bags outside, the tiny group of students forming just as they had when you arrived again. Everyone chatted about everything and anything, promising to write or visit or see each other again as soon as they could.

Heimerdinger and Lolanthe gave both of them a shared historical lesson on the magical wars, Heimerdinger's point of view and personal experience in all this being of interest to many. Fiora, who had come to sit next to you, seemed to prevent herself from openly yawning at the narration. Jayce chatted quietly with Garen so as not to interrupt the lesson, occasionally raising his hand to ask questions. Viktor, for his part, seemed a little tense, no doubt from lack of sleep.

Then it was time to move towards the harbour for departure, the roulette army resuming the symphony they had abandoned a week ago. While Fiora seemed to be attacking Jayce in terms of gallantry this time, you occasionally glanced at Viktor. He seemed in a bad mood, his features hardened. You wondered why. Had something happened while you were away from the hotel to make him this way? Was he disappointed that he couldn't stay any longer in Demacia?

The sun was already beginning to set when you reached the quays and the familiar silhouette of the Young Prince appeared in your vision. Arriving in the shadow of his balloon, Lolanthe turned to your group.

"Dear students," her accent was sharp and proud, "it has been an honour for us to welcome such brilliant minds as yours, who will undoubtedly enrich this world with their future inventions." Her smile was sincere, and you wouldn't be surprised if, in the years to come, Piltover wasn't the one to welcome Demacian students and perhaps even open its doors to other great Runeterra schools. "The Demacia Academy will always have its doors open to Piltovian students."

"And vice versa," confirmed Heimerdinger, turning to Lolanthe and the students. "Ladies and gentlemen, our stay here has exceeded any expectations the Academy could have had, and we are eternally grateful for the comfort of your welcome and your generosity."

Lolanthe smiled graciously with the delicacy of her features. "Thank you so much Cecil," and you seemed to recognise in the Professor a little blush about his ears as his moustache twitched slightly.

The departure time was announced, and all the students turned to each other to say goodbye. Some cried, emotion overriding any sense of dignity. Others exchanged addresses so that one day they could write letters to each other or meet up again.

Garen walked over to you, a sad little smile on his face.

"This is where it ends," he sighed, "it's a happy ending, all the same."

"There are no happy endings," you countered with a smile, "because nothing ends."

He shook his head, watching the horizon for a moment. "I know a young blonde lady who will write that sentence on any surface with enough room when I tell her about this farewell on the way home." You laughed softly, and he followed you in the gesture.

You were sad to leave, to abandon this heavenly place, but you missed talking to Sky about everything and anything, and you couldn't wait to get back to the showers at Piltover, and to find Selene and Eris, who you couldn't wait to tell everything to.

"I'd really like to keep in touch with you," he said, "to maybe visit you in Piltover someday."

You nodded. "I'll have to prepare a jogging route for you to discover in Piltover then," you smiled.

"I'd like that a lot," one of the corners of his lips quirked upwards.

He seemed to hesitate for a moment, then came over to you before taking you in his arms and holding you close. He wasn't suffocating, his arms wrapped around your shoulders in a calm, soothing way.

"Take care of yourself, okay?" he whispered in your ear.

You wrapped your arms around him, his back so big that your hands couldn't reach each other even if you pressed yourself as hard as you could onto him. His embrace reminded you of him, and you savoured the thought for a moment.

"Okay," you finally replied, your voice barely audible over his shoulder.

He pulled back eventually, his eyes seeming to check for a moment the vague reminders of the wounds on your face.

"Still got the balm?" he asked.

You nodded, and he nodded back. His gaze drifted behind you, and he placed his hand on your shoulder one last time.

"Let's stay in contact, okay? I got Jayce's address, I'll come and visit sometime."

You nodded, and he pulled away from you.

"Play nice," you heard him say.

You didn't know if this remark was addressed to you for the future, or if it was for Fiora coming towards you.

"So," she began, "relieved to leave?"

You shrugged. "Less than I thought."

She nodded, a sly little smile on her face. "I'd finally get a holiday from the rag."

You raised your chin. "And I from the idiot."

You both smile. It's as if you don't even need words to understand each other, your differences and such aside. You held out your hand to her, and she looked up at you. She brought her hand up to your forearm, and you squeezed hers. It was a pact. Not a farewell, but a goodbye.

"See you, Fiora," you said.

She smiled at you. "See you, Zaunite girl."

Your arms loosened, and she turned away to face Viktor and bid him farewell. He still seemed tense, clenching his jaw frequently. Perhaps she was offering him his last Vikkie, perhaps apologising for her behaviour, who knows.

The time came to board, and you took the handle of your suitcase in your hand, dragging it almost unwillingly to the boarding bridge.

Many students turned to greet their friends, some still visibly crying. Perhaps this was the last time they would see them, perhaps they would never come back here, perhaps they had already set a date to see each other again.

You turned around, Fiora and Garen standing on the quay, side by side in the same way you had introduced yourselves. They smiled at you, Fiora sending you a wink as her eyes drifted to Viktor. You rolled your eyes with a smile before finally disappearing inside the airship.

Mechanically, you walked among the students to find the cabin you had taken on the outward journey with Viktor. You opened it, finding the same layout without any change whatsoever in its appearance. You turned to face the corridor, searching for Viktor with your eyes. When you found his gaze, you tilted your head for a moment towards the inside of the room to show him where to go, and pushed your suitcase to the side of the bed as you had done last week.

He joined you shortly afterwards, silent, walking with difficulty to his bed and sitting down with a heavy sigh mixed with a grunt, the metal of his leg brace clicking and wincing. This time you were convinced that something was definitely wrong.

You straightened up, turning to him. "Are you alright?"

He didn't even offer you a glance, the heel of his bad leg lining up in a straight line between his support on the bed and the floor. "Why wouldn't I be."

His leg looked like it was hurting, but you weren't going to jump to conclusions, maybe it was something else. "You seem tense."

He sighed, pressing his temple against the wood of the bunk bed ladder, eyes closed under furrowed brows. "I just hope the journey will be quick."

"Viktor," you began, "if there's something wrong, you have to tell me."

There was no need to quote your clauses so that he would have them in his head. He breathed, his eyes finding yours through his lashes. His jaw tensed for a moment, his head jerking slightly away from the ladder at the pressure of the muscle rising in his temple before he relaxed and let out a tired breath.

"It's nothing," he admitted, "I'm just... exhausted, that's all."

You sensed that he wasn't telling you everything, but you weren't angry with him. After all, you weren't telling him everything either, so why expect him to do the same?

"Alright, well... I'm going to Heimerdinger's lesson," you warned, "I can give you my notes once he's done?"

His eyes closed again. "That would be excellent, Miss."

"Okay..." you murmured, sensing that he needed a little space, "rest well."

It pained you to see him like this, to see him in such a bad way, to see him unable to let his thoughts pass his lips so that he could share them with you.

You left the cabin, your heart clenching in your chest as you made your way to the common room. The students gathered for an additional lesson given by Heimerdinger, the beginning of which was interrupted, however, as soon as the airship's belly hummed.

Unlike on the previous trip, when you took off from a cabin where there were no windows for you to see anything, you took the opportunity to join the students along the walls and observe the scene from behind the large windows.

The ship rose slowly into the air, gradually moving away from the ground. In the waters of the sea, you could see golden reflections as the sun fell asleep in the arms of the sea. All the stars twinkled across the bay, and it was towards a horizon tinged with pink that you sailed.

Heimerdinger, still unimpressed by such a situation, then called you to order - he conceded that young people needed to satisfy their curiosity and experience all this, but he appreciated all the more that this same curiosity should be placed in his lessons.

The class resumed, the students distracted by the latest visions of the city in which they had lived for a week. It was strange, to become accustomed to a place so quickly, to leave a part of yourself there and take another part with you in a pocket of your memory.

And the sky rested, the sea a mirror where its blue became black and its clouds pink. When the sun went down, the starfish turned the sky upside down, reflecting its eternal partner.

When dinner came, you still had no sign of Viktor, and you were beginning to worry. You hesitated about going to see him. You didn't want to wake him, especially if his night had been short and he didn't seem to be having a good time when you left.

Sky, Orcelyia and some other students pulled you by the sleeve so that you could play a few games of Werewolf, so as not to immediately abandon the Demacian atmosphere.

The games piled up, and as the evening wore on, your concern grew. When there weren't enough people left to play anything, the students decided to go to their rooms, still tired from the previous evening.

So you finally went to your own cabin, slowly opening the door and looking around at the rest of the room. It was plunged into semi-darkness, the light from Viktor's bed on dim in the rest of the room.

He was lying on his side, his T-shirt a tangled mess on the floor. When you approached him, checking to see if he was asleep, you found him almost trembling. You frowned, something was not right.

"Viktor..." you whispered as you approached him and knelt down, concern knitting your brows together, "what's going on?"

His eyes opened halfway, covered by heavy eyelids and watching you with an expression you couldn't make out. Closer, your eyes noticed a slight film of sweat on his skin, his hair sticking to his forehead, his breathing heavy.

You placed your fingers on his forehead, his eyes closing at the touch as he exhaled heavily. No fever, that was something.

"Please," you asked, your voice trying to sound firm to hide the panic, "tell me what is going on."

He pressed his lips together hard as his eyelids closed until his nose wrinkled, his whole face contracting for a long second before returning to normal. His lips parted, his eyes looking into the distance.

"Ran out of painkillers for-" he hissed in pain, pressing his forehead against the mattress that seemed to have been accumulating sweat for a while now, a sigh deepening in his chest as he tried to refocus, "... for my leg."

All that walking for that week must have taken its toll on him, depleting his few tablets of medicine faster than sugar in water.

You breathed in, your eyes resting on his blanket, covering his silhouette. You must have had some painkillers left in your toiletry bag, and you sat up quickly to open your suitcase.

Splitting it in two on the floor, you grabbed your toiletry bag and opened it, looking for your medical supplies. Finally, you found a matching tablet and stood up to face him.

"Will these be of any help?" you asked.

He looked at the box, seeming to recognise the name as he raised his eyes to yours again. "A bit."

You nodded, rising to the sink you had. You opened up his little cabinet just below, and grabbed a glass which you quickly filled with water. You came back to him, knelt down and offered him a tablet and the glass in your hand.

He struggled to sit up with his elbow, taking the tablet from the palm of your hand and placing it on his tongue before taking the glass and drinking it. He seemed thirsty, finishing the entire contents of the glass and handing it to you.

"Need more?" you asked about the glass, but he shook his head before falling back, his forearm resting on his eyes.

You remained kneeling by his bedside, trying to relax. He seemed to be in a bad way, and even if the painkillers were going to take effect in the next thirty minutes, thirty minutes of pain is still hours. Hesitantly, and chewing the inside of your cheek, you couldn't bear the silence.

"Can I help you, please?"

It took a moment for him to clear his forearm of his eyes, his head falling to the side as his eyes rested on yours.

"I have a balm," you conceded, "it might help."

He looked at you for a long moment, considering you, and your cheeks warmed. He seemed to hesitate, probably wondering if it would cause more trouble. You hoped, hoped that he would trust you with such a sensitive and meticulous task. After all, you hadn't always been very delicate in the past.

"It's useless work," he breathed. "It won't make it go away."

You pressed your temple against the wood of the bed's ladder, your two heads asymmetrical in their distance. 

"I can't make the pain go away, but I can at least try to make it more bearable for you."

He said nothing, his eyes never leaving you for a moment. You wondered what he was thinking, whether he too, like you once were, was reluctant to be helped, to leave his vulnerability in the hands of someone like you.

He sighed, finally propping himself up on his elbows, the orange light of his bedside lamp tracing his muscles as his hands pressed against the mattress until he was sitting up, leaving the heaviness of his grunts of pain in the air.

He removed the cover, revealing his leg brace still pressed against his trousers. You moved away from the bed a little, letting him adjust himself as he pleased on the bed as he approached the ladder towards the foot of the bed and pressed himself into it. He let his good leg dangle in the air, grabbing the bad one and steering it gently until his heel touched the floor. The effort seemed to take a lot out of him, making him move for the first time in hours.

You knelt beside him, taking up a position on the side of his bad leg. You observed the different straps and alloys of bolts and metal parts joining and separating. The design seemed complex at first glance, but you remembered how Viktor had positioned it that morning in Demacia.

You turned your head, raising it towards Viktor. His was pressed against the ladder bar, watching you - you were closer than you'd thought. 

"Tell me what to do," you asked, your voice lower than you'd expected.

Under his piercing eyes, you wanted to do the right thing - but more than that, you wanted to make sure you could help him suffer less, make him feel good, make him feel better.

He took a long breath, trying to get past the pain to find his words.

"To remove it, you have to start at the thigh," he explained, his accent drier than usual, "unbuckle the straps all the way to the knee before moving on to the hinge."

You listened attentively, your eyes resting on the aid, before gently moving your hands closer. With your fingertips, you reached up to the smooth strap on his thigh, releasing the strip of brown leather with the greatest of delicacy, leaving the little golden stalk of the buckle spring free as you pulled very lightly on the belt and finally untied the first strap.

"That didn't hurt, did it?" you asked, turning to face him for confirmation.

The ghost of a smile passed over the corner of his lip, and you suspected that if he wasn't in so much pain he'd probably have let it invade his face. With the shadow of his figure covering you, you felt almost feverish.

"You're doing good, Miss," he confirmed.

You tried to ignore the missed beat of your heart at that sentence, simply nodding as you reached for the next strap.

"How often does this happen?" you asked, scratching the leather with the tip of your index finger until you managed to raise the buckle like a hill.

He heaved a sigh, his hand coming to grip the ladder. You turned to him, wondering if you'd done something wrong, but he shook his head to instantly kill the idea.

"Not often," he asserted, bringing his free hand to his forehead to wipe away the meagre sweat. "I thought I'd have enough painkillers for the trip... I didn't expect to be walking that much."

You hummed in understanding as the second loop finally came undone and you reached his knee. Your eyes fell on the mechanism, two thick iron discs encircling each side of his knees, made to ensure that the knee could still be bent but with solid support.

You'd seen him tighten it the other day with a bolt, but which way? And what if, accidentally, because you wanted to loosen it, you tightened it and hurt him more than anything else.

"Inwards," Viktor pointed out, seeming to understand this internal conflict that was occupying you.

You nodded, putting your hand on the disc to turn it towards Viktor, unscrewing it slowly to avoid any sudden movement that might hurt him. You could feel him watching you, his eyes resting on your profile as your fingers worked so frighteningly to take care of him.

You moved on to the second disc on the inside of his leg, leaning a little further to the side without applying any pressure as you stared at the second one. Although you were close to him, you didn't allow any part of your body to come into contact with his. If he was in pain, you wanted to give him his space. You knew very well that, even if sometimes you needed to be close to someone and help them through the pain, being able to be alone in that suffering was a relief.

He breathed heavily when the pressure was relieved and his knee was out of the grasp of his brace. And so you went back to the path of your hands. After hours of walking and pressing for balance, it must have been a relief to leave it out in the open.

You were worried about him, the silence punctuated at times by long sighs and hisses from him, his hand in your peripheral vision tightening around the wood of the ladder. 

"Why didn't you tell me," you began, your hands reaching for smaller straps towards his shin, "earlier?"

He remained silent for a moment, perhaps asking him to talk in this situation wasn't the wisest thing to do. You inwardly insulted yourself for this idiocy, simply returning to your task, when he calmly replied.

"I thought it'd pass," he admitted, eyelids closed. "I seem to have-" he gritted his teeth, mouth open, "overestimated my limits."

Did he come back from every walk and museum visit like this, breathing hard under a throbbing, incessant pain for which he had to wait excruciatingly for the effects of the painkillers to kick in?

You felt guilty, that you hadn't found a way to prevent a situation like this from happening. But you could still help, and you comforted yourself with the idea that even if this help was temporary, any help was welcome.

You soon got to the part about his ankle. "Even if it were to pass," you mumbled, "I could have been there with you, unless you didn't want me to."

You reached for his ankle, the same bolt system you'd encountered towards his knee facing you.

He breathed in as your fingers worked to unscrew them. "I think I would have avoided much torment if you were here, Miss."

Your heart went mushy in your chest. The very idea that Viktor might want you close to him revealed a sweetness in you that you kept seeing coming back. 

Your eyes returned to his when you'd finished unscrewing them. "Then why didn't you ask me to stay?"

He exchanged a look with you, his chest gently rising and falling. There was a shame camouflaged under so much uncertainty and pride, under all those unspoken words.

"The same reason why you left that day."

I didn't want you to see me that way.

You understood much better now, exchanging a knowing glance with him. While you didn't want him to see you in your overflowing, buried violence, he didn't want you to see him weak. You both felt miserable, but neither of you seemed to mind seeing the other like that.

You nodded, letting your fingers undo the very last strap around his foot. Once that was done, you let him pull his leg out of the device. He tried to squeeze a grunt out of his throat as he raised it high enough for you to pull the aid from underneath and place it on the floor.

When he placed his heel and the palm of his foot on the ground, he let out a heavy breath. It must have been a costly effort, and you couldn't wait for the painkiller to take effect.

You turned to Viktor, who was watching you expectantly. Your eyes fell on his trousers. Ah, right. He'd have to take them off before you could apply the balm.

"I'll just, um... yeah," you managed to say as you turned to let him have his privacy.

Kneeling on the floor, you turned around, your back facing him. You straightened up, hearing the distinct sound of his belt buckle coming undone. You listened intently as his back settled on the sheets of his bed, adjusting his hips to slide the bottom of his trousers down his legs, punctuating the air with little grunts of pain. 

You heard the distinct sound of fabric wrinkles meeting the floor, the rustle of sheets echoing in the silence of the room marked by the steady, sizzling sound of the neon emergency exit sign above your bedroom door.

There was silence, but you didn't move. You had no intention of turning around. You could hear that he was motionless at the moment, he'd stopped moving a few long seconds ago, but you weren't going to turn around.

"Could..." you finally heard him say.

You almost shuddered when you heard his voice. He seemed closer than you thought, somewhere behind your back. The end of his sentence never came, and in the silence of the room, you waited.

"Yes?" you finally asked when, despite Viktor's small, compressed breaths, the silence had intensified.

"Um..." it took him a moment to find his words. "I need pyjama trousers."

Your cheeks heated, of course.

You moved almost on your knees, stepping on them as you bent down to reach his suitcase and laid it on the floor, taking the liberty of opening it. Everything was carefully and meticulously arranged.

‘Any preference?’ you questioned, your back still carefully turned to him.

"Plaid," a single word was all he managed to pronounce, and you needed no further questioning to understand that he had an obvious preference for a certain pair.

He'd had the intelligence to arrange his suitcase so that his pyjamas were folded on top of the rest of his clothes so that he didn't need to rummage through his suitcase to find what he needed. 

You grabbed the trousers, soft and wide, your knees sliding uncomfortably against the carpet on the floor, only to reach back and stretch the plaid pants out somewhere in the void behind you. You felt the warmth of fingertips brushing against yours, and your chest felt light.

Turning towards the door again, you waited, recognising the sound of fabric being rolled up into small hems so that one heel rose from the floor to rest there, then the other followed, with more difficulty. The fabric seemed to creep up his calves, Viktor's back meeting the sheets of his bed again with a sigh as he shifted until he had correctly pulled on his trousers.

You remained motionless, your back straight as you waited for him to consent. You had a kind of firm discipline that kept you upright, perhaps unconsciously to show him that you were thorough and meticulous in everything you did - as if he would ever doubt that.

"All good," he finally confirmed.

So you turned to face him again, his eyes on you as he sat on the bed, his hand still gripping the ladder as he hemmed the fabric up to his thigh, partially neatly tucked at the start until the folds were hastily packed at the end. The time for cleanliness wasn't now, what mattered was relief.

You swallowed, trying to keep your eyes from roaming over the bare skin of his body, dotted with moles on his alabaster skin. You pulled your toilet bag towards you, digging around until you found the balm. You uncapped it under Viktor's watchful eye, placing it on the floor as you dipped your finger in to take a honeyed dab from your index finger.

You turned to face him again, approaching his leg gently. Your eyes found his, watching the muscle in his jaw tighten for a moment.

"Where does it hurt the most?" you asked.

He inhaled heavily, his eyes never leaving yours. There seemed to be some hesitation. Perhaps you should have simply handed him the balm, not taken away the possibility of him taking care of it himself. After all, he was the one suffering, he knew without a doubt where his aches were much better than you did. You hoped he wasn't frustrated by the idea of you taking this freedom. And just as you were about to press the dab of ointment still on your finger around the rim of the jar and hand it to him, he cleared his throat.

"The knee," he informed you, breath heavy, "and," his eyes lowered to the ground for a moment, "the ankle."

You nodded, your eyes dropping to his knee. A faint reminiscent indent of the harness tracing his skin with the wrinkles of his previous pants. Had he tightened it too much in the hope of getting a better fit? Whatever the case, you moved your hand closer to his knee. Your fingers were only a few centimetres from his skin, motionless.

"Are you okay with me doing this?" you finally asked.

He exchanged a look with you, the corner of his lips turning up very slightly. Perhaps was his next snide remark going to be directed at you.

"If there's anyone I would want to do this, it's you."

You parted your lips, closing them in surprise as your heart raced up your throat. You cleared it, nodding simply as you repositioned yourself beside him.

"This will feel a bit cold," you warned, "but it'll warm up soon, I promise."

So you finally touched the side of his knee, a hiss escaping his lips. You looked up again, making sure everything was all right, that he wasn't in too much pain. He exchanged a look with you, nodding despite his furrowed brows.

You applied the balm to the surface first, not pressing it into the skin, just covering it and the sides of his knees where you could imagine the support of his brace. The balm was firm and thick, while its strong, fresh scent perfumed the air.

As you began to press more against his skin, he suddenly grabbed your wrist. His grip wasn't firm, just light against your own skin. You stopped all movement, all pressure on his skin, and your eyes met his with concern. Had you hurt him? Had you pressed too hard? 

"Did this hurt?" you asked in an alarmed murmur.

He was breathing heavily, closer to you now, leaning towards you, his back hunched like the arch of a church. He seemed to be catching his breath, going from an open-mouthed breath to a closed one as his teeth clenched.

You sought his gaze, trying to make sure he was all right. He met your eyes again, his face bent over yours, and your breath caught.

"Should I stop?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

You moved your wrist away from what he was still holding, but he tightened his grip on it, preventing you from moving even a little further away. You froze, your eyes fixed on each other.

"No," he finally breathed, his head pressing against the ladder again as he scrutinised you. "Don't stop. Just..." He inhaled softly. "I wasn't prepared."

"Oh," you felt like an idiot, not having warned him before intensifying the pace, "Did I press too hard?"

He shook his head, reassuring you. "No," he sighed, "you're doing perfect, Miss."

Perfect. The title had never sounded so sweet to you.

You'd spent enough years trying to achieve perfection, one success after another to reach the top of the Academy's charts, to always have an answer for everything. And although this title of perfection had been gradually stolen from you over the months by Viktor's arrival, the fact that he was bestowing this title on you himself had a new impact on you.

You let out a breath you'd forgotten you'd been holding in, resuming your work more timidly. You went about it more methodically with your thumbs, gently massaging his taut skin, gently but surely bringing more pressure to massage the balm into his skin as it warmed under your fingers.

He offered another hiss as you moved to a second part of his knee.

"I know it hurts," you whispered, pausing slightly, "but it will stop soon."

The balm scented your fingers with a minty smell, crisp in the air and warm on the skin. You tried to work on his aching muscles gently, the fat of the balm gliding over his skin with ease under your fingers.

He watched you as he slowly relaxed to the sensation, getting used to the slow rhythm you had set. The air no longer knew the weight of pressure, the lightness of your heart intact in your chest as silence filled you without discomfort.

"Where did you get this?" he managed to utter, his hissing and grumbling discomfort greatly diminished as you massaged the balm gently.

You moved on to another part of his knee, your two thumbs now wrapping around it and massaging his muscles.

"In a Demacian shop," you replied, massaging without your gaze leaving his skin, your fingers almost counting the moles on it. "Garen recommended it to me when he was cleaning my wounds..."  

After a final application near his knee, making sure you'd coated the whole area that might be unpleasant for him, you moved on to his ankle, dipping your finger into the jar again to take another dab. 

"There's some that sell it in Zaun, though," you confirmed, tugging at the fabric of his sock and applying the fresh paste to his skin, the contact not seeming to bother him any more than that now. "I used to use it often."

"Really?" he asked, watching you nod. ‘Why?

You shrugged, working gently on the ligaments of his ankle. "Used to get hurt often."

"Why?" he questioned again.

You hesitated, your eyes flickering up to his knee before returning to the spot on his ankle. "Demanding job."

He seemed to be regaining at least his curiosity over the pain. "Mines?" he continued.

"Not exactly," you shook your head, lower lip pressing and curling upwards as you regained his gaze. "I..."

"Can't tell me yet, right?"

There was no condescension in his tone, no impatience, just understanding, and you felt heard.

"Yeah," you smiled softly, letting the silence spread like balm over his skin.

He didn't say anything more, just nodded as you rubbed the rest of the ointment between your hands to let it dissipate before finally pulling his sock up over his ankle.

"How does it feel?" you questioned, your eyes rising to his as you remained kneeling on the floor.

He took a long breath, closing his eyes. "Better," he admitted, "a bit."

"Good," you confirmed. "It's better to have it covered to keep it warm and working."

You tilted your head, your chin pointing towards his pillow. He sighed, offering you his gaze for a moment before he fell back slowly, lying on his side as you had found him. He straightened up for a moment, taking his pillow and turning it over. The sensation of sweat on the other side of it must not have been pleasant. He pulled the blanket up over his navel.

His head fell back onto his pillow, a sigh escaping his lungs as his eyebrows furrowed. The change of position must not have been pleasant at all. 

You had stayed on your knees, shifting them on the floor and letting your hip fall to the ground so that you could sit down.

When he opened his eyes again, they rested on you, as if the possibility of his resting anywhere else was impossible and stupid.

You breathed in, trying in your exhalation to make your heart shrink in your chest. "Is there anything else I could do for you?"

He gazed at you for a moment, before his eyes settled somewhere on the floor. "I could use something to distract the pain, but," he offered, "but I don't think a book is going to be enough." He swallowed, closing his eyes for a moment before they opened again on his suitcase open on its side. "I can't... focus, much."

"Right," you nodded, understanding his situation. 

You thought for a moment. What could you do that would occupy his attention sufficiently until the pain subsided and perhaps he could fall asleep? Reading to him would be pointless, and what's more, you'd potentially be taking away the simple pleasure of reading in silence.

Ask him questions about himself? No, it wasn't an interview. Besides, maybe he didn't want to feel like he was being interrogated.

So what could you do to distract him from the pain in his leg? More often than not, when you had a pain in your body that seemed unbearable, you tried to put your attention on another part of your body to distract him. And there was one thing you could do about it without bringing him more discomfort.

"Well," you began eventually. "It's not much, but... I could read your palm."

From his two furrowed brows, one rose. "You know how to do that?"

"Remember who I grew up with," you remarked, copying his gesture as a small smile tugged at the corner of one of your lips. "I might not be familiar with Tarot much, but I do have the basics of palmistry."

He settled back into his pillow, not taking his eyes off you. "Really?"

"Yes, palms are a one time thing," you pressed your cheek against his mattress for a moment. "The hand, with its hills and rivers, provides a topographical map of life. When it comes to cards, well, they're random. They form an infinity of associations and conclusions that can come from them in so many different settings. All I'll need is your dominant hand."

"I see," his amber eyes rested on you as gently as the sun on the sea, illuminating all the sparks in you. "Well," he extended his right hand towards you, palm skywards, "let's see if my future is as bright as Demacia's glory."

You smiled at his usual sarcasm and moved closer to him, your hand tentatively coming to rest under his as you watched him - it was bigger than yours, and the memories of that feeling made you feel strangely light. 

Had you subconsciously suggested this out of pure desire to feel his hand against yours again, or had you done it out of a curiosity you couldn't quite control?

His knuckles sat pleasantly in your palm, your thumb resting in the hollow of his as you observed the lines and shapes of his hand. You raised your eyebrows at your observations, lifting his hand a little higher in the air to observe its relief.

"Is it that bad?" he asked, puzzled.

You shook your head. "No, it's not bad at all. I'm just looking at your fingers."

"My fingers?" he repeated. "I thought palmistry was, as the name suggests, about the palm."

You smile, continuing your observations. "The whole hand is taken into account for its reading."

"And what are my fingers like?"

You raise your head, making yourself straighter and less arched as your second hand traces the length of his with your index finger.

"You have a square hand," your voice was somewhere between demonstrative and gentle, "which indicates that you have a practical and orderly mind. Stability prevails over everything else, just as prudence is required in financial matters. You respect faith and order, except when the latter is imposed as part of an office job. It is also synonymous with manual dexterity and hard work."

So far, nothing that seemed impossible about Viktor. 

"Where you thrive best can include outdoor activities such as gardening, but also in office occupations such as technology or management, where your organisational skills come into their own. This characteristic can take on a negative aspect when it leads to repetitive and boring tasks, though."

You raised your eyes, checking if you were aiming right. Viktor pressed his lips into a small pout, his eyebrows rising slightly. Correct.

"Your fingers are long," you continued, "so the details get all the attention, but without any pedantry at all. Your fingertips, too, are square, reflecting a down-to-earth, upright personality that likes order and decisive action, without lacking foresight or reflection."

"Much praise," he breathed.

"Of realities," you corrected, glancing at him before observing his fingers again. "The index finger reveals the need to succeed in life. In this case, your finger sticks out beyond your ring finger, and can betray an exaggerated self-esteem, compensated for by great qualities as a leader of men."

‘’Typical me,‘’ he joked as you rolled your eyes and continued reading.

"The middle finger stands between the active tips of the index finger and thumb and the more intuitive tips of the other two fingers. Yours leans towards the ring finger, and therefore introspection." He made no comment, the tips of your fingers moving on to the next one. "The ring finger, its neighbour, is reserved for artistic inclinations. Yours remains straight, and has no great particularity."

"And I could already see myself selling my artworks at exorbitant prices," he then sighed, "I'm going to have to change the whole course of my career."

You sneered. "The little finger, as it happens, expresses the gift of communication in both the private and professional spheres. Usually it reaches the upper phalanx of the ring finger, but yours exceeds it, and therefore forms an indicator of great success in this field."

"I shall ask Jayce to cancel his speech and pass me his notes to present in his stead."

"Finally," you pointed out as your thumb pressed against his, "the thumb is an indicator of inner strength, general energy levels and ego in particular. Yours is short, and doesn't fully reach the lower phalanx of the index finger, showing a lack of self-confidence."

This time he didn't offer you any sly comments.

You pressed your thumb harder against his to test its flexibility. "It's moderately flexible, and indicates practicality and determination."

"I take it we're finally moving on to hand lines?"

You could still have elaborated on the mounts, but you could already feel him relaxing, and that eventually he would fall asleep - after the short night following Fiora's party and the hours spent trying to fall asleep despite the pain stretching him, it wasn't going to take him long to fall asleep. So he might as well give him the more interesting parts.

"Absolutely," you conceded. "The lines on your hand define the paths of life. They indicate time and space, energy and effort, love and lust, war and peace. Like the course of life, they can change from week to week, or month to month. Destiny is not carved in stone: it shows through in the living flesh of the hand."

"And all this resides in my hand?" questioned Viktor, his voice already softening with the weight of sleep, the warmth of the balm seeming to activate as the little twitches and ticks of pain faded from his face.

"Mhm," you hummed in confirmation, your index finger tracing along the line of his skin splitting it in a fairly straight arc from between his index and middle fingers to two-thirds of the way down the side of his hand. "The heart line represents the state of the heart, both emotional and physical," you explained, moving slightly closer to it to get a better look as you tilted his hand so that the palm was properly illuminated. "Yours is splitting at the end."

You felt, gently and somewhat hesitantly, the sensation of his thumb caressing the back of yours. You froze for a moment, not daring to meet his gaze as you felt the soft, circular movements on your skin.

"Is it bad?" he asked, his voice sounding as if it were getting heavier with sleep, or simply tired from such an evening.

You relaxed, strangely, welcoming the sensation on your skin.

"That's positive," you corrected, your voice softer, "it indicates that a practical sense is complementing the other emotions."

"Hmm," was all he replied as his eyes followed your fingers over his skin.

"For your head line," you continued as your index finger drifted gently to the next major line, cutting his palm diagonally in a slight arch from the flank below his index finger and describing a line until it lost itself in the skin of his opposite, plumper flank. "You have a good balance between fantasy and reality, your line is long, a sign of broadmindedness and emotionality."

Your fingers holding his hand slid instinctively along his skin by just a few millimetres, Viktor's chest rising a little higher as he inhaled.

You tried not to let this reaction affect you. "Finally, the lifeline. Yours..." You looked at it with a little melancholy. "Is long, and pale paced with sickness," your eyes lit up though, "but a gradual arrangement." 

"I've always wondered," Viktor asked, voice slower as his eyes struggled to stay open. "Can you predict your death in the palm of your hand?"

"No," you smiled. "The lines change often enough for that kind of accuracy to take place."

He sank a little deeper into his pillow, his hand growing heavier in your palm as sleep gradually overtook him. "I thought you said they were a one time thing."

"Because I don't read palms every fourth morning," you explained. "You could show me your hand again in a month and it might show me something different."

He sighed, exchanging a glance with you for a moment before closing his eyes. "I'll make sure to book a monthly appointment, then."

The idea of seeing Viktor again every month and being able to hold his hand like this, even for just five minutes, made you want the next month to be here already. But for now, you wanted this moment to last. You wanted the time you spent with him to last for hours, and for the thread of time to wrap itself around you both.

Your eyes returned to his palm, watching them a little more to note a few interesting points.

"I think you should get back on your artistic career," you smiled.

He stirred slightly, eyes still closed, voice sleepy. "Really?"

"You have a distinct line here associated with financial, artistic and personal success. It's a sign that your wishes will be fulfilled and perhaps result in a special honour."

"Mhm," Viktor replied simply.

You continued to observe his hand, the crevices, the lines, the dots, the curves rising and falling in certain places.

"You have a few stars," you remarked as you scrutinised his skin, your voice almost audible only to yourself, "all placed on the head line... and heart line."

Your fingertip continued to explore, tracing a few furrows, observing the phalanges of his fingers and their separations, their length, the intensity of the slits.

You barely lifted your head. "I think it's-"

But your sentence never went on, whatever you were going to say dying on your tongue as your eyes fell on Viktor's closed eyes. 

Then you realised the weight of his hand in yours, how the caress of his thumb had faded so long ago, how his breath had become regulated.

You sighed softly, relaxing your shoulders as you tilted your head to the side. He'd managed to fall asleep.

You watched him for a moment, in his serenity and calm. You didn't dare move, didn't dare disturb his comfort with any movement or noise. So you waited. 

During those few minutes of silence, your eyes moved from his hand to his chest, counting the moles on his arms, his shoulders, noting the one on his neck that you'd never noticed and that was probably hiding behind his shirt collars from the Academy.

Your fingers on the back of his hand didn't let go when, with your free hand, you curled a few strands of his hair, still damp from sweat, to the side so that they didn't fall over his eyes - an excuse to check that he truly didn't have a fever, of course.

He had a dark beauty in his sharp, angular figure. You drew attention to the curve of his nose, very slightly twisted to the side, or the way one of his dark circles dipped lower than the other, or the way his cupid's bow wasn't so abrupt.

Why had you never noticed these details? You'd spent so much time with him, and you probably could have gone on never noticing those slight details. So why notice them now?

You felt inside you, though, that there was an undeniable link between all the multitude of sensations you felt when he was around and this question.

It was when you began to tire that you leaned over to the switch on his lamp and turned it off, preparing to stand up and let go of his hand.

But as your fingers gently faded along his skin, ready to let go, you felt his hand wrap around yours - your heart skipped a beat. His fingers curled around yours, caging them in a soft, sleepy embrace.

Viktor stirred slightly in his sleep, but didn't wake up, your shoulders sagging in relief. You didn't dare move, keeping one knee on the ground and the other ready to push yourself to stand, doing nothing.

What could you do? Let go of his hand even though you had no desire to do so and go to bed, or enjoy the sensation a little longer until you went to sleep?

You sighed, then gently pushed yourself onto your knees. You lifted yourself up for a moment, not letting Viktor's hand leave yours as you grabbed your cover from your bunk and came back to kneel on the floor.

With one hand, awkwardly stretching out your duvet until you had it over you, you sat beside him, holding his hand.

You could barely see in the semi-darkness, the light from the exit once again illuminating the room with its neon orange, like a nightlight. 

As before, you sat on the floor with both legs bent, one on top of the other at your side, resting your cheek against his mattress.

You couldn't see him fully with your eyes because of the lack of light. But you could make out the features of his face even with your eyes closed, so well that you could probably draw a portrait of him without a model. Your eyes wandered to your two embracing hands, or at least to the bracelet that Viktor's fingers were offering on your wrist.

It was strange, new for you, to feel all these things and not be able to bury or forget them, or give them a name.

Inside you, warm in your chest, you felt a heart beating as if for the first time. It resounded inside you, deaf to everyone else's ears and omnipresent in yours, whenever Viktor was near you, or you saw him, or he saw you, or you thought about him.

Viktor. Viktor. Viktor.

He was winning a battle against the occupied territory of your mind, eviscerating enemies and traitors who no longer had any place in you to sit and set up useless structures, cutting doubts and impossibilities short without you being able to stop him - or wanting to stop him.

You couldn't remember when you'd fallen asleep, but when you woke up you were lying on the floor. Its hard surface and the pain in your hips and back that it had given you no doubt played a part in waking you up.

When you wanted to massage the discomfort from your head and temple, you found your hand lying on the floor, not far from your eyes, Viktor's fingers brushing against your palm. One of you must have moved in their sleep until they no longer had your wrist hostage, probably you, you assumed.

His hand dangled in the air, his body heavily asleep, his breath peaceful. You lay on your side, your gaze riveted on him in the darkness of the room, which your eyes were slowly getting used to.

In the dim light, you noticed the way his eyebrows were furrowed again. 

What is he dreaming about?

The question had always remained unanswered. 

With your free hand, you gently raised your index finger in the air until you gently placed it between his two eyebrows, gently erasing the wrinkle.

He stirred slightly, and just as you thought he was going to wake up, he simply offered a long sigh, just before his hand, which was still grazing your palm, lightly pressed the backs of his fingers against your skin, like a dreamy caress that lasted only a brief moment.

The heat rose to your cheeks, your chest feeling light at the innocent gesture, until his hand came to a halt and hung in the air without your skins touching again.

You took a deep breath, the discomfort of the floor outweighing the desire to stay like that for the moment. Gently, you slipped your hand out of Viktor's reach, pressing it against the floor before pushing yourself to your feet, numb. 

You grabbed your duvet, swinging it over your bunk as you silently climbed the rungs of your ladder two by two and lay down in your bed. You thought you'd fall asleep quickly, but you struggled to do so for a few moments as your mind kept replaying the scene in a continuous loop.

What woke you up for good this time was not the sound of the alarm as on the outward journey, but the sensation of something warm on your arm.

You struggled to open your eyes, squinting and frowning at the light that filled the room as you tried to clear the blur from your eyes to see better ahead. 

Your gaze caught the distinctly brown colour of Viktor's hair, his features solidifying before your eyes as you snapped back to reality. He had placed his hand on the rail of your bed, his cheek resting on the back of it.

"Miss, it's getting late now," you heard him say, his voice close to a whisper.

Then you recognised the warmth on your arm, the feeling of his hand passing through the fabric to gently move you away from too much sleep.

You turned onto your back, his hand finally moving away from you as you put your forearm over your eyes.

"What time is it?" you croaked, surprised that you'd managed to line it up as a question as you rubbed the crust from your tiredness out of your eyes.

"Almost midday," he informed you.

You stopped moving, suddenly feeling fully awake as you turned to face him, propped up on your elbows.

"What?" you choked out.

He hadn't moved from his position, except to bring his chin to his knuckles. "Mhm."

"Why didn't you wake me earlier?" you exclaimed as you climbed out of bed, descending the steps of your ladder until you reached the mirror and tried to fix your appearance.

"Because there was no alarm for any students," Viktor remarked, standing by the bed, pressing his arm against it for balance, "and you looked like you needed it."

"I didn't miss Heimerdinger's class, right?" you questioned, turning to him.

He shook his head. "No classes today."

You frowned, moving away from the sink, the anxiety beating in your ears suddenly calming down. "No classes today?"

"You heard that right," he confirmed, pushing away from the bed to take a step towards you.

Heimerdinger must have fallen into line with the usual weekly timetable. Given that it was a Saturday, he considered this day to be part of the weekend, and therefore undoubtedly a break for him.

You breathed out a long breath, the stress and tension leaving your taut muscles as soon as it came. 

Viktor was watching you, standing straight in front of you, his mood profoundly different from the previous day. After the night before, you weren't expecting to wake up to him like this. You wondered if he remembered anything while he was asleep, or if he'd slept like a log.

Your eyes landed on his leg, which wasn't wrapped up in his brace like it had been for the whole of that week.

"How's your leg?" you asked anyway.

He smiled at you, and your cheeks flushed. "Better," he confirmed, "thanks to you."

You shook your head, your eyes moving from the floor to his remade bed and then back to him. "It was nothing."

He arched an eyebrow. "I wouldn't call taking care of my leg, giving me painkillers and managing to give me a good distraction from this torment, enough for me to fall asleep 'nothing'."

You kept your eyes from rolling to the sky. "Maybe it's not nothing," you conceded, "but you would have done the same for me." You breathed softly, your gaze settling on his as you managed to remain upright. "And you did."

Apart from the fact that it was a token of gratitude to him for the treatment he had given you when you were sick to death, it was also a token of the fact that he too could get help from you.

Mutual aid, that's what you had offered each other and what you had given each other.

Viktor said nothing for the moment, his lips parting before closing again. You wondered at what point he had stopped paying attention to what you were teaching him in your distraction from him.

Your stomach felt hollow, your extended sleep having apparently opened up your hunger. Your eyes rested on your suitcase for a moment, then returned to his.

It didn't take him long to understand what you were trying to tell him. A simple glance exchanged with you was enough for him, your gazes going beyond the limit of language.

"I'll see you in the common room?" he asked.

You nodded. "Okay."

He gave you the ghost of a smile before turning away towards the door. As he passed you, you heard him whisper : 

"Thank you, Miss."

And so he left the room, and you held yourself back from running to your bed to bury your head in your pillow and bite it or scream into it or hit it or anything. You felt so light, for a simple conversation, a simple touch from him, a simple attention. 

You concentrated, trying to regain your composure. It seemed to you that every instance in his presence had become a blessing, the cracking of an opening in you that was unfolding a little more every day, a bud awakening in its featherbed ready to blossom.

You pulled yourself together, straightening up and inhaling heavily before finding the strength to look for something to change yourself. You found your suitcase closed on the floor, the latter containing your toiletry bag that you had taken out the day before with the balm in it. Viktor had to put the latter away while you were sleeping, and just this attention seemed touching to you.

You took out your outfit for the day, changing quickly as the hunger began to sincerely gnaw at you in your stomach. Your eyes rested on your deck of cards, sighing heavily as you decided to quickly draw one before the start of this day.

An idea was beginning to creep into your mind, an idea that terrified you as much as it reassured you - because on the one hand, you were facing a terrain that you knew from afar, but on the other hand you finally knew what these effects were that took you so keenly.

The card that fell was The Star. You hurried to read the description of it.

The calm after the storm. Healing and renewal. Ultimate peace, but active and not passive. Creative inspiration. Summoning the muse. Clarity and vision.

It seemed quite positive, you thought, beating heart.

The Star appears after the tumultuous Devil card and that of the Tower. The Star brings a feeling of calm and serenity, as if the storm had passed. The thunder and the rain are gone. It's the ultimate feeling that everything will be fine. The Star is also the card of direct communication with the muse. This is a particularly important card for writers and artists. This is the archetype of inspiration. The female figure is naked, which implies vulnerability and openness. Its freely flowing waters imply openness. The bird in the tree offers spiritual communication. The stars above are a million bright suns, galaxies of hopes and possibilities.

Kneeling on the floor, you could feel your heart beating in your chest. These feelings that ran through your body, pumped your heart, brought warmth where there had been so little, was it ... what you imagined?

There was a moment when, out of frustration perhaps, you hoped to go back to the time when you hated him because at least you would know how you felt.

You shook your head, dismissing this possibility for the moment. You weren't fully awake, not enough for that anyway. 

Thus you went to the common room, lunch was already starting to prepare while the students were eating on some tables near the windows of the airship. You were helping yourself, filling your tray to fill your screaming stomach before coming to take a seat at Viktor and Jayce's table.

“Morning sleepy head!" greeted Jayce with his usual enthusiasm.

“The Golden Boy seems to be recovering Piltovian colors,” you remarked as you took a seat on one of the chairs near Viktor.

"Demacia is nice of course," he conceded, "but I have to admit that I miss the Academy. Plus, it's strange to barely be back to your apartment and leave it right after.”

"It is not even completely cleaned," Viktor added, already considering the amount of work that'd need to be done for it.

“You guys know where to find me if you need help moving things around," you offered them. 

“Of course, you will be the first guest!"Jayce confirmed. “And considering the way we are moving forward, it will be sooner than you think.”

“What do you mean?” you questioned as you brought the first bite of your meal to your lips.

“The wind is very favorable for us, we will be back in Piltover even faster than on the way out. We should reach the docks at sunset.”

“Hmm," you understood, remaining silent as you focused your attention on this breakfast that had become lunch.

You were fighting the idea that filled your mind by filling your stomach with your meal, but this strategy seemed to work only partially, or at least only very momentarily when your thoughts came back at full strength regarding the person sitting right next to you whose hand you had held to fall asleep only the night before.

“Won't you miss Demacia?" Jayce still questioned.

You shook your head, pressing your hand to your lips as you finished your bite.

“Given everything that's happened, it's not surprising," he conceded. “Although in the end everything doesn't seem to have been so bad with Fiora, does it?”

You were swallowing, nodding from the head. “She's nice, but I wouldn't make a breeding farm of her.”

"Please, let's not make more like her,” Viktor sighed.

You couldn't help but smile, turning to him. “Oh, come on, Vikkie. Don't you miss her?”

You pressed the nickname with the same accent as Fiora's, and Viktor turned to you with a black, playful look, and your heart jumped in your chest.

No, you were telling yourself, it's not possible.

Your smile disappeared from your face in a flash as you resumed the course of your lunch. 

It didn't take long for Sky to join you, sitting down with you and continuing your discussion while you remained silent.

The rest of the journey continued in various conversations of the students in the common room, each bringing back their favorite memories of the stay, or the moments that had made them laugh the most. Some showed their purchased souvenirs, others rehashed the historical events brought by Professor Heimerdinger that had marked or fascinated them.

As for you, you were trying to tear out each of these thoughts that you associated with Viktor.

A student remembering all-you-can-eat buffets in the morning? Your thoughts centered on the indirect contact of your lips and Viktor's.

The mention of the visit to the museum the day after your fight with Fiora? You associated it with the discussion you had with him, so close.

Anyone recounting the evening at Fiora's? You immediately thought back to the seven minutes in heaven that you had spent in his company.

At every corner of the street and thoughts, he hung around in your mind. You did everything in your power to never meet his gaze, finding a way to deflect it or avoid it in any way.

When time came to pack your bags, you were almost fleeing to your shared room, taking out your coat and scarf while the announced temperature promised much cooler weather in Piltover than in Demacia.

You barely had time to meet Viktor again in the hallway when you rushed to the common room with your belongings.

You had to get out of here, had to walk to your apartment and digest these ideas that were swirling in your mind. You found Sky, ready to leave too and find the comfort of your apartment.

You were talking for a moment about the upcoming tasks. All the laundry, errands, preparations for the next classes and homework – it was a busy schedule.

The students all gathered, watching the sunset decline on a sea of clouds as The Young Prince finally landed on Piltover. After a small hum and a very slight landing vibration, the green light was given for you to leave.

One by one, the students passed in front of each other to get off, dragging all their suitcases passing from the carpeted floor of the airship to the metallic rumble of the gangway, the cold biting you all on the cheeks.

Outside, once all the students had left, Heimerdinger took advantage of everyone being gathered for a last speech.

“My dearest students, the Dematian adventure therefore ends here. It was a week filled with cultures and enrichment that, I am sure, will remain in our minds forever. I thank you all for your exemplary behavior,” his little mischievous look passed over yours as he said these words, "and for your willingness to bond with the Dematians.”

Some students sniffed, partly by the cold, another by the grief that all this was coming to an end.

“Good. We shall talk about it all in classes on Monday. Thank you very much, and have a nice weekend!”

Some of the students applauded, Heimerdinger did the same, and it was the time of the aurevoirs. Sky hugged Orcelyia tightly, while your eyes found Viktor and Jayce. 

Viktor was watching you, seeming intrigued. He had no doubt noticed this perpetual escapade that you had just begun to maintain, and his frown seemed to convey that he did not appreciate this initiative at all.

You were swallowing, smiling all the same when Jayce came to take you in his arms until you choked from it, promising you that you would be invited to their apartment as soon as they were done with the last little details.

Viktor observed you, silent for a moment as he tried to determine what might be tormenting you, before his face relaxed – an abandon to this research, but a momentary one.

“Thank you again, Miss, for your help," he ends up saying anyway.

You nodded, slightly tense and with a beating heart. “It was my pleasure," you assured, trying to keep your voice steady and distinctly intelligible.

Jayce arrived to wrap his arm around Viktor's shoulder. “We'll see you in classes!” he said as the two began to leave towards the Piltovian taxis, and that you could finally breathe again.

They had this luxury of being able to afford it. As for you and Sky, you chose to walk to the apartment.

After all these days of walking, you wish you didn't have to do it again. But there was no choice. At least, for your comfort, you could delay the groceries a little since you had frozen some dishes in your freezer to prevent them from perishing while you were away.

When you finally reached the apartment after a few small conversations cut short by fatigue, you first checked to see if you had received any letters. Besides some advertising flyers, you found among this pile of paper a letter with a stamp that you recognized only too well – a metallic black, the letter E pressed on a tough wax.

You frowned, holding the letter in your hands anxiously as you passed through the hall doors and let yourself be engulfed by the warmth of the hearth in the center of the common room. What was troubling you was the weight of the letter - light as a feather.

You were coming up the stairs, an orchestra of huffs and grumbling taking you both when you had only one desire – to lay in your beds.

You stuffed the key to the apartment with almost too much impatience, and finally opened the door to your home. You both left your suitcases by the entrance, each of you coming to collapse on your beds.

As the mattress embraced your whole body, you felt all strange. You couldn't think of anything else, the star card kept coming back to your head while the Two of Cups were joining up on it.

These two characters represented on the card, this shared cup, these stars that multiplied on his palm and on the cards – it was difficult now to have any doubt about it.

You had feelings for Viktor.

All this time that you had spent hating him, then tolerating him, seemed immensely distant as the ghostly sensation of his fingers against yours came back to your mind and you pressed your whole face against your pillow.

What you thought was an allergy was immensely worse. With an allergy, there normally was a treatment, but a treatment for feelings? You didn't know if that existed.

Was it so much a problem that you had feelings for him? After all, there was no harm in it. But at the same time, there was all this newness, all these unknown possibilities that awaited you in the face of this.

You and Sky spent a little while like this, reveling in the comfort of your bed until you finally found the strength to get up to take out your frozen meals, preparing two plates to stuff in the microwave - it was more a desire to distract you and change your mind from thinking of this realisation than anything else.

While the first plate was heating up and Sky was leaving for the bathroom, you grabbed Eris's letter. You broke the seal with a simple snap, opening the envelope.

You pinched the little paper and unfolded it, much less provided with text than usual. Something was wrong.

Got news from Renata. Children have not only gone missing in Zaun, but it started in Piltover too. Come to my shop the weekend after you get back from your trip. He's back in business.

Eris

You were closing the letter, a heavy breath falling on your lungs. Why did the ghosts of the past have to perpetually catch up with you as soon as things got better?

✦﹒ 𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑

✦﹒ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 : @doctorho @6selkie @yunloyal @kryscent @hypocritic-trash-baby @kapitankarate @a-lovers-card @ababanerb @lolixsstuff @forget-me-not-my-dear @smolanchovy @shugar0cone0alt @harrys--ferret-blog @suuummerrr @stillinracooncity @noxturnalmoth @dlbitch @cloufire @csolya @kathyholdsagrudge @furblrwurblr @potatointhedirt @atrocioushaircut @ren-ni @schrodingersraven @urmommt @enoojnij @stilinskisensation @emlovesya @soupsaurus @luvreadingfics @the-valars-sapphire @solbringer @adorabluesposts @pxszels @nerolovesseongjiyuk @cyberwears @cryptidcut @seohaepeachyun @danielsbackupglasses @2hiigh2cry @16novvs @cicadastoner @patchs-curiosity-corneriosity-corner @w41k3r-94290 @minniiv @roku907 @lumilarity @peachy-writings @disturbyn @ddandelionfluff @holymotherfxrkingshirtballs @notyuralycat @glenn-slayer @k07ume @hexb0nes @ravngers @fushirika @glenn-slayer @watergirl13girl @graveyardtrain @theuclid @catspook @mildly-discouraging-future @nataliea @frogbuggy

[synthetickitsune]

Jeonghan (SVT) | Gone Away angst | 1k | gn!reader

“Will you-” he swallows. The pit in his stomach suddenly feels heavier. “Will you come home? Please, just come home. I will leave you alone. I won’t approach you.”

“What's the difference if I’m there or not, then?” 

Everything, Jeonghan wants to say. That feels pointless, though. How could you trust him? There’s no way you’d believe him, even if he spent hours going into excruciating detail to prove he’s not exaggerating. So he doesn’t say it. He wants to beg, he doesn’t care if he has to throw away his pride. But that feels manipulative. He doesn’t want to put any pressure on you. He knows he’s not entitled to anything. Least of all forgiveness.

“I will be here when you do come back,” he says softly, “I’m not running away from what I’ve done.”

The silence stretches on. Afraid that anything he does could be the wrong move, he stands still and holds his breath. Of course you can’t see him, far away somewhere he can’t reach. With no idea where you are, it feels like you’re just that - gone. The distance feels suffocating.

Then you hang up. Without a goodbye, without another word. Gone.

He takes a deep breath and counts to ten. Nothing changes. 

“What is it, Jeonghan?”

He hates the static blurring your voice. You don’t sound like this. He misses your voice.

“I just wanted to ask about your day,” he explains, calmly, without any added emotions. The static makes him wonder. How far are you? Are you somewhere with bad reception? You’ve always told him you’d like to try travelling somewhere far away enough that nobody will reach you.

“It was good,” you say simply. Nothing more, nothing less. No bite in your tone. There’s never been, anyway. No clue as to where you are, what you’re doing. 

“Are you eating well?” he hides the smile on his lips. There’s nothing to smile about. Still, you had a good day. He’s glad. His own days blur together, to be told apart only by these short daily phone calls.

“Trying to,” you respond and he thinks you shrug as you do, “Are you sleeping well?”

He bites his tongue. This is the first time you’ve asked about him. He doesn’t want to blow it.

The truth, however, is that no - no he hasn’t slept well ever since you left. Since he pushed you away. Jeonghan has to stop himself from being stupid. His lips still remember the time you were within reach. When he could playfully whine and tease, tell you of course he isn’t sleeping well without you next to him. 

“No,” he loses his cool and sighs. He decides not to beat himself over the slip up, though. At least he didn’t tell you all the things he thinks. Like how he doesn’t think he deserves to sleep well, how he doesn’t deserve to eat well. Honestly nothing should be going well for him, but he’s always been pretty lucky. No great misfortune met him. Except the greatest one that he brought onto himself by his own fault.

“Try to,” you hum, “For me.”

A click and you’re gone. His body feels heavy. His chest is tight. He needs to lie down. 

“You sound miserable,” you ignore his greeting to say.

That must be the first time you’ve taken initiative in all these weeks. It almost makes him break. Today is a really bad day.

“Yeah,” he clears his throat before his voice can crack, “I guess so.”

He promised himself he won’t be emotional. That he won’t cry, or get angry, beg or sweet talk. You deserve better than that. You deserve stability, you deserve respect. Accountability. And Jeonghan would like to believe that that’s exactly what he’s shown you every day since you left. But the truth is, today is the worst day he’s had in a while and that’s saying something. All he wants is to lay down with his head on your chest and have you play with his hair and tell him you got him. That you’re there. But he doesn’t even know where you are. 

It’s a whole different kind of torture than he’s ever thought he’d experience. And he should just shut up and take it because ultimately it’s all his fault but it’s hard.

“Want to tell me about it?” 

There’s concern in your voice. He can’t blink away his tears fast enough. He can’t stop himself from taking in that shaky, stabilizing breath fast enough.

“Jeonghan?”

The concern is stronger now. You’re worried. Worried about him when he’s done nothing but hurt you and made you leave.

“I-” he wants to tell you not to worry. It’s pointless to worry about him. He deserves this.

You let him catch his breath. You reassure him you’ll wait, which is way more than he deserves, but it works because at least he doesn’t worry about the chances of you hanging up with each passing second.

“It’s just a lot. Today’s been a lot,” he exhales shakily, “Everything is a lot but don’t worry about it, okay? I’m handling this.”

You sigh.

“Jeonghan,” your tone is stricter, not cold, but it startles him nonetheless, “You don’t have to do this.”

You’re really set on making him break his own rules.

“I-”

“Look,” you sigh, “You can’t undo what happened. But I appreciate how you handled it.”

He really won’t cry.

“I’m still yours,” your voice softens, “And you’re still mine. So just tell me what’s going on.”

“I-”

Knock knock. 

His head snaps towards the door. He whispers your name but you don’t answer. The line is not dead but you don’t say a word either. 

Walking towards the door, he feels like he’s in a dream.

He has to close his eyes as the door opens. If this is a dream, he doesn’t want to wake up.

He calls your name again when he falls into your arms.

[ldr13beaches]

Harry Lewis x Y/N -

Complicated

It was a Saturday afternoon, and somehow you’d found yourself invited to take part in a Sidemen Sunday video. Honestly, you had no fucking clue what you’d just agreed to.

You stepped out of your Uber, trying not to look too out of place, and were immediately led through the front door of the house. It was the one the Sidemen filmed in. The familiar buzz of laughter and chaos filled the air as you walked into the living room.

The whole squad was there: Tobi, Ethan, JJ, George Clarke, Vik, Arthur TV, Harry, Simon, Bambino Becky, and—of course—you.

“Hey Y/N!” Simon’s grin greeted you from across the room, his smile wide as ever. JJ raised a beer, his eyebrows wiggling in your direction, and you rolled your eyes.

“Christ, JJ, drinking already?” You teased, eyeing the time on your watch.

JJ shrugged, taking a swig. “It’s 5 o’clock somewhere,” he retorts taking a sip.

You laughed as the crew moved around, setting up cameras in the corner. The boys sprawled themselves across the sofas and chairs, making themselves comfortable. Harry patted the empty spot next to him, and without thinking, you slid into the seat beside him. He shot you a small smile as you crossed your legs, settling in.

Simon stood up, his voice carrying. “Alright, today we’re doing a lie detector test. Everyone gets a turn answering questions, and we’ll see who’s been telling the truth.”

JJ was first. They hooked him up, and Behz asked the first question with a grin. “How many girls have you slept with?”

JJ answered, and the whole room went silent, waiting for the verdict.

The machine beeped, and the operator deadpanned, “That’s a lie.”

JJ’s head fell into his hands, and he burst out laughing, shaking with it. The room followed suit, laughing at his misfortune.

“Bloody hell,” JJ grunted, rubbing his arm where the shock had hit him.

Simon leaned in, a wicked smile on his face. “Oh yeah, I forgot to mention... you get shocked when you lie.”

JJ groaned dramatically, “You could’ve warned me, you wanker.”

Laughter erupted, and Harry caught your eye, and you both share an amused glance, before turning your attention back to to JJ, still trying to catch his breath.

George and Becky took their turns next. Then, your name was called.

You stood and walked toward the chair. The operator smiled at you warmly as he helped you get strapped in. He adjusted the cuff around your arm and clicked the clip onto your finger, then asked, “You ready?”

You let out a nervous laugh. “Is it bad if I say no?”

The crew chuckled. “It’s fine,” the operator said. “Just answer as honestly as you can.”

You nodded, trying to shake the nerves, but they lingered. The man turned to the group. “Alright, go ahead.”

Becky asked the first question. “Are you single?”

“Yes,” you answered, and the machine didn’t react.

Harry looks over at you, taking in your features, and a subtle smile appears on his face.

Behz asked the next one. “How long have you been single?”

You thought for a moment. “A year now.”

No reaction from the machine, and everyone seemed to accept it. Simon leaned forward, clearly intrigued. “How many boyfriends have you had?”

You shot him a look. “One.”

JJ leaned forward, eyebrows raised. “Wait—one? Are you serious?”

You laughed, rolling your eyes. “What’s so surprising about that?”

“Well you’re a fit girl so we just assumed you’d… ya’know…” JJ makes a crude hand gesture, his voice dropping.

“JJ! Behave,” Harry interrupts, giving him a disapproving look.

You laughed with the group, enjoying the light-hearted teasing. Then Ethan got serious with the next question. “Have you ever cheated on anyone?”

You recoiled at the thought. “No. Never.”

The machine didn’t react, confirming your honesty. JJ groaned. “BORING,” he shouted.

Then Harry leaned in, giving you a cheeky grin. “Alright, how many one-night stands have you had?”

You couldn’t help but feel flustered. “Two,” you muttered. The machine didn’t react.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Fair play for being honest.”

You flipped him off, and he exaggeratedly clutched his chest like you’d just wounded him. The room burst into laughter, and Simon grinned, getting ready for the next one.

He paused for dramatic effect before asking, “Who’s the hottest man in this room?”

You sighed and buried your face in your hands. “Oh, come on,” you groaned, knowing exactly where this was going.

Simon leaned in, eyes glinting mischievously. “Come on, we all know who you’ll pick.”

The room turned to Harry, and suddenly he was the centre of attention. His cheeks flushed, and he shot Simon a glare, trying not to let the heat creep into his face.

“Just say it,” JJ urged. “Who’s the fittest in the room?”

You sighed, a little defeated. “Okay, fine. Harry.”

The room went dead silent for a beat, then erupted into teasing laughter. Harry’s blush deepened, and he looked anywhere but at at you, clearly trying not to smile.

Vik, grinning mischievously, asked the next question. “Was one of your one-night stands with someone in this room?”

The room went still, all eyes on you. You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks as your expression betrayed you.

“Oh my god,” JJ gasped. “Wait, you’re serious?”

Becky’s mouth dropped open. “Fuck off!"

The boys were already laughing, trying to hold back their shock. Simon leaned forward, eyes dancing with mischief. “So… is it true?”

You groaned, knowing there was no point in denying it. “Yes.”

The room exploded with laughter. Ethan leaned in. “When?”

“About a month ago,” you muttered.

The laughter died down, but the tension lingered. Simon looked between you and Harry, eyes narrowing with curiosity. “So… Harry,” he smirked, “You never told us?”

Harry avoided eye contact with both of you, his expression unreadable. “It didn’t mean anything,” he muttered, his voice flat.

You felt a pang in your chest. It didn’t mean anything? You bit your lip, trying not to let the hurt show.

You stood up, not wanting to sit next to Harry any longer. You moved to the seat beside Simon.

Simon’s turn came next. He moved to the chair, and Harry shot you a quick glance, clearly relieved for the distraction.

One by one, the rest of the group took their turns, each question more outrageous than the last. The room was filled with laughter, teasing, and the occasional shock as the machine did its job. But through it all, Harry kept stealing glances at you. His eyes never quite met yours, but you could feel the weight of his gaze on you.

Finally, it was Harry’s turn. He put on his usual cocky grin and walked to the chair, ready for whatever questions were about to come his way.

“Right,” he said, sitting down with an exaggerated swagger. “Let’s do this.”

The operator hooked him up, and the questions began. First, Behz asked, “Is it true you have the lowest pain tolerance out of all of us?”

Everyone except Harry chuckles at the question. Harry rolls his eyes and says, “Oh ha ha, very funny. But yeah, I think it’s true unfortunately.”

The group burst out laughing. “So we can all take pleasure in knowing you’ll scream the loudest, huh?” Simon teased.

JJ joined in. “Yeah, you’re a baby when it comes to pain.” Harry flipped them both off.

Behz leaned forward, clearly enjoying the teasing. “Okay, have you ever cheated on anyone?”

Harry stiffened. “No. Never,” he said firmly. The machine stayed silent.

Then, JJ grinned, trying to lighten Harry's mood. “Is it true you’ve never won a game of hide and seek?”

The room erupted into laughter. Harry shot back defensively, “I have, I just don’t remember when!”

The machine beeped, and Harry groaned as the shock jolted through him. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, rubbing his arm.

Behz smiled mischievously. “Okay, have you ever been in love?”

The room quieted. Harry hesitated for a moment before answering. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Behz grinned. “Care to elaborate?”

Harry shot him a look. “No.”

Simon leaned in, clearly wanting more. “Who was it? Or who is it?” he asked, pressing further.

Harry’s gaze hardened. “None of your business.”

“So, Harry,” Simon grins, his eyes glinting mischievously. “You’ve been dodging the truth all day. Time to answer the real questions. Do you fancy Y/N.”

The room went silent. Harry looked at you, his gaze intense for a moment, like he was searching for something. Then, he spoke, his voice colder than you’d expected.

“Well, obviously, I fancy her. We slept together.”

You roll your eyes. Was that really necessary.

The room stared, waiting for more. JJ leaned in. “Yeah, I can’t blame you there mate. Are you in love with her?”

Harry’s jaw clenched, his expression unreadable as he finally turns his gaze to you. His eyes seem to darken, his jaw tight, the line of his lips hardening. His face is blank, betraying nothing. It infuriates you, makes you feel like you don’t know him at all. You were also pissed off at all the boys for egging on the stupid fucking questions. “No,” he said firmly, eyes locking onto you as he did. “I’m not in love with her.”

“Bullshit!” Josh interrupts and Harry shoots him a look that shuts him right up.

The silence in the room was deafening, and then the lie detector beeped.

“Lie,” the operator said.

You froze, your heart pounding in your chest. Harry stared at the machine in disbelief.

“What?” he stammered, trying to make sense of it. “No, run it again.”

The operator did as requested, an the operator repeated, his voice calm but firm.

The room was utterly still. You could feel the eyes of everyone on you and Harry, and you couldn’t shake the discomfort in your chest. Harry’s face turned a shade of red you’d never seen before, and for a brief moment, he looked like he wanted to disappear into the chair.

You wanted to laugh it off, but there was something in the air now, something different. Harry didn’t join in on the joke. He just sat there, his fingers twitching at his side, and you could see the wheels turning in his head as if he was trying to figure out how to salvage the situation.

Simon, ever the instigator, leaned forward with a cheeky grin. “So, Harry, it’s safe to say you are in love with Y/N, huh?”

Harry’s gaze flicked to you, and for the first time, he seemed vulnerable. His usual cocky demeanour was gone, replaced by something a little more real, a little more... uncertain. He swallowed, the words clearly not coming easily. “Seriously Simon, you can fuck off."

“Oh, come on, mate! This is juicy!” Ethan shouted, grinning.

Harry groaned, running his hand through his hair. 

“Okay, okay, I’ve got a better question! Have you two kissed again since... y'know... the night?”

You exchanged an awkward glance with Harry, who was now clearly avoiding eye contact with you.

The tension in the room was palpable. No one spoke for a few moments, as everyone tried to process what had just been said.

“I think it’s clear we’re all dying to know,” Simon finally said, unable to resist. “So, Harry, what are you waiting for? Go on. Give us the tea.” He says like a teenage girl.

Harry sighed, rubbing his face with his hands, and then said, quieter this time, “Look, I don’t think now’s the right time, okay?”

You felt the air shift again. It was like Harry was trying to keep something from spilling out, but there was an energy between you two now that wasn’t just about the lie detector or the game anymore. It felt real. Too real.

“I think we should just finish the game,” you said suddenly, standing up before anyone could say more. You weren’t sure why, but you felt a surge of discomfort, a need to put some space between the way Harry had just spoken and the awkwardness in the room.

“Yeah, let’s just get this over with,” Harry said, his voice almost a little too quick, as if he was relieved you’d taken the pressure off.

Simon, sensing that it was better not to push for now, clapped his hands together. “Alright then, moving on! Who’s next?”

The rest of the game continued, but it was different now. The banter had dulled a little, and no one wanted to touch the topic that was still hanging between you and Harry. He didn’t speak much more the rest of the night, and neither did you. You couldn’t help but feel like something had changed, something that was neither good nor bad but... complicated.

The room empties, and soon, it's just the two of you left. The silence is deafening. You watch as Harry continues to pack his things, his movements almost robotic.

You can feel his eyes on you, even when he's not looking, and you know he's waiting for you to say something. But neither of you do. It's like there's an unspoken agreement, an understanding that once the room has cleared, all pretences of civility are dropped. Even though you thought you were fine, clearly you were wrong.

The tension between you is palpable, crackling in the air like electricity.

“Ok Harry what the fuck?” You break the silence.

Harry looks up from his bag, his jaw clenching almost imperceptibly. His eyes are cold, guarded.

"What?" he replies flatly, his hands still busy packing.

“Don’t get bitchy with me. You know exactly what.”

Harry's face hardens, his features sharpening into something harsher. He sets down his phone and turns to face you, his shoulders squared defensively.

"And what exactly do you want me to say? You think I wanted you to find out like that?”

“Why didn’t you tell me???” You groan.

Harry lets out a sharp laugh, the sound harsh and bitter. He takes a step towards you, closing the distance between you.

"Why didn't I tell you? Are you kidding me?" Harry says. "You really want the truth?"

“YES! I really fucking do Harry.”

Harry pauses, his eyes locked with yours. For a moment, he looks almost vulnerable, the hard façade crumbling just slightly.

"I didn't tell you," he says, his voice low, "Because I didn't want to show weakness. Because the way I feel about you... it makes me weak."

“Well I’m sorry if it makes you feel that way but you don’t have to be such a prick about it??? I thought we were fine Harry. We spoke about sleeping together the morning after and I thought we went back to normal!”

Harry let’s out another laugh, this one colder, harsher. He reaches out and grabs your arm, his grip surprisingly strong.

"Normal? Is that what you thought we were? You really thought we could just go back to being friends after that night?"

“I thought that’s what you wanted!” Your voice breaks with emotion.

Harry's face softens slightly at the sound of your breaking voice. His grip on your arm loosens but he doesn't let go.

"It is what I wanted," he admits, his voice more gentle now, almost defeated. "I thought I could just… Ignore it. Move on."

He steps closer, his hand sliding from your arm to your hip. His touch is surprisingly tender, his grip almost possessive.

"But I can't," he admits, his voice a rough whisper. "I can't ignore it, I can't move on. You're all I think about. It's driving me fucking insane."

You can feel the heat radiating off him, smell the faint scent of his cologne. You’re so close now that you can count his eyelashes, see the flecks of gold in his eyes.

His thumb starts tracing slow circles on your hip as he looks at you, his gaze intense and unwavering.

He lets out a ragged sigh, his free hand coming up to cup your cheek. His thumb grazes your bottom lip, a gesture that's both familiar and new at the same time.

"You don’t even realise, do you?" His voice is quiet, rough around the edges, like he’s been holding something back for far too long. "How much I want you."

You freeze. The words settle in the air between you, heavy, unshakable. Your heart pounds in your ears, but you force yourself to meet his gaze. His expression is unreadable—except for his eyes. There, beneath the restraint, something smoulders.

"I—" You start, but he shakes his head, looking away as if he already regrets speaking. His jaw tightens.

"It doesn’t matter, it's nothing" he mutters, raking a hand through his hair. "It can’t matter."

You frown up at him, “It does matter Harry, you said you were in love with me! That's not just nothing.“

He stares down at you, his expression hardening as your words sink in. "It's complicated, okay?"

He pulls away from you, taking a step back and running a hand through his hair. The gesture is familiar—a nervous tic he adopted years ago. You've never seen him this agitated before.

"I shouldn't have said anything," he mutters, avoiding your gaze. "I'm sorry, I just—"

He cuts off, swallowing hard.

He turns away from you, his shoulders rising and falling with every stilted breath. Even from behind, you can tell he's clenched his jaw so tightly it must be aching.

You watch him for what feels like an eternity. Every muscle in his body is taut, pulled tight like a bowstring ready to snap. Yet he doesn't turn around. He just stands there, rigid, unmoving.

Finally, you take a step forward, reaching out to touch him on the shoulder. He flinches at the contact, jerking slightly under your hand.

"Just talk to me Harry, its me ok. We can always tell each other stuff."

"It's not that easy," he snaps, shaking your hand off his shoulder. He finally turns around, folding his arms across his chest.

The expression on his face is somewhere between anger and something too vulnerable to name.

"You don't understand. You can't. Not when—" He cuts off, his jaw clenching again.

"Who says I don't fucking love you back!" You slip out.

Harry's breath hitches. His eyes widen, just a fraction, and for a second—just a second—his whole body goes still. Like he’s afraid to move, afraid to break whatever fragile moment just settled between you.

And then, just as quickly, he shakes his head. A dry, humourless laugh escapes him. "Don’t say that."

Your stomach twists. "Why not?"

His gaze drops to the ground. "You don’t know what you’re saying," he mutters, but the fight in his voice is fading.

"Yes, I do," you insist. "And you know I do. So stop pushing me away like this means nothing."

Harry exhales sharply, his chest rising and falling quickly. His hands twitch at his sides, like he wants to reach for you but won’t let himself. Like touching you might break him completely.

His voice is hoarse when he finally speaks. "You shouldn't have said that."

But you don’t regret it. Not for a second.

"Why not?" you whisper.

He steps closer—too close. Close enough that you can feel the heat of his body, the way his breath fans against your cheek. Close enough that if you moved even an inch, your lips would touch.

"Because now I can’t stop myself."

His fingers brush against your jaw, tentative, as if he’s memorizing the moment before he ruins it. His eyes lock onto yours, searching—asking for permission.

And you don’t hesitate.

You close the space between you, pressing your lips to his like you’ve been waiting for this moment forever. And maybe you have.

Harry doesn’t just kiss you. He claims you.

His hands cup your face, his fingers threading into your hair, pulling you closer like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. Like you’re the only thing tethering him to the ground. His lips move against yours, desperate and unsteady, like he’s unravelling right here in your arms.

And God, you let him.

You grip his shirt, holding onto him like he’s the only real thing in the world. His body presses against yours, solid and warm and trembling all at once. When he groans into your mouth, it’s the sound of surrender—of breaking down walls he spent years building.

He kisses you like he’s been starving for you. Like he’s been waiting for this, holding back, suffering in silence.

And now, finally, he’s free.

When you pull back, your breath is ragged, your heart pounding against your ribs like it’s trying to escape. His forehead rests against yours, his hands still tangled in your hair, his eyes still closed like he’s trying to make this moment last forever.

[reiderwriter]

I have a hotch request and if you don’t write it I completely understand☺️

So you’re dating hotch for a couple months and you’ve only went over to his house like 5-6 times(so that’s how many times you’ve hung out with jack) anyway, you go to use the washroom or something before you leave to go home and jack asks his dad if you’re his gf and if you’ll be having a sleepover with them (as you’ve never actually stayed there before) and his heart becomes all warm n fluffy

A/N: Hi! I don't usually write for Hotch, but I decided to give it a crack because this fits pretty well for @imagining-in-the-margins KidFic challenge! It was a fun challenge to write, so thanks for the prompt! I changed it up slightly, but I hope you still enjoy it!

Warnings: mentions of anxiety, step-family dynamics, etc.

10 months of casual dinners, midnight strolls, and stolen kisses, and you still weren't ready to accept that you were in love with your boss. 

Aaron Hotchner was a complicated man, and loving him wasn't as simple as your heart wanted it to be. You worked together but rejected any favouritism he may have shown you. You slept together, but you never stayed in his bed. You kissed him, but you never told him you loved him, even though you were sure you did. 

You just weren't sure you were ready to be a stepmother. 

As a child of divorce, you'd been graced with two step-parents growing up, and while neither were story book evil, they weren't exactly the most welcoming either. You'd bounced between your mother and father's houses, trailing duffle bags, afraid to take up too much space for fear of ruining your parents’ newfound and direly earned happiness. 

Jack had the misfortune of being both a child of divorce and having lost his mother entirely too young and entirely too suddenly. 

When you'd joined the BAU, off the back of Haley Hotchner’s death, Aaron had been a man in mourning, a man scarred by circumstance and regret. But he'd been brave, and he'd been loving, and he'd worked so hard to give his son a good life. 

Five years later, and it seemed obvious now that you had at least respected the man from the very beginning, if not pined for him quite openly. 

There was that final hurdle left to cross, though, and you weren't sure if you'd ever be ready to do so. 

A phone call startled you out of your worries as you sat on your couch, dissociating after a long and hard won case. The shrill ring startled you into action as you frantically searched for wherever it was this time that you left your phone. 

“Hello, yes, I'm here, hi,” you said, finally finding the phone abandoned under some couch pillows. 

“Y/N, it's Aaron.” 

“I know, Aaron. Caller ID, welcome to the 21st century,” You couldn't help smiling into the receiver, so smitten with the man your face was just doing whatever it liked. 

“Right. Look, I wouldn't usually overstep like this, but Jessica and I have to go upto Roy's retirement house, he's not dealing too well with the new environments, and all of Jack's regular babysitters are enjoying the spring weather. I'd ask his friends' moms for an impromptu playmate but-” 

“But you'd rather he be with someone you trust? Aaron, it's fine, I'll come over and watch Jack for a few hours.” 

He sighed into the receiver, and after a few more niceties, you ended the call, still grinning like an idiot. 

You were still grinning like an idiot when your earlier anxiety came back and hit you straight in the chest. You'd met Jack before, but you'd not so subtly avoided any kid based conversations and meet-ups for the last 10 months. 

You had no idea how to entertain a nine year old boy, but you decided quickly that you couldn't half ass it. 

The drive to Hotch's house was almost embarrassingly familiar to you now, having been there so often in the past few months. Jack enjoyed regular sleepovers with his aunt and schoolmates so you could enjoy regular sleepovers with his father, a fact that you had to remind yourself to keep private as you knocked on the door. 

“It's open,” Aaron called from inside, and you hesitantly opened the door and stepped in, bag of last-minute toy purchases stuffed under your arm. 

From the door, you could see Aaron in the kitchen, hands deep in soapy water as he washed lunch dishes and pots, sticking his head out to smile at you. 

“Aaron Hotchner, domestic goddess. Who’d have thought?” 

“I'd ask you to keep this to yourself at work.” 

“Of course,” you said, stepping a fraction closer to him. “Anything to keep the mystery alive.”

He leaned in for a quick kiss, and you reciprocated, letting it linger a second as you smiled into his touch. 

Drying his hands on a towel near him, Aaron called across the apartment for Jack. 

“What's up, Dad?” He asked, peeking out of his bedroom door. 

“This is Y/N. She works with me and Uncle Rossi. She's going to take care of you for a while while me and Aunt Jessica and I visit your Grandpa. Come say hi.”

Creeping out of his room slowly, Jack came to stand just in front of his father's legs as Aaron put his hands on his shoulders, proudly showing off his mini doppelganger. 

“Hi, I'm Jack.” 

“Nice to meet you Jack, my name is Y/N.” You stuck out your hand, and he shook it. You noticed how small his hands were, but how strong his grip was. He was confident, but he was still just a small kid, and you were even more motivated not to mess this up. 

“What's in your bag?” He asked, flicking his eyes down to it every few seconds, as if he was itching to stick his nose right into it. 

“Jack, manners, please.”

“It's okay, Hotch. I brought some toys. Your dad mentioned that Santa's gave you a Nintendo at Christmas, and I thought I'd show you a few of my favourite games.” 

His face lit up as he quickly stepped closer to you, hands on the bag as he waited for you to offer it up, now openly ogling the bags contents, knowing it was for him. 

“You didn't have to bring anything, Y/N.” 

“I wanted to make a good first impression.” 

After being dragged to the nearest sofa and sitting through a five minute walk through of all the house rules, urgency exits and remote locations, you were left alone with Jack Hotchner, remotes in hand ready to play Mario Kart. 

“Okay, now all that's left to do is choose the course you want to race on. Which one do you want to play on?” 

Jack had chosen to use Bowser as his character and chosen Toadette for you quite cutely, and you'd quickly finished cart selection, too.

“We should go through them in order, so we complete them all,” he said after a moment of deliberation. 

You giggled at how seriously he was taking it. And then the first race in the Mushroom Cup started, and you were seriously impressed by how quickly he'd picked up this game. Either kids were just better at video games in general, or you had a prodigy on your hands. 

His serious face was a carbon copy of Hotch when he was hunched over paperwork, and he gave you the same quietly disapproving frown every time your character momentarily overtook his. It was adorable seeing the two reflected in one another. 

By the shell cup, you were nearly exhausted, despite having spent the entire time glued to the couch. 

“What do you think about taking a snack break?” You asked, looking over Aaron Jack, who had turned himself upside down on the couch somewhere in the last three matches and was still beating you. 

“Okay. I'll show you where Dad hides the good snacks,” he said, quickly rolling off the couch as if his bones were liquid. 

You, on the other hand, cracked as you stood, the irony not lost on you as you hobbled your way to the kitchen. 

Opening the cupboard under the sink, Jack routed around for a few seconds before returning with a small box of Reeses Pieces, which you gradually accepted alongside a glass of apple juice. 

“You're a good kid, Jack,” you said, ruffling his hair as he playfully swatted your hand away. 

“Yeah, that's what my dad always says.”

“Your dad is a very smart man.”

He nodded and then went back to quietly eating his candy, somewhat lost in thought. 

You weren't sure if you were supposed to ask him what he was thinking about, or avoid the topic and dive straight back into video games, so you just ate your candy, too, standing together in the kitchen, Mario Kart music playing in the background. 

“Do you like my dad?” He suddenly asked, swallowing down one more bite of apple juice. You'd forgotten that kids were the bluntness people on the planet, not yet having learned the necessity of delicately creeping closer to the actual topic of discussions like adults. 

Jack had landed a sucker punch right to your guy, and you were suddenly choking on Reese's Pieces. 

“Umm,” you said, catching your breath again and hoping your embarrassment wasn't plain as day on your face. “Yes, I respect your father a lot, Jack.” 

“But do you like him?” He said again, eyes wide and expectant as he looked up at you. 

“My dad can be a little scary sometimes. I heard some of my friends' moms saying so at Mitchell C's birthday party last week. They said he's scary, but he's so sad and lonely.” 

Your heart sank in your chest as you watched Jack worry about his dad, worry if Aaron Hotchner was lonely or sad. 

“Jack, your dad isn't lonely or sad. He has you, and Aunt Jessica, and-” 

“And you, right? Because you like my dad?” 

“R-Right. He has me, too.” 

“Great. Let's keep playing. The Banana Cup is next.”

As suddenly as it had started, your serious talk with Jack was over and he bounced his way back to the sofa, clicking go on the next race, as you ran to quickly take your place again, too. 

Five hours later, and you were being shaken softly awake, controller still in your hands as you blinked your eyes open. Somehow, it had gotten dark, and both you and Jack had simultaneously fallen asleep on the couch. 

Now Hotch hovered over you, carrying the sleeping boy in his arms as he woke you up. He mouthed ‘coffee?’ and you nodded quickly, sitting up further and grabbing the nearest remote to turn off the Nintendo. 

With Jack situated in bed quickly, you made your way to the kitchen. Aaron joined you after making sure Jack was still asleep, walking up behind you and wrapping two arms around your middle, leaning his head against your shoulder and exhaling. Despite the shiver down your spine, you leaned further into him, enjoying the feeling of him in your sleepy state. 

“How was it?” He asked, a hint of uncertainty in his voice. You were almost sure that he was conducting this conversation from behind as a means of convincing himself not to read into your every movement and expression. 

“It was great. He's a great kid, you know?” 

“So I've been told.” 

“He's worried about you, too. He said the moms at his school think you're scary and lonely. Which in suburban house mom translates to romantic hero, though I don't think he realizes that.” 

You felt the grumble of a laugh behind you, the sound low and comforting as you let your eyes flutter closed again, content in his arms. 

“Jack…misses his mom. Rebecca is great, but he likes talking to the moms at school. Maybe a little too much, I don't know.” 

“You miss her, too.” It was a statement, not a fact. 

“I do,” he said sadly, holding you tighter. “Is that a problem?” 

“No. No, god no. Aaron, I-” your voice broke, and you hesitated slightly, clearing your voice. You squirmed in his grip until he released you enough to face him.

Doing so may have been a mistake, though, as you locked eyes with him and so desperately wanted to kiss him, to claim his mouth with yours, and let him lift you onto his kitchen counters. 

You squeezed your nails into the palm of your hands to ground yourself and took a steadying breath. 

Which was when Jack decided to make a reappearance. 

“Dad?” He said groggily, wiping the sleep from his eyes as you had only moments earlier. 

You quickly broke apart as Aaron smiled disappointedly, almost as if he were expecting the interruption. 

“Hey, bud. Did you sleep well?” 

Jack nodded, tilting his head a little as though still disorientated. 

“Did I fall asleep on the couch?” 

“Sure did. Both of you, actually.” 

Jack looked at you then and smiled sweetly up at his dad. 

“So Miss Y/N is staying tonight?” He asked, suddenly a little excited and expectant. 

“Well, Miss Y/N has her own house, so we can't just expect her to-” 

“Yeah, I'm staying,” you blurted out, cutting off Hotch mid-sentence. He raised an eyebrow at you, but you ignored him and smiled down at Jack. 

“And if you head back to bed now, I'll make some pancakes for you in the morning,” you whispered conspiratorially with the boy, who raced back to his room. 

Before shutting the door fully, he stopped by his dad and tugged him down to whisper level, saying something before yelling goodnight and taking himself back off to his room. 

“What? What was that?” You pouted, pointing an accusatory finger at Aaron. 

“You first,” he laughed back, leaning on the nearby counter. 

“I promised him pancakes in the morning. What did he say?” 

“Oh, nothing,” he said, pulling you closer to him again. “He just said you had an interesting conversation earlier.” 

“Was it the one where he asked me if Mario speaks English, Italian or Japanese, because I couldn't answer that question for sure.” 

“He said,” he leaned down to your ear to whisper the next words. “That you told him you like me. And he thinks you meant like-like.” 

You flushed hot and avoided eye contact. A childish part of you wanted to deny it, to scoff and run away, like you were on the playground and not in a dimly lit kitchen at midnight. But you couldn't.

“I do. But I'd probably say love and not like-like, seeing as though I'm not nine.” 

“I love you, too,” he whispered, noses touching as he descended to capture your lips once more. 

[fan-goddess]

A Rose by Any Other Name…

Original Request: Is tagged here if ya wanna read :)

Authors Note: I'm so mixed with this i love some parts yet hate others it's 50/50. Other than that though I adore this au request and hope i did it justice. Just a headsup they're ngl both toxic stupid younglings.

Word count: 9k words (wow...)

Taglist: @humanpurposes @watercolorskyy, @omgbrcat @blue-serendipity @arcielee

Warnings: Pain, chronic pain, pain flare ups due to chronic pain, soulmates, fluff, angst, actually loving parents, not really a mention of her features only eyes, called a woman and referred to as she/her pronouns, self ableism, a more darker!aemond, implied abuse of royal power, Aemond ngl being lowkey toxic so they both stupid af (if I miss any let me know)

When first learning about soulmates and the fates which follow them, you had prayed to all the seven gods that you would never be misfortune enough to have one. That you should never feel the pain your soulmate felt with flowers marking your skin.

Your mother did not have one, nor did your father or any of your relatives before them, as according to them the whole thing was actually quite rare among the whole of the seven kingdoms.

Though you suppose you never had been very lucky. It was probably what praying to the stranger did to you.

Your first encounter with those damn deep blue flowers that stung while they branded you was on your legs and your abdomen. According to your septas and the lone maester who was permitted to treat your marks, they looked like marks given to a boy beginning his training in combat.

To them, this was seen as an honor, as it meant if you ever got the opportunity to meet him he could protect you. But to you, this merely meant that you were going to need to get used to that incessant stinging. They never knew what it felt like to feel those damn flowers plaguing your body, but not even you knew how to fully describe what it was like. The only way you could even dare think about it if you were truly forced too, was that it was a death sentence.

You never thought through the few years that passed after making the discovery of possessing a soulmate that the pain could get quite worse. But it appears like always, the idea of luck was not on your side.

It was a strange feeling to wake to a flower blooming on the skin of your left eye. The pain was what you focused on most however, as to be awoken to what you could only describe as being fire scorching your skin was something you could never truly describe but know for the rest of your life. Compared to your earlier marks and the pains that came with them, those were merely like when the septas would swiftly hit the ruler over your knuckles.

While you screamed and writhed in pain in your childhood bed, the maester took quick work in forcing milk of the poppy down your aching throat while the small group of septas held back your worrying mother and father who stood scared in the doorway. The medicines effects soon took its place though to yours and everyone's relief, and you were taken in some sort of daze like sleep.

When you awoke a few hours later with your head still fuzzy and a cooling salve slathered patch over your eye, your father was sitting on a chair propped to the edge of the bed tightly holding your hand while your mother slept beside you above the covers.

"Oh my darling, we were so worried!" Your father said, pulling you into a close embrace that woke your mother up from her sleep. By the way the skin underneath her eyes was darkened and how she yawned as soon as she sat up, you could tell she had been trying to stay up all night for you, and the very idea of it made you smile with gratitude you knew other children did not possess. "You gave us such a fright when we heard you screaming so late at night! What happened?"

"I... I do not know father," You said truthfully, your hand unconsciously going to remove the patch from your eye, but stopping when your father grabs your hand and gives you a stern glare that reminds you of your youth, specifically whenever you would steal an extra lemon bar after dinner. "All I remember is falling asleep and then waking to this horrendous pain in my eye and all around it..."

You have a faraway look in your eye as you find yourself unable to look at your mother and fathers lingering questioning gaze. They may not have ever said it, but you can tell that they pity you greatly for the path the gods have pushed you on. You thought this soulmate of yours was some training knight-to-be. But what knight-to-be experienced battle as harsh as having damage to his eye as horrific as you felt it to be? It did possibly occur to you that your soulmate may actually be a hardened knight with years of experience on the battlefield. But after bringing up the concern with your maester, he assured you that the marks you bore would be a lot worse if he was truly some older knight, a kingsguard or even a goldcloak.

Later that day after being ordered to eat lots to restore your energy, your maester came by that evening to visit and check on your mark. His words were kind as he assured you it would've most likely gone down in its intensity since you barely felt anything now except some throbbing from your socket. According to him, while you lay screaming from the pain, a deep blue flower had taken over your entire socket where the pain had bloomed from, in a strange fascinating way making your eye its center.

His touch was gentle as he slowly peeled back the fabric. Yet his face which once held a supportive smile turns to shock and pure horror once you tilted your head up to look at him.

“Maester, what is the matter?” You ask, biting your lip in pure anxiety as he says nothing but stares at your eye. He does not even look away as he grabs a mirror by your bedside table and hands it too you.

When you look into it though, you do not realize what is so wrong except for some small petal edges that leak from around your eye. But then you look more closely and realize with a loud gasp how your once green eye is now a deep blue, and when you close it you gasp again as you comprehend how now a flower has bloomed on your eyelid.

“What… what has happened, maester?!” You yell, unable to look away from your newly changed face.

“I do not know exactly my lady,” The maester begins, forcibly snatching the mirror from your hands so you’re forced to look at him and listen. “The whole written topic of soulmates to my knowledge is so little given at how rare they are, so there is truly not much advice to give you. The basic idea though as I told you when your condition first developed, is that when he is in pain, you are to have a flower bloom on your skin where the pain originates. There is no record I’m afraid of this condition affecting the physical body except from the blooming flowers and the pain that comes with it.”

You stay quiet as you listen to the maester, tears build up as you realize your life shall not be the same. While the idea of having two different coloured eyes is a condition seen around the seven kingdoms, it is still a noticeable thing that would draw attention of the people.

And honestly, you were not sure if you wanted to meet your soulmate. This latest development in your condition is so new and so frightening. Though you must say you cannot help but feel sorry for the soul the gods have promised you too. While what you felt was agony, you have no idea how much it must’ve hurt for your soulmate at that moment.

Over the next few days, you were closely monitored by the maester, the septa’s and your parents who all were anxious to see if the flower on your eye would slowly go down like the other flowers did when the pain disappeared or if it would remain. And much to yours and everyone around you's annoyance, it very much stayed bright and clear on your skin no matter what ointment or potion was used to clear it.

On the fourth day after the incident, as your father called it, a maid who was one of the few with knowledge of your condition came into your chambers with your morning meal, and some important news.

“My lady,” she began, practically sweating as she placed the tray in front of you. “There has been a recent development in regard to your soulmate's identity.”

Since the pain you felt was the most extreme you had ever felt, your father had felt the need to hire some men to investigate to see if this new information would reveal your soulmate's identity, even though the chance of finding an answer was slim to none. Though you suppose there was never a zero percent chance, as proven by the fact there was according to the maid, a recent development.

“What is it?” You ask, biting into the lemon cake first and savoring the sweet yet sour taste on your tongue. “What has my father discovered that he does not feel the need to come tell me himself?”

“Well…” She stumbles, even stepping back a small step as she instinctively looks to the ground. “It turns out that the same day you had that incident my lady, the prince Aemond Targaryen had his eye taken by his young nephew Lucerys, and it was reported to your father that the damage was so bad the eye had to be removed and the socket sewn up.”

The cake that once laid in your hand falls back onto the plate. Your mouth like the cake falls open in the same undignified manner as you cannot believe the words you are hearing.

“Prince Aemond Targaryen?” You find yourself asking in a breathless tone, silent as the maid nods her head.

“May I be dismissed now, my lady?” She asks, knocking you out of a daze you hadn’t even realized you had fallen into. You nod in answer and watch as she leaves, leaving you in silence and your own thoughts that begin to run rampant.

You were soulmates with the Prince! A Targaryen Prince! You heard that out of his three siblings he was the only one with no dragon, but you honestly did not care if he did or did not as either way he was still a man of honor. When thinking of the injuries you received over the years, you cannot help but think of how it made sense.

You knew princes received special training similarly to that of young knights, so when the maester said that the injuries matched up with them made sense. Yet to hear of the Prince's injury that perfectly synced with your own, that was what finally made it all make sense.

You lay backwards in your bed, and allowed the anxiety to wash over your body. The food lay to waste against the covers as you thought only of what your future could hold as a wife of royalty. Of how you would never be a true lady of the court and in the end would no doubt bring about disgrace to your husband's name. Of how in the end compared to your soulmate, the Targaryen warrior, you are just a woman from a lower house who could not bring anything into the marriage but your empty womb.

The next few years after the realization of your soulmate, you spent your time attempting to convince your father not to pursue a marriage between yourself and the Prince. But to your surprise and happiness, your father agreed to not pursue anything marriage related to you without so much of a fuss, even when you, your father and even your mother knew how much a marriage between you and the Prince would help your house bloom in both social standing and resources.

You felt selfish in your insistence of your future, but your father was adamant in telling you that he was not angry in your decision and if anything he was proud to see you so passionate about your decisions.

Your mother much to your delight seemed to agree with you, which probably the main if not the only reason was why your father acted so calmly. According to her you were too young for marriage, which to most people seeing as your mother and father were married quite young it may be seen as hypocritical. But those people were not there to witness all the times your mother gripped her stomach and dreamed of the brothers and sisters you lost on the birthing bed and before.

You were sure not to injure yourself too greatly in fear of that, like how you found out Prince Aemond, he would discover your true identity and come to your doors to claim you in the same way his elder brother Prince Aegon supposedly claimed the ladies of the red keep. 

Yet like all those years ago the night when you realized your eye hard turned blue. The gods were not on your side.

You scream as the pain quickly makes itself known in your arm forcing you to forget anything you’ve ever known other than that overwhelming seering sensation. The tears mask your ability to see the blood pooling up from your skin, and you can hear muffled running in the distance as well as the sound of panicked shouting from the familiar voices of the septas you made such close acquaintances with all those years ago.

You can feel their hands grabbing you, but nothing beats the pain that you cannot even begin to put into words. The maester is by your side as soon as you’re brought to the healing room, and his old wrinkled touch is distinct on your skin as he tries to find the blue flowers he has become so familiar with. Only he does not find blue. Only red. Which is the color of your blood that dyes his fingernails and the tips of his cloak crimson.

Like all those years ago, milk of the poppy is brought to your lips and you are forced to swallow hard and quick. The familiar daze returns as you quickly become numb to the feeling of the sharp needle piercing your skin as the maester attempts to fix you.

You stayed in that bed for at least a day or two before you came too again, but at this point you are used to being there within those familiar walls.

According to the maester, at the height at which you fell from the tree you were climbing in, the tree you were in fact always forbidden to climb but ignored thinking you were safe, you broke your arm clean in two. Apparently the bone had managed to pierce your skin, which is why there had been so much blood. So in order to allow it to heal properly he formed a special layer of hardened protection to stop the arm from any unnecessary movements that could cause further damage to the arm.

As he tells you this, you cannot help but think of how the Prince is thinking right now. Did he get that same piercing pain in his arm too? Did the flowers bloom the same way yours did whenever he managed to harm himself? Were his flowers even the same color as your own? You felt so deep in thought you barely even heard your mother come in to visit.

“My love?” She says, taking your hand in hers and drawing you out from your thoughts. “How are you faring?”

“I am alright mother. The pain is gone, all thanks to the maester.” You say, simply reassuring her as she looks at you carefully to assess whether you lie or not. Yet as she does this you cannot help but notice a distinct figure missing right now. “Where is father?” You cannot help but ask, curious in his whereabouts.

“He went to Kingslanding my love. Do you not remember?” She asks, lips pursed in a sad smile. “You were all set to go with him this morning but since your fall, he was forced to go alone. He sends his best though and wishes that you find a fast recovery, which is seems you have managed to accomplish my strong girl.”

“Oh yes…” You say, remembering she was in fact right. “I suppose I forgot. I did hit my head when I fell.” As soon as you say the words you instantly wince with regret. As before you can even try and defend yourself your mother calls the maester back in and demands a series of further assessments to be done. You sigh as you fall back and your head hits the pillow. This is going to be a long day.

Your father, as he traveled along the road into kingslanding, felt guilt gnawing at his chest for leaving you behind whilst you laid in that healing bed. When he left, you had been in a deep sleep so he had been unable to say goodbye. So he kissed your forehead and squeezed the hand on your unbroken arm and left you to sleep. The guilt remains, but he knows that whilst you lay in that bed you are surrounded and are safer in the presence of your mother and the maester and septas, who overtime have managed to gain much more insight than the majority of people into the topic of soulmates.

As they are so rare, they are viewed as freaks, even though he personally believes that they should be celebrated for being looked upon so greatly by the gods that they have been given a person cut from the same cloth.

When he looks at his own wife, who has given him such light from the darkness of his own life, he likes to think she is his soulmate with or without the flowers blooming on her skin. To him, she is just as beautiful as a fresh bloomed flower after all.

When he exits his carriage down the steps, the queen awaits him with only two of her children standing beside her, and he notices immediately that it is Aemond who is currently absent.

“Will the Prince Aemond not be joining us?” He finds himself asking, eyes widening slightly as he remembers that he is in the presence of royalty. Not some fellow lord whose son is out sleeping away his hangover after fucking a dozen whores.

“No, I'm afraid not Lord Fletcher. My son awoke this morn with a dreadful headache as the maester and he has told me, so he will be staying in his chambers for the duration of the meeting. Probably even for long after you’ve left I’m afraid.” The queen Alicent says, a smile on her face that he immediately knows is forced and strained. After all, he has had to make similar lies when people at the gatherings expect to see you and don’t.

“Ahh, I understand my queen. My own daughter has the same issue with her own health. Some days she wakes as healthy as can be then the next she’s laying in her bed writhing from the worst of pains.” He says, not entirely lying as he remembers those exact moments happening to you as you grew up.

“Ah yes well still we thank you for your understanding.” She smiles again, motioning for him to come and follow her into the castle. “Shall we get down to business?”

The next few hours are spent with him, the queen, and a few other notable house lords debating in the council room. At times the table becomes heated as words are thrown without proper caution, but the Queen always lets a small yet loud cough to remind the men of their place. So to his amusement whenever this happens, the men immediately even when their voices before could shake a mountain, quieten down like freshly stuck dogs denied a newly cut piece of prime steak.

Just as though another annoyingly arrogant man from House Lannister demands to know why his house is in need of paying more of its gold to a lord from House Tarly, the doors burst open, and the second born son of the king walks through as though he was born to strut. As the prince he sits down in the end chair of the council table with all eyes on him, Lord Fletcher cannot help but think about how as soon as he gets home he cannot wait to tell you of how this was the first time he met your soulmate.

“Are you feeling alright my Prince?” He finds himself asking, raising a brow as he turns to the Queen, whose own face holds embarrassment and shock to see her son sitting there before her. “The Queen had told me when I arrived that you were not going to attend today's meeting due to a headache?”

The Prince looks at his mother with what could only be called disdain, and it appears to make her slouch back into her seat while she takes her hand in her own and begins to pick at the nail. It honestly reminds him of how you bite your lips half bloody in your own strange anxiety relieving way.

“I am afraid my mother is mistaken my Lord Fletcher,” The prince simply says. “I merely overdid myself when training with the sword yesterday. I was waiting for the maester to visit so he could give me something to relieve the pain. I do apologize for my tardiness.”

“Oh there is no issue at all my prince.” Lord Fletcher says, an attempt of a smile on his lips. Though he soon becomes distracted when he sees Aemonds eye wander around all those in the room, as if to take some sort of strange attendance record.

“Is your daughter not with you today?” Aemond finally speaks, meeting his eye with Lord Fletcher's own two while he stares him down. “I went to visit my sister before this meeting thinking she would be there so I could greet her and welcome her to kingslanding. But my sister tells me she has never met your daughter. Why is that?”

The Queen Alicent perks from her seat as she remembers now finally remembers the information that had been picking at her all day. “Oh yes my lord pray tell, where is she? I had been so looking forward to introducing her to my only daughter. I had thought the two would get along quite well.”

Lord Fletcher attempts to laugh to ease the sudden tension in the room, but it appears to if anything makes it worse as no faces change from their stoney exterior.

“I’m afraid the day before our departure, my dear daughter had an accident that quite badly injured her arm, the same arm in fact you say to have harmed during your training my prince!” Again he laughs, but that does not stop him from seeing the look the prince and queen share with each other.

It appears the prince is more aware than he thought with the motion of soulmates, though it does make sense when thinking of all the things he’d heard of the one-eyed prince. He is a scholarly boy, so it’d make sense for him to research and look in depth into all the possible books about soulmates the royal library or even the citadel have to offer. He even has the Grand Maester at his beck and call, who no doubt has more information on the topic than anyone else.

“Tell me my lord, how did your daughter have such an accident?” The prince asks as he leans forward so far in anticipation he looks to be at the edge of his seat. “It must’ve been from quite a great height for her to have received such injuries. I do hope she has a quick recovery.”

“Thank you my prince, it means a lot to hear from you. As for how she fell, I believe she was climbing in a tree somewhere on our land when she fell and broke a bone in her arm, the end of which pierced her skin just between her elbow and arm socket, or so our maester told me before I left. I worry about her recovery yes, but I know she is in the hands of a capable maester so I do not doubt she will be feeling much better soon.”

The Prince appears to squint slightly at Lord Fletcher before looking back to his mother. It almost looks like there is a silent conversation between the two, and it’s only interrupted by small tilts of heads by the both of them. It was strange yet interesting to watch.

The Prince hums his final response to the once silent conversation before looking back at Lord Fletcher. “Well as she was unable to make the journey with you to Kingslanding, I suppose I shall have to make the journey to your own home and in a way being Kingslanding to her.”

The silence rings throughout the council room again, with even the queen looking at her son in shock. The councilmen who’d been long forgotten don’t dare attempt to speak a single word since the prince's declaration, which only further proves Lord Fletcher's idea that they’re all idiots in their own rights.

“Are you sure my Prince?” He asks, “Tis I’m sure a tedious journey for you and your dragon-“

“Tis no issue!” Aemond interrupts sharply, his tone firm and assertive. “You are set to travel back home the next morn by carriage I hear. So I shall travel by Vhagar tonight so I may spend the night and meet your daughter in the morn. Is that sufficient enough for you my lord?”

The Prince does not leave room for an answer, as before Lord Fletcher can even open his mouth the Prince already has left the room leaving all councilman members and his mother in shock at the turn of events. And while he feels that same shock, he also cannot help but feel fearful as he knows it’s with his words alone what drove the Prince to commit such quick actions.

He can only dread to think about how the introduction between you and the prince will turn out.

When you awoke the morning after your father had left for Kingslanding, the thing that struck most odd with you were the maids. They looked more fearful than you had ever seen them, and they even avoided eye contact with you, which was odd as by now they had all gotten used to your eye.

“What is the matter with all of you?” You spit, glaring at all the ladies who even after you confronting them refuse to look you in the eyes.

They stay silent as they continue to stare at the stone floor, until finally one of the more recent of the lot breaks the silence.

“The Prince is here, my lady.”

Any anger you felt before this moment disappears soon as it brews and instead is replaced by only stone cold fear.

“He cannot see me…” You murmur, seeing the ladies agree and nod out the corner of your eye. “The Prince cannot see me!”

“He specifically spoke of you when he arrived, my lady,” The maid continues, slowly looking up to stare pitifully at your practically trembling form. You can feel yourself begin to chew at the skin of your inner lip, and yet if anything it encourages you to continue when you start to taste the familiar tang of copper smear on your tongue. “Claims that whenever you wake he wishes for you to join him to break fast together as soon as possible.”

The more this lady speaks the more your gut turns and twists within your body. By now the taste of copper gushes down your throat yet you welcome it gladly, even refusing the goblet one of the other more meeker maids offered you to wash the taste away when they saw red begin to stain your outer lip.

“I have to hide it.” You find yourself firmly saying as you look at one of the older ladies. “Tell me, do we keep any veils that are out of use?”

When the prince awoke within the unfamiliar comfort of the bed with a tired groan building within the back of his throat, it is the memory of the council meeting from the day before that floods his mind, forcing the once tired and sore body into being now quick and alert with excitement and anxiety.

When Aemond was but a young boy, he remembers during one of his lessons on the reign of Maegor feeling a sharp stinging in his knuckles. When he looked down, much to his shock and horror, he saw that light blue flowers were blooming across the pale skin. As much as the initial sight had shocked him dreadfully at first, Aemond could not help but think of that day during later years fondly. As that was the day he realized that maybe after the gods had given him, he was not truly alone.

The Grand Maester had told him everything he himself knew about the topic, and even sent a raven to the citadel to request books speaking of the tales written in the texts. According to him, Aemond was the first in a long time to come forward about possessing one.

Aemond prayed to the gods to meet them soon, but no matter how much he got on his knees no matter how many times he held his hands together in the grand sept with his mother next to him, no girl ever came forward to claim him.

And by the next year, Aemond felt more alone than ever before.

His flowers were never to be allowed to be seen in the eyes of anyone other than his family, a select few maids and the grand maester of course. This was because according to his grandsire, fathers from all across the realm would put their daughters forward claiming to be his soulmate. Also, if it was discovered he had a soulmate, those same fathers may not deem him suitable for marriage if he will abandon his wife for another woman. It was better to hide, so a marriage could be insured and an heir to his name.

Though any thought of a good tempered wife or even a marriage that could soon turn to affection was gone the moment Lucerys stole his eye. He does not remember much other than the pain, but what comes to mind is the thought in the back of his head hoping his soulmate would be alright. Praying that she would not hate him and would still love him even after now being turned into a cripple.

That day he may have lost an eye, but he gained a dragon. He gained the strength to protect his soulmate, and that to him was all that mattered, other than the protection of his mother. Somehow at that moment as she stood there before him, she looked more vulnerable than he did.

While Aemond lay in his bed healing, his mind turned to his soulmate as he remembered the reasoning behind the flowers. The flowers bloom where pain on the other person blooms, in an assurance that they are not alone in this world. Aemond could not help but think it all as a cruel sort of joke, especially as the pain in his eye begins to slowly throb. Yet a part of him is still thrilled to know that even though the Gods have cruelly broken him and built him back up again, there is a person given to him who will share his pain and see him for what he is.

He became even more desperate to discover you as soon as he was fully healed. He called the Grand Maester as soon as he spotted the familiar blue coloring on his skin, and together they looked over each inch of petal extensively until they day turned to night and the oil in the lamps burned out.

According to him, they were marks like that of a piece of wood struck on the knuckles. Which makes sense as Aemond remembers all the times Aegon would fall asleep soon as lessons started, and halfway through a particularly menacing Maester would strike him with a sort of smooth wooden object directly on the knuckles to wake him. It would be a sight that made Aemond smugly smile while he completed all the necessary work and chuckle at later, but thinking of that same treatment happening to his lady made his heart clench in his chest.

Nowadays, whenever he found himself getting injured, whether that is simply a bruise from training with Ser Cole or a sudden onslaught of inner pain in his eye socket, in his mind he always found himself apologizing at the back of his mind for causing pain for his lady. He finds himself wishing he was better in lessons so he could have avoided the swords, wishing he had fought better in the caves against his nephews and cousins so he wasn’t missing his eye. Whatever the situation, Aemond always craved that he was better. And found at the center of it all it was all for her.

He remembers his three and ten name day much too clearly. It lingers in the back of his mind like a plague. The salty stench of the air. The taste of the cheap alcohol Aegon had forced him to consume as according to him, the act was better when a person is left in a daze. The feeling of that woman’s too warm skin. The sound of her supposedly seductive voice that instead of arousing him only managed to make him further horrified. All of it stayed with him for years sticking to his skin.

Though the part which struck out most for him were the thoughts he could not help but think as that woman sunk down on him and robbed him of any free will. The realization that he would not be able to stay chaste for his soulmate. The idea that maybe she would not want to be with him once she found that her soulmate had laid with filthy whores paid by the go to fuck all sorts of men.

He ran out of that place as soon as the weight on his limp body was lifted, and as soon as he reached the comforts of his own bed with the covers lifted well over him like a cocoon, he cried. He cried for the loss of his body. He cried for the loss of his ability to think without remembering what that woman was doing to him while dribbles of tears streaked down his cheek. He cried for not being faithful to you.

He cried for his future with a soulmate who hated him for actions beyond his own control.

Though as Aemond dressed in appropriate clothes he brought with him for the special moment, his mind cannot help but think back to his earlier worries. Yet now, he is a man.

Aemond possesses the largest dragon in the world. Which to him even now was worthy of the trade of his eye. He is a scholar of history and philosophy whose work has even been submitted to the citadel to be placed in books that’ll be read by many accomplished people. He is even a greatly talented swordsman as said so by all those who have watched him train in the yard. He has become a man worthy of your love and your future.

Yet his hands still fumble about with the other whilst he follows a plain looking maid to the dining hall. He requested a meeting with you in private specifically in a place you were familiar with so you could be comfortable when meeting him. He may be a dragon, but he likes to imagine that he is no monster.

He sits there for what feels like hours. Picking at the skin above his nail until he can feel the blood pooling. He’s about to do it again to his final nail on his left hand, but then you walk in and everything stops. Only not for the reason he would’ve hoped it to have.

As he does not meet the eyes of his soulmate. Instead he meets nothing. He merely stares blankly at the veil that covers your whole face.

“What are you wearing?” He asks, glaring at the damned piece of fabric in his way.

“Clothes, my Prince.” You simply say, the sarcasm not annoying him like how Aegons does. Though Aegon was always just a twat. You appear to make it interesting and actually entertaining to take part in.

“Trust me, my lady, I can see just fine with one eye.” He smirks, silently seething at the prospect of being unable to see your face. He already knows you to be beautiful, it just irks him that he is unable to confirm it. “Why do you hide yourself?”

“What do you mean my Prince?”

“Why do you hide your face? Is there a chance you are afraid of me? Or of what you think I will see?” As soon as the words leave his lips he sees the way your body freezes up. “Do you wish to sit down my dear lady? I am sure it was never a part of your etiquette lessons to break fast while standing.”

You do not say anything as you move to sit in a seat near the middle of the table, and Aemond already in his mind is thinking that’s much too far away from him as he continues to sit at the end seat.

The two of you though stay silent as you both begin to eat the spread of food in front. From the corner of his eye he watches you, and it’s strange how he finds himself suddenly so jealous of the fruit you begin to eat. Jealous of the way those grapes get to go under your ridiculous veil and be touched by your lips, which Aemond already knows to be soft and oh so kissable. He has never seen them, but he just knows.

“Would you not be more comfortable without the veil my lady?” Aemond asks, watching carefully as you stop eating and turn your head to look at him.

“No, I am fine with my current predicament. Is it not more comfortable for you to not wear the eyepatch?” You quip back, with no doubt a smile on your face.

“I suppose you are right my lady,” Aemond drawls, watching the way your head tilts and the fabric concealing you from him lightly pressed against the curves of your face. “How about I propose this. I take off my patch, and you take off your veil?”

“I do not accept it!” You practically yell, your hands clenching so hard that Aemond could see even from where he sat the knuckles turning white.

“Besides…” You continue in a much softer tone like that of a burdened lady, which Aemond knows for sure is not true at all from what he has heard of your life story. “I am hideous to look at. This veil more protects you than it protects me my Prince I am sure of it.”

Aemond hums a response, but his eye says all as it trails over your covered body.

“So those who have told me in person how you are easily one of the prettiest maidens they have seen are lying then, are they my lady?” He reveals, watching you carefully so he can attempt to decipher your movements.

“They must be my Prince. As far as I have been told, I am the ugliest lady they have ever seen and how I shall die a spinster locked away in a tower!”

It’s strange, how when Aemond thinks of that actually happening his fists clenched tightly by his sides, and how he gets the overwhelming urge to maim those people claiming you to be so hideous. To make them so ugly and deformed and force them to sit all day everyday in front of a mirror so they can see the true meaning of being grotesque.

“You lie.” Aemond simply growls, his brow harshly furrowed from the mixture of anger from the idea of those insulting you and frustration from you still hiding your true identity from him.

He closes his eye and takes a minute to simply breathe past his anger. His body slowly tingly as he swears he feels your eyes piercing his soul.

“What if I strike a bargain with you, my sweet maiden?” Aemond says, the nickname oozing off his tongue with arrogance and self assurance.

“And why should I even think about striking a deal with you, my Prince?”

“Because I believe it shall benefit the both of us my lady. Now, do you wish to hear what I have in mind?”

“If you insist on telling me then I suppose I shall be obliged to hear words from the Prince of the realm.” You sigh, leaning your body to one side so your head is laying on the palm of your hand and Aemond gets another glimpse at how you look without truly seeing you.

“I suppose you are…” He says, leaning forward so his arms are fully lying on the table and his spine is slightly curved. “Still, the bargain I wish for you to partake in is this. I shall take off my eye patch so you can see what true grotesque is, and you my sweet maiden shall take off your good for nothing veil. Then I suppose we can see out of the two of us who is the most ugly, as you so bluntly put it.”

Aemond barely has a chance to blink before you're yelling a distinctive and firm “No” that manages to echo somehow in the room.

“Now now my sweet don’t be so resistant…” Aemond grins, tilting his head to one side as he finds himself delighted with how riled he’s made you. “You did not even consider it for a second.”

“Because I did not need to!” You bite back, slamming your hands against the wooden table so hard it manages to shake your plate still possessing some food and even your goblet too. “If I do not wish to show you you have no right to force me!”

“Oh, but I’m afraid I do my sweet maiden…” He says, getting up from his chair so he can oh so slowly make his way over to where you appear to sit frozen in your own chair. “As a prince, I have power where you do not. Now, I do not wish to abuse such power for situations like this one. I do not like to abuse my power in general in any situation. But I may find myself very willing to show you what it is I am capable of. Do you understand me maiden?”

Aemond pauses for a moment as he watches the way the veil moves with every shallow breath you take before he does something that leaves his own heart beating frantically in his chest from every emotion possible to feel.

Aemond slowly peels off his eyepatch to reveal to you a shining blue sapphire surrounded by deep scarred flesh before chucking the piece of dark brown leather onto the table in front of you.

“I have completed my end of our bargain my sweet lady. Now complete yours, before I get impatient.”

You sigh deeply and Aemond cannot help but feel his heartbeat thrice as hard in his chest from anticipation alone. He yearns to see your eyes, your lips, your nose, your everything If only you should allow him too.

So when your hands slowly move to entangle themselves in where the veil begins from within your hair, his heart feels as though he fully stops when the veil is slowly pulled away and the face of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life stares back at him.

“Gevie” He cannot help but murmur as his eye moves over your whole face and his body is forced to sit down in the chair next to you so he can focus on looking solely at you.

“What does it mean?” You ask, though Aemond barely registers it as he’s entranced with how your lips move with each syllable.

“Beautiful.”

There is a rare silence between the two as they each take time now looking at each other. You stare at the sapphire that glints when the sunlight beaming through the window hits it. While Aemond now looks properly at your eye, which he has discovered is a whole different color than the other. And when you blink and reveal the delicate flower imprinted on your eyelid, he cannot help but gape and gasp slightly.

“Did I do that?” He asks, pure horror in his tone and words.

“It was done a long time ago my Prince,” You simply say, smiling slightly in a strange way to comfort him. “And in a way, I suppose it was done by whoever took out your own eye. I do not expect you to suddenly reveal to me that you tore it out yourself. So therefore, you should have no more guilt than the person truly responsible.”

“I’ll kill the bastard!” Aemond growls, anger spilling from him in waves as he thinks of his nephew whose crime has gone on for too long.

“Careful my Prince. Those are dangerous words you are saying about children of the crown. You are lucky it is only me who is here.” You smile.

At first, you were so defensive and so sure the veil would hinder the Prince from prying about what was underneath it. You had thought of him like how you thought of all other men, and that when challenged with the prospect of an ugly woman he would not care and move on. Yet you suppose the gods do like to play tricks in the unlikeliest of places.

He had worn you down with the harshest of phrases and the most defensive body language, yet when you saw him at his most vulnerable with his sapphire shown bare to you you could not help but allow the overwhelming feeling of awe take over you while you stared at him.

As you unmasked yourself before him however and saw his own look of awe while he stared at all your features that had once been so carefully hidden from him, you could not deny the way your heart beat loud in your chest.

Even the way he murmured in his unique Valyrian tongue made you feel a strange feeling of specialness. As if no other woman had been seduced by those same words.

As you spoke to each other, your tongue slowly loosed as it felt for some reason so right to do so. You joking with the Prince felt so natural and yet so foreign at the same time.

“I suppose I am lucky my lady that it is you who sits there.” He says in response to your dangerous quip about his nephews, whose mother if she had heard yours or Prince Aemonds words would’ve surely sharply questioned you for them with no thought of mercy. “Though I suppose I am even more lucky that it is no ordinary woman who sits before me.”

He waits for a moment to see if you will guess his next words. But to be honest he almost forgets them himself as he gets distracted staring at your bottom lip which you bite between your teeth.

“I am lucky as it is my soulmate who sits before me as beautiful as the maiden herself.”

You feel like all the air in your lungs has left and you're gasping for air. Yet it's not as painful as you thought. In fact, it's rather remarkable to feel yourself burn in the presence of a dragon.

Still, even with this miraculous feeling within you, you cannot help but think of how your soulmate treated you but moments before. Arrogant. Selfish. Coercive. Your soulmate forced you to show yourself to him when you were uncomfortable. Did you really want to be fated to be with that person for the rest of your life?

"What's wrong my love?" Aemond asks, seeing the anxious expression on your face.

"How is it you can be so kind to me, when not even what I can guess to be less than half of an hour ago you were treating me as if I were some sort of shit on your shoe?" You ask, looking him dead in the eye as his body appears to freeze up before you.

If you weren't so focused on forcing the truth from a prince of the realm, you would think that it was actually very thrilling and sort of empowering to force a prince into silence.

"I did not mean to treat you like that." He begins, his head tilted to the floor so you cannot see his eyes and his neatly kept hair falls forward like a sort of curtain either side of his face. "I am sorry I was harsh on you. I suppose... I suppose I was scared."

Oh?

"All of my life, since I was a child, I was praying for you. For my soulmate to come into my life. And I suppose after all that time passing without you turned me bitter and angry that the gods did not hear my pleas. My feelings only became more sour when finally in front of you, instead of immediately accepting me and welcoming me you denounced me and spurned me with your words."

"You really thought I would jump into your arms like some sort of innocent lovesick maiden?" You say, staring at the man in front of you in disbelief. Aemond for the first time since his confession looks up at you from his curtain of silver locks, disbelief in his own stare as he listens to your honest words.

"Aemond, the idea of being tied to someone for the rest of my life was challenging for me as a child. Before the loss of your eye, all I had felt was mere stings. Yet feeling the pain I felt that day, it frightened me. I was a child-"

"I WAS A CHILD TOO!" Aemond yells, standing up so suddenly and leaning over you that you shriek a little in fear. “I was the one experiencing it first hand! The one who had to be held down by maesters and stared at by all as milk of the poppy was forced down my throat so maesters could tear out my eye with no true concern for me! YOU DID NOT HAVE TO GO THROUGH THAT AS YOU LAID ABED WHINING LIKE SPOILT CHILD!”

“DO NOT YELL AT ME!” You find the courage to say, standing up and pushing him away so he stumbles a couple steps back in surprise. “I get that you are angry and believe the entire world hates you! But do not blame me because you cannot be angry at those truly deserving of it! Do not yell at me because you are forbidden from getting your revenge on your bastard nephew! Do you understand me?!”

Aemond, in the same manner as that of a kicked dog, nods a yes to your question. Though when you glare hard at him to tell him that answer is unacceptable he quickly fumbles for words that eventually make it out to be heard.

“Thank you.” You simply say, stepping forward to show him how he has earned that step. “I understand you were disappointed I was not there for you. But you need to understand I was scared about it all. Scared of my future, scared of what was to come. Do you even get how scared that must’ve been for me?”

“Yes I understand that.” Aemond says, stepping a single step closer and pausing to see if you allow it which you do. “I am sorry for not thinking of you when you yourself were obviously hurting yourself. I was selfish-“

“It is not selfish, Aemond, to act like how you did.” As you speak, you step that last final step towards your soulmate and place an admittedly cautious hand onto his cheek. Though you think what surprises you most is when he immediately closes his eye and pushes his cheek hard against your palm. “I forgive you Aemond, even when I don’t know if I ever should for how you treated me.”

“I do not truly expect you to.” Aemond murmurs, his eye still closed as he savors your warmth against his cheek. “Though I vow here before you as not just your soulmate but as a man, that I’ll make it my life’s mission to form myself as a man worthy for you. To form myself into what you deserve.”

“Though I suppose that’s the strangest thing about our whole meeting.” You whisper, placing your other hand on the part of Aemonds face where the dark brutal mark that is his scar takes most of its space. It forces a somehow now calm and content Aemond to all of a sudden open his eye and even gasp so silently you almost barely hear it when your thumb slowly traces the raised yet soft skin of the scar that has defined him for so long.

“I don’t find myself wishing you to change to be better. I find myself wishing for you to stay how you are, even if you may hurt me.”

And with that, without either of you knowing whose fault it truly is, your limbs find comfort with each other, and all feels right.

[yourmoonie]

How to manifest an SP

The Neville Goddard way and my interpretation:

Neville:

“When I decided to marry the lady who now bears my name, I applied this principle. At the time, I was terribly involved. I had married at the age of eighteen and became a father at nineteen. We separated that year, but I never sought a divorce; therefore, my separation was not legal in the state of New York.”

Moonie:

Neville had specific circumstances in front of him:

- He wasn't legally divorced

- The Ancient laws of the New York city were getting on his way of marrying his 2nd wife

Neville:

“Sixteen years later, when I fell in love and wanted to marry my present wife, I decided to sleep as though we were married. While sleeping, physically in my hotel room, I slept imaginatively in an apartment, she in one bed and I in the other. My dancing partner did not want me to marry, so she told my wife that I would be seeking a divorce and to make herself scarce – which she did, taking up residence in another state. But I persisted! Night after night I slept in the assumption that I was happily married to the girl I love."

Moonie:

As you can see, despite the annoying circumstances, Neville still believed in his imagination even if his 1st wife wasn't around, even if his 1st wife didn't sign the divorce papers, he still believed in his imagination more than his 3D or his human senses. He slept in the assumption that he was happily married to the girl he loved even if his 3D was showing him the opposite.

Neville:

“Within a week I received a call requesting me to be in court the next Tuesday morning at 10:00 A.M., giving me no reason why I should be there, I dismissed the request, thinking it was a hoax played on me by a friend. So the next Tuesday morning at 9:30 A.M.I was unshaved and only casually dressed, when the phone rang and a lady said: “It would be to your advantage, as a public figure, to be in court this morning, as your wife is on trial. “What a shock! I quickly thanked the lady, caught a taxi, and arrived just as the court began. My wife had been caught lifting a few items from a store in New York City, which she had not paid for. Asking to speak on her behalf I said: “She is my wife and the mother of my son. Although we have been separated for sixteen years, as far as I know, she has never done this before and I do not think she will ever do it again. We have a marvellous son. Please do nothing to her to reflect in any way upon our son, who lives with me. If I may say something, she is eight years my senior and may be passing through a certain emotional state which prompted her to do what she did. If you must sentence her, then please suspend it.”

Moonie:

Despite the fact that his 1st wife was "running away" from signing the divorce papers or facing Neville so he could marry his second wife, Neville didn't hold any grudges against his ex wife because he believed that his imagination was greater than anything. So Neville experienced a very unique bridge of events, which then later on led him to get whatever he wanted in his 3D

Neville:

“The judge then said to me, “In all of my years on the bench I have never heard an appeal like this. Your wife tells me you want a divorce, and here you could have tangible evidence for it, yet you plead for her release.” He then sentenced her for six months and suspended the sentence. My wife waited for me at the back of the room and said: “Neville, that was a decent thing to do. Give me the subpoena and I will sign it.” We took a taxi together and I did that which was not legal: I served my own subpoena and she signed it. “Now, who was the cause of her misfortune? She lived in another state but came to New York City to do an act for which she was to be caught and tried.

Moonie:

See? She was in another state, but when she came to New York, she was "forced" to do a specific act, which later on became Neville's bridge of events to marrying his 2nd wife. Neville focused on the desire, aka marrying his 2nd wife and not the circumstances (the divorce papers).

Neville:

So, I say: every being in the world will serve your purpose, so in the end, you will say: “Father forgive them, for they know not what they do." “They will move under compulsion to do your will, just as my wife did.” “I tell this story only to illustrate a principle. You do not need to ask anyone to aid you in the answer to a prayer, for the simple reason that God is omnipotent and omniscient. He is in you as your own wonderful I Am ness. Everyone on the outside is your servant, your slave, ready and able to do your will.“

Moonie:

So if people have to move for you, then THEY WILL. Do you want your desire to get externalized faster? Forget about the timing and "trying" and start BEING. If 5000 people have to move for you in order for you to get your desire in a materialized way then they will have to run for you

Neville:

“All you need do is know what you want, Construct a scene which would imply the fulfilment of your desire. Enter the scene and remain there. If your imaginal counsellor (your feeling of fulfilment) agrees with that which is used to illustrate your fulfilled desire, your fantasy will become a fact. If it does not, start all over again by creating a new scene and enter it. In my own case the scene was a bedroom of an apartment, with my wife in one bed and I in the other, denoting that I was no longer living in a hotel alone. I fell asleep in that state, and within one week I had the necessary papers to start action on a divorce.“

Moonie:

You really don't need to beg, or lift up a finger to get whatever you want. Don't focus on the problem, focus on the solution, don't focus on the circumstance, focus on the end goal.

He really proved himself that all he needed to do was to stay true to his imagination.

Do you want your shit faster?

- go straight to the end, accept that your desire is yours (has already been externalized and is yours)

- stand firm

- forgive yourself, forgive the people in your reality bcs they are just playing their roles in your reality.

- It is not your job to worry about "the how" or "the when", your job is to define+decide your desire, then believe and trust yourself that its already yours

Because THERE IS NO SEPARATION

[berryispunk]

Haunted by You

pairing: Frankie Morales x f! reader

tags: ANGST, heartbreak, conflicted feelings, kinda love confessions, exes to????, NO CHEATING, did I mention angst?, husband! Frankie, daddy to be! Frankie, regrets, alcohol mention, longing

summary: You almost forgot the pain he's caused until you unexpectedly meet him again in the bar.

notes: Don't ask me any questions. A quick idea after I saw the quote that's in the moodboard. Don't send me your therapy bill :')

this is part 1/2

part 2 here

word count: 1,8 k

Seeing him here, out of all places, out of all the times you went to this bar, feels like a sick joke from the universe. It feels like the cosmos pointed its finger at you, laughing heartily at your misfortune. Because of course, it had to be him.

You almost think you're imagining it—the way your breath catches, the way your chest tightens like an old wound being pried open. But he’s real. Too damn real. Frankie Morales, in that worn-out mustard jacket you’d recognize in crowds any time, hunched over a whiskey glass, looking just as wrecked as the last time you saw him—except now, you’re no longer the reason for it, or maybe you still are.

He hasn’t seen you yet. Not yet. And for a split second, you consider leaving. You should. You should. But your feet stay rooted, fingers tightening around the damp glass of your half-finished drink. The past is sitting just a few feet away, and for the first time in a long time, it feels alive—gnawing at the bars of its enclosure, warning to be freed.

The bartender slides another drink in front of you, giving you a knowing look. "Rough night?"

You huff out something that isn’t quite a laugh. "You have no idea."

Then, like a magnet drawn to its opposite, Frankie finally turns. When his eyes meet yours, it’s like nothing has changed. Except everything has.

His eyes widen for a fraction of a second—a flicker, barely noticeable unless you’ve spent years memorizing the way he looks at you. And you have. But just as quickly as it appears, it’s gone. His expression shutters, closing you out the way he always did when he thought he was protecting you. Like that ever worked.

Your stomach twists. You should have left. Instead, you sit there, trapped in the weight of his stare, in the silence between you, in the ghosts clawing their way up from the past to wrap their fingers around your throat.

Frankie shifts, his fingers tightening around his glass. He looks down at it, then back up at you, something unreadable in his gaze. His eyes, dark under the cap he always used to wear—another one of his trademarks that are etched into your memory, impossible to erase. Just like everything else about him.

"Didn't think I'd see you here." His voice is rough, like he’s been drinking for a while. Or like he hasn’t slept in even longer.

You swallow against the lump in your throat. "Yeah, well. I could say the same."

A humorless huff of laughter escapes him. He glances away, rubbing the nape of his neck—something he always did when he was nervous.

For a second, you let yourself look at him—really look. The dark circles under his eyes, the way his shoulders sag like he’s been carrying the weight of the world alone. You wonder if he even tries to set it down anymore.

It shouldn’t hurt, seeing him like this. But it does. God, it does.

You turn back to your drink, hating the way your fingers tremble against the glass. "Didn’t think this place was your scene," you say, just to fill the silence. Just to keep yourself from saying something stupid.

Frankie exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly. "It's not, well not since—" he doesn’t have to finish the sentence. You know what he’s implying.

"Then why are you here?"

He hesitates. For a moment, you think he might lie. But then he lifts his whiskey to his lips, takes a slow sip, and says, "Looking for ghosts."

Your heart stutters. Because you know what he means and you're terrified you might still be one of them. His words linger between you, thick as the whiskey in his glass.

Looking for ghosts. Well, congratulations, Frankie. You fucking found one.

You open your mouth—maybe to snap back, maybe to say something that hurts—but then your eyes catch it.

A glint of gold.

Something sharp and awful coils in your stomach, twisting deep. For a second, you think it’s a trick of the dim bar lighting, but no. It’s real. Solid. Sitting there on his left hand like a goddamn brand. Your throat is suddenly dry, but you force the words out anyway. "When?"

Frankie doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. He glances down at his hand, flexing his fingers slightly before curling them back into a fist.

"A year ago."

A year. Not right after you. Not right away. But soon enough that the breath in your lungs turns razor-sharp. You nod slowly, like it doesn’t feel like your ribcage is collapsing.

"She knows you’re here?"

Frankie’s jaw tenses. That tells you everything you need to know. But you press anyway, because if he’s gonna haunt you like this, then you’re taking him down with you. "Is she home waiting?"

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. "She’s… she’s due next week."

That does it. That rips the air from your lungs, knocks the glass from your hand. It doesn’t shatter, but it might as well have.

"You’ve got a kid on the way?" Your voice is a whisper, but it might as well be a scream.

Frankie exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. "It’s not—fuck, I didn’t come here to—"

"To what, Frankie?" Your laugh is bitter. "You didn’t come here to see me? Then why the hell are you sitting in our bar drinking like a man with regrets?"

He flinches, just slightly, but enough for you to notice. And that’s when it hits you, that deep, festering thing in your chest you’ve been ignoring since the second you saw him tonight.

It doesn’t matter if it’s been years. If he’s married. If he’s about to be a father. If your story ended.

Because it was still a story. Unfinished—the book slammed shut, but the ending was written somewhere else. Just not in yours.

Frankie stares down at his drink, like maybe he’ll find answers at the bottom of the glass. And for a long, agonizing moment, he doesn’t say anything.

But then, barely above a whisper—like it’s the only real thing left in the world—he says it.

"I still think about you."

Your breath catches.

"Every fucking day."

You hate how much you want to believe it. Hate how much you want it to be enough to change things between you.

"Even when I’m with her."

It’s a confession, a wound ripped open and bleeding all over the fucking floor.

"Even when she’s sleeping beside me."

Your stomach twists.

"Even when I touch her, it’s you I see."

It feels like all the air has been sucked out of the room.

"I wanted it to be you." Frankie’s voice breaks, and it’s the worst thing you’ve ever heard. "I wanted it to be you I built a life with. You I had a family with. I swear to God, I—"

"Shut the fuck up, Frankie."

Your voice isn’t loud. It isn’t sharp. It’s shaking. Your hands tremble at your sides, fingers curling, not in fury but in something worse—something raw and aching, something that feels like it might split you open.

"Do you hear yourself?" you spit out. "Do you have any fucking idea what you’re saying?" It’s not anger that clogs your throat, it’s everything else.

Frankie drags a hand over his face. "I know it’s fucked. I know I shouldn’t be saying it." His eyes flick up to yours, wrecked and desperate. "But it’s the truth."

"No," you snap. "The truth? The truth is you left me. The truth is you moved on. The truth is you’re about to have a kid with another woman, and you don’t get to sit here and tell me it should’ve been me just because you feel guilty tonight."

"It’s not guilt," he says, and the worst part is—he may mean it.

You shake your head, laughter bubbling up, sharp and jagged. "Oh, it’s not? So what the fuck do you want from me, Frankie? You want me to say it back? You want me to tell you I still think about you too? That I still wake up expecting to find you next to me? That no matter how hard I try, no one else ever—"

You choke on the words before they can escape, swallow them down with the bitterness in your throat. His face is pure devastation; he looks like you just shot him.

"I just…" He trails off, eyes flickering to his glass. "I just needed to see you."

And God, that’s the worst part. Because you needed to see him too. But it doesn’t fucking change anything.

And you don’t want to feel it—this, what’s happening between you both. But it’s impossible to ignore. The pull. The gravity. The familiarity that fills the air between you. It’s like no time has passed. The years just slip away, and here you are again, inches apart, breathless, with so much unsaid between you. Before you even realize it, you’re leaning in. Just a little. Just enough to catch the warmth of his breath, to inhale the scent that once clung to your skin. The same scent that lingered on the one shirt he left at your place. The one you held onto like an anchor, drowning in your tears for weeks, refusing to let go.

His fingers twitch like they want to reach for you. His eyes are dark with something you shouldn’t want, but still so heavy with meaning. You almost let him. All the feelings, all the longing you buried so deep, start bubbling up again, rising to the surface.

But it’s too much. It oversteps every line you swore you wouldn’t cross. But right here, right now, it feels like the easiest thing in the world to fall into him. To forget everything else. To pretend there’s still a chance. Another reality for you both. Another life where you aren’t the end of each other.

But in the last moment of clarity, you stop and pull back. And the distance between you feels like a chasm.

"No," you whisper, almost to yourself. "I’m not doing this."

His face twists like you’ve slapped him. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move.

"You’re about to ruin all of this," you say, voice shaking but resolute. "You’re about to ruin everything you have—everything she’s about to give you—for some stupid fucking nostalgia. You don’t get to chase the past, Frankie. You don’t get to fuck up your life just because it’s easy to be here, with me."

Your voice breaks as you say it, but you’re too angry, too hurt to stop. "You made your choice. Don’t make me the one who gets hurt again."

He doesn’t answer. Froze in an endless loop of time stretching between you. His hand hovers in the air like he’s trying to reach for something he’s already lost.

Then he swallows, his voice rough. "I wish I didn’t have to choose."

But the words hang there, unanswered.

You turn, tears falling—silent and heavy, burning down your cheeks—as you take a steady step away, each one a little more certain than the last. Maybe it’ll eat you alive, knowing he’s about to be someone else’s family. But you can’t let him ruin you again.

You leave him there, probably just as conflicted as you—suffocating in his own mess of emotions. But he deserves to feel this. He deserves to suffer too, just like you. You won’t let him break you again.

You won’t.

my masterlist - in case you're hungry for more :)

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[im-a-mess-of-a-person]

the black sisters

i feel like the black brothers get so much attention in the fandom compared to the black sisters, so here are some headcanons i have!

————————————————————————

they were completely inseparable they were younger

andy and bella in particular. people would often mistake them for twins, to which they would giggle and play along

cissa hated this so much, because she didn’t look like them and she just wasn’t as close with them

she felt like she didn’t look enough like a black and was a disappointment for it

she even tried to dye it, but she still didn’t look right

there were some rumors about her true parentage, considering she looked nothing like the rest of her family

bella shot these down and threatened anywho me who dared to speak ill of her sweet baby sister

she was always very protective and kind to both of her sisters

she considered andy’s elopement the ultimate betrayal

they had been slowly growing apart anyway, but that solidified it

narcissa saw what happened when andy dared to follow her heart, so she shoved hers away and cut out the only person who it would ever belong to (alice)

she found lucius kind of repulsive, but he was a safe and secure husband

draco was the first thing that gave her life meaning since alice

when nymphadora was born, narcissa went to visit and meet her

bellatrix did not

narcissa loved both regulus and sirius equally

andromeda loved regulus a little less

bellattix loved sirius a lot less

bellatrix never wanted to marry

she wanted power, and marriage was essentially handing over her sovereignty

she refused to become a mother. it was her worst nightmare

she drank a potion that would make her infertile. she never told a soul and everyone assumed her barrenness was a terrible misfortune

it was one of the only choices she ever made for herself

she felt guilty about it for the rest of her because she felt she had disgraced her family with her selfishness

narcissa’s biggest hope was to become a mother, but sex with a man repulsed her

she considered asking lucius if they could do it a different way, but she decided it wasn't worth it

draco’s conception was the only time she ever slept with him

it was worth it, for a child

andromeda always wanted to have more kids, but she actually had a hard time getting pregnant

nymphadora was sort of a miracle baby

andromeda ended up the happiest of them all, but the abscence of her sisters left a hole in her heart

narcissa was happy enough, but she always regretted losing the two best people in her life, alice and andromeda

bellatrix was just…insane. there was nothing tying her down because she would never let anybody matter to her. andromeda, who had mattered the most to her, betrayed her and hurt her

she wouldn’t let it happen again, so she kept everyone at arms length. that combined with her time in azkaban drove her mad.

they all regretted the way things were left between them, but none of them knew how to fix it, so they never tried.

[mellowwillowy]

The first thing your husband thought of when he woke up was you. Where were you? How long had he fallen asleep? And why was he... transparent? What the fuck happened?

𝐔𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐃𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐂𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐲𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐒𝐩𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞'𝐬 𝐋𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐇𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝

Yulian knew he was never a good man but he was confident that he had always been a good husband for you. The proof of his love for you was evident from the manor he constructed from scratch for you, isolated from prying eyes and hidden beyond the mist-covered forest.

No one knew the existence of the manor. Well, that was until you decided to invite people who had somehow enraged you in 1981, three years after he passed away... or so he assumed.

It felt surreal. How did he die? It had always been you who died first, not him. Did you kill him? How could you even kill him? You had always been a sweetheart and even if you did, how?

Yulian stopped pondering when he realized he had difficulties remembering who you were. He couldn't remember your face. He couldn't recognize you among all the people in the manor.

If anything was more horrifying than that then it had to be the fact that he couldn't even protect you even if he recognized you. Who were you? What did you look like? Were you a man or a woman? How old were you? Not that your age really mattered... But he was desperate to identify you first!

None of the guests behaved like you and even if one did, it was only a speckle of resemblance, nothing more, nothing less. Yulian was stressed, terrified even. He felt like vomiting all his guts out of guilt and shame. He was too scared that he might identify someone else as you.

Yet to his surprise, it didn't take long for him to identify you. You. The culprit. He had no logical reasoning but he knew it was you from the way his heart throbbed when he looked at you.

To be frank, the mystery was nothing but child play for him, he didn't even have to involve himself during the murder to know how everything was done. Locked room? Hidden passage? Rigged windows? He knew his house's layout best, even better than you if he must assume for now.

By the time he felt confident he had found you, he stayed close to you all the time. He followed you like a pest, watching you act and mingle with everyone while pulling everyone's legs. He would have found it funny and endearing if not for the fact that he was concerned someone might call out on your bluff.

Especially that detective, Stephen Cirillo was it?

He didn't like him. He had never liked him. He deserved whatever misfortune that fell on him, served him right for trying to take you into court as a culprit. Fuck him for testing his patience. He would have spared him like how he did to that prosecutor, Eldridge Alscher, if not for him bothering you.

As much as he hated Stephen, he was also uneasy by how sharp Stephen could be at times. Yulian was concerned over the fact that your bluff might be unveiled by him should you ever slip in your game. That man was watching everyone like a hawk, not to mention he had teamed up with that prosecutor.

Though at least he wasn't very concerned when he knew you had reliable accomplices and well, a backup plan. It appeared that you've gotten yourself loyal mutts.

Fantastic.

He also missed sleeping on the same bed with you. Thanks to his work when he was still alive, he rarely slept together with you. At least he could treasure this domestic moment for a while before you roamed around the manor like an angel of death, clad in black.

He also wondered if you noticed him... the way you looked into what seemed to be an empty space... zoning out... was it you staring at him?

No one could tell it. Not even the hawk nor himself.

Read Uphill Daisies on Webtoon!

[yandere-sins]

Yan-Poll #10

[The Stalker Part 2]

Strange was no longer an expression that could be used to describe your life.

Maddening chaos, a whirlwind of panic, fear, and more sinister things came to mind whenever someone asked you how you'd been. You don't even tell them anymore, some of them declaring you mad for still going on about your stalker after so many months, but there never being evidence to show them. They were scared for you in the beginning, but now they were suspicious of you.

You can feel him at all times. Sometimes, you think he brushes by behind you, or you feel his breath against your neck, his eyes on you at all times. But even so, you never met him. He's been there... and yet he wasn't. He never seems to need a day off from his stalking, his break-ins being more like him coming home every day, and neither the police nor security could catch him.

Even when he started delivering you more sinister gifts, like hands and eyes, whenever you refused him.

You pleaded, begged, and asked him to stop, but he was far from it. He allowed you to live your life, but only on his terms. You were to do what he wanted: eat the meals he prepared for you, take a bath when he ran it for you, and even take time off work when he requested it. Intrusively, he was taking over. And after all the misfortune it brought you, you simply... caved. You were so drained of strength that you let him do as he pleased.

It was a surprise that he even let you do things on your own, like buy groceries. Most meals were pre-made by him whenever you got home, but sometimes, he let you cook instead, expecting you to leave some for when he came to visit. He loved your cooking, expressed it so many times before, and 'rewarded' you for it, although it was never a surprise for him. He was watching you, after all. Every. Step. Of the way.

However, you acknowledged it was better than being stuck at home in fight or flight all day.

You dodged everyone at the grocery store, knowing that talking to someone would make him jealous. It was almost ridiculous how much you danced to his tune, but receiving the hand of a woman whose nails you complimented was lesson enough. Quickly, you gathered what you would need, before hurrying to the self-checkout and leaving the potential dangers of public, your heart aching for the times where you didn't need to fear for other's lives in every setting you were in.

Perhaps it was fate that made you go outside that day, the goodwill of the gods you had prayed to all this time. Still, nothing could have prepared you for the accident that took place just before you could reach your home. A car passed you by just moments before you heard the squeaking of breaks, then the deafening crash of machinery ramming into each other.

Screams echoed out before you could turn around, flames lighting up the early-evening darkness. You heard countless people's footsteps rushing out of their houses and passing you by as you stared at the scenery behind you. Sirens were blaring in the distance as you looked at the body lying on the ground, clothed in black. Someone tried to stabilize the person. Tried to help him.

You'd know him, even when he lay mangled and in pain on the dirty ground. Even without ever knowing his handsome face that became unraveled only when the paramedics deemed it safe enough to pull his helmet off. It was him. Your stalker.

When your eyes met, you witnessed a mixture of pain, devastation, but also... happiness in them. Perhaps because you finally knew. His existence was no longer a shadow that threatened you but a human who bled and hurt and deserved help, despite all his misdeeds. You should have felt sympathy for him, but you were so emotionally drained, you couldn't do anything.

But you also couldn't leave.

There was the person who had made your life a living hell. Who made sure you neither slept nor were awake for the last months, who even made you doubt yourself so many times. Who harassed and abused you to the point it made you want to give up resisting. You weren't sure how severe his injuries were, but part of you hoped he'd die. Perish. Disappear from your life.

And another part... wanted answers.

Why did he do all this, why go to such lengths? What was his goal, and why did he need to go about these things in these particular ways? Who were the body parts from, and where were these victims? What happened to them? And most importantly, why did he choose you?

You'd never have the answers if he died now. He'd be gone, but could you ever return to your old life without the answers? Could you live with yourself knowing people died and you survived by pure chance? Because something happened to him before he could do it to you? If he died, you'd never get justice for anyone. Everyone would keep believing you made all of this up. You'd be miserable, and he'd won.

As if he realized your inner tumult, he smiled before turning his head over and putting on his best pained expression towards the medics. Slowly, he raised his arm, pointing towards you and saying some words you couldn't hear, but the paramedics' heads snapped around, suddenly calling out to you.

"Hey! You're his spouse, right? Your husband needs to get to the hospital asap! You can drive with us!"

They didn't wait for you to respond before they started loading him on a gurney, your stalker never looking away from you. As if to say, "You want the answers? Come to me."

Your home was so close that you could run and hide inside, but you might lose the chance to ever get the answers that you'd want or need for your future therapy. Would you ever recover, not knowing if he survived or not? When he'd be back? This could be your last chance to figure things out and bring him to justice, or at least be sure he wouldn't come back to haunt you.

"Hurry!" one of the medics shouted, rushing to your side, perhaps to aid you as they might have thought you were in shock after seeing your husband like this. There was not much time, and you had to decide what you wanted to do immediately.

(Reasoning and discussions welcome! ♥)

[unicornjoking1111]

This man manifested getting a divorce in the most impossible way but made it (Neville goddard: brazem impudence)

I will now share with you a very personal story. I tell it to illustrate a principle. Society blamed this lady for what she did, and she paid the price, but I was the cause of her misfortune. I am not going to justify my story and if you can’t take it, I’m sorry. When I first told it, one lady was very upset and I regret that; but I have noticed that when someone has recently given up alcohol, tobacco, meat, or sex, they invariably condemn the state. They feel too close to it to feel secure. I am not saying that this lady had a similar experience where she was the victim; I am only speaking of a principle. Now here is my story:

When I decided to marry the lady who now bears my name, I applied this principle. At the time I was terribly involved. I had married at the age of eighteen and became a father at nineteen. We separated that year, but I never sought a divorce; therefore, my separation was not legal in the state of New York. Sixteen years later, when I fell in love and wanted to marry my present wife, I decided to sleep as though we were married. While sleeping, physically in my hotel room, I slept imaginatively in an apartment, she in one bed and I in the other. My dancing partner did not want me to marry, so she told my wife that I would be seeking a divorce and to make herself scarce – which she did, taking up residence in another state. But I persisted! Night after night I slept in the assumption that I was happily married to the girl I love.

Within a week I received a call requesting me to be in court the next Tuesday morning at 10:00 a.m. Giving me no reason why I should be there, I dismissed the request, thinking it was a hoax played on me by a friend. So the next Tuesday morning at 9:30 a.m. I was unshaved and only casually dressed, when the phone rang and a lady said: “It would be to your advantage, as a public figure, to be in court this morning, as your wife is on trial.” What a shock! I quickly thanked the lady, caught a taxi, and arrived just as court began.

My wife had been caught lifting a few items from a store in New York City, which she had not paid for. Asking to speak on her behalf I said: “She is my wife and the mother of my son. Although we have been separated for sixteen years, as far as I know she has never done this before, and I do not think she will ever do it again. We have a marvellous son. Please do nothing to her to reflect in any way upon our son, who lives with me. If I may say something, she is eight years my senior and may be passing through a certain emotional state which prompted her to do what she did. If you must sentence her, then please suspend it.”

The judge then said to me, “In all of my years on the bench I have never heard an appeal like this. Your wife tells me you want a divorce, and here you could have tangible evidence for it, yet you plead for her release.” He then sentenced her for six months and suspended the sentence. My wife waited for me at the back of the room and said: “Neville, that was a decent thing to do. Give me the subpoena and I will sign it.” We took a taxi together and I did that which was not legal: I served my own subpoena and she signed it.

Now, who was the cause of her misfortune? She lived in another state but came to New York City to do an act for which she was to be caught and tried. So I say: every being in the world will serve your purpose, so in the end you will say:

Father forgive them, for they know not what they do.

[absurdthirst]

Kinktober 2024: October 16th

Day 16: Nipple Play // Cock Worship // Lactation 

Zach Wellison x F!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 1k

Warnings: Cock worship, praise, fondling, kissing, licking, ball sucking

|| Kinktober List || MasterList ||

Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says 'creator chooses not to use warnings'. You also agree that you're the right age to be consuming anything here.

You can tell that Zach has never had this kind of attention before. His eyes are wide and fixed on you. Dilated and dark with need as his chest heaves, the glistening of a light sheen of sweat making his skin look dewy. 

“Baby, I don’t need-” His head rolls back and another soft moan falls out of his slack mouth, almost lazily as your tongue drags up the side of his cock again. 

Months ago this man had burst into your life, protective and comforting. Down on his own luck but willing to step in front of you and act like a shield. The honor that had been instilled in him on a drill field for the Marines in San Diego still visible underneath the tired misfortune. 

He had been grateful and uneasy about accepting the help you had offered, but he had done it anyway. Never one to take it for granted, to expect things. He had improved his own life through hard words and improved yours by just being a good friend. Only for those feelings that had been brewing between you to finally bubble up one night and turn into passion. 

Now you are here, showing him how much you adore him, how worthy he is for love and affection. For physicality. He had been nearly touch-starved when you first slept together, his own insecurities playing a large part of that, and you have made it a mission to prove to him that he deserves someone who gives him as much love as he has given you. 

“Yes you do.” You coo when your tongue flicks back into your mouth and you grin up at him, watching his head flop back to his chest and his eyes open lazily to watch you. Glazed over with lust and love, cheeks flushed a pretty hue and deepened when you wink at him. 

Sometimes you think that he never imagined you being so filthy. So dirty. It was like you had been placed on a pedestal in his mind, unobtainable and never willing to degrade yourself by doing something so low. 

“It’s not like any blowjob I’ve ever had.” He halfway laughs, half blows out the comment and you feel him twitching in your hand as you lazily pump him, your hand gripping his length loosely. 

“Not a blowjob.” You correct, leaning in and pressing a tender kiss to the tip of the flushed head, only to sneakily lap at it when he groans again. “Cock worship.”

You can tell that he has no idea what that is, but you will show him. You are going to worship this beautiful, hard, pulsing member and make him feel better than he’s ever felt in his life. You are going to make him feel wanted, you do want him, all the time and because he is so good at satisfying you this is something you need to do. 

He whines, resisting the urge to touch you, balling his hands up in fists and panting in protest. “You could- you could come sit on my face while you do it.” He bargains, looking down at you again with a pleading expression. Again, wanting to give rather than be your sole focus. 

“This is about you, baby.” You remind him, squeezing him gently for good measure before you kiss the head again and run your tongue along that lovely little vein right back down to the base. Kissing around it and smirking to yourself that he has obviously trimmed his hair again. He keeps it short and neat, meticulously so. 

“You-” Your other hand moves down to his pelvis, pressing lightly and your teeth scrape around the shaft lightly, not enough to ever hurt him but his sharp inhale of breath tells you that he loves this. 

It’s hard not to giggle when he’s choking up and stopping mid sentence because of how you are making him feel. The pleasure that he’s getting from this overrides his embarrassment at being the center of attention, even when it’s just the two of you. Your mouth starts to slowly drag lower, not wanting to leave those beautifully soft balls denied of your touch. 

“Oh fuck.” Zach gasps, his hips jerking slightly when you take one into your mouth, sucking ever so gently and pushing it around with your tongue. “Baby, you’re so- fuck, I don’t deserve this.” He tells you breathlessly. 

Yes, he does. For the exact reason that he’s telling you he doesn’t. He has given you so much, boosted your own crumbling self image after learning that your boyfriend had been cheating. Built you back up emotionally with loving words and compliments, but he never wanted to take those same words from you. 

So you will show him through actions. As many times as it takes for him to believe that he is worth all of this and more. You just hum and continue to lavish that sac with attention while your fingers slowly stroke up and down his stiff length. 

He makes the most beautiful sounds for you. Surprised and weighted down with unspoken want, need, all wrapped up in those sexy groans and moans. Your name falls from his lips over and over again. 

Eventually, he will need more, but as you move over to the other ball, you plan on dragging this out for him. To heap this singularly focused attention on him for as long as he will be able to stand it without touching you. It’s a countdown right now. 

“Baby-” You pop the other one out of your mouth and hum as you move back up to kiss up the length of his cock and grin at him. “What do you need, Zach?” You ask playfully, circling the tip with your tongue again. 

“More.” He admits, his eyes slipping closed and his groan of your name so wrecked that it almost makes you cum. “I need more.”

“You’re going to get more.” You promise, licking your lips as you lower your head back to his cock and start the process of worshiping it all over again. He’s going to get so much more because he deserves it. 

[sweetrululu]

A night we should forget (Helsa Fanfic)

It was one of those endless nights when sleep seemed more like a chimera than a possibility. Elsa lay motionless in her bed, staring at the ceiling with wide-open eyes, as if simply closing them would be futile. Her thoughts, like waves crashing against the shore, ebbed and flowed incessantly. Echoes of the day’s meetings still resonated in her mind: the councils, the debates, the barely restrained sighs of her ministers. Every decision felt more like a burden than a solution, and though the world slept, she could not afford such a luxury.

She rolled to one side, then the other, clutching her pillow in a vain attempt to find solace. Finally, she sat up with a frustrated sigh. It was clear that rest would not come—not while her mind was caught in this whirlwind of thoughts. Perhaps, she thought, a book might offer some relief. Something dull enough to calm her mind, or, hopefully, interesting enough to distract her.

And so, wrapped in a shawl and moving lightly, she made her way to the library.

The silence of the castle at this hour held a special weight, as if time itself had paused. Only the soft creak of the floorboards beneath her feet broke the stillness. Upon arriving, she pushed open the heavy library doors carefully, expecting to find it shrouded in shadows and filled with the comforting aroma of old paper. But to her surprise, she was not alone.

In the middle of the shelves, a male figure was bent over a low shelf, a damp cloth in one hand and a book in the other. The dim glow of the lamps barely illuminated the room, but it was enough for her to recognize him.

“Hans?” Elsa murmured, surprise coloring her voice.

He turned to her with the calm nonchalance that seemed to have become his trademark. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and an errant lock of hair fell across his forehead. It was such an unusual image that Elsa had to remind herself not to appear unsettled.

“Your Majesty, what brings you here at this hour? A sudden passion for reading?”

Elsa raised an eyebrow, attempting to match his neutrality, though her initial surprise had not entirely faded.

“I could ask you the same,” she replied, stepping closer to him. “What are you doing here at this hour?”

Hans let out a soft chuckle, raising the cloth in his hand as if it were all the explanation needed.

“I had the misfortune of being caught avoiding my duties during the day. Your steward decided that cleaning the library is a suitable punishment to ‘reform my character.’”

Elsa, who had initially let out a faint sigh of exasperation, now had to suppress a smile. There was something terribly fascinating about his ability to turn even humiliation into a scene bordering on the absurd.

“And you expect me to pity your situation?” she responded, raising an eyebrow.

Hans let out a dramatic sigh, but his eyes glimmered with amusement.

“No, Your Majesty, that would be too much to ask. I’ll settle for you admiring my fortitude in the face of adversity.”

“And tell me, is shirking responsibilities a habit of yours?” she said, crossing her arms as she regarded him with a mix of sternness and amusement.

Hans met her gaze directly, his eyes glinting with that familiar spark, as if carefully weighing his response to strike the perfect balance between provocation and insolence.

“Let’s just say I’m selective with my efforts. But you haven’t answered me yet, Your Majesty.” He straightened slightly, his confidence as unshakable as ever. “What brings you here in the middle of the night? Don’t tell me your steward has punished you as well.”

Elsa took a deep breath.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she admitted, lifting her chin slightly, as if to dispel any notion of vulnerability.

Hans raised his gaze, his expression hovering between genuine interest and calculated curiosity.

“I thought as much.”

Elsa frowned, surprised.

“You thought as much?”

“Of course. I saw you during your speech to the assembly this morning.”

“You were there?”

Hans nodded slowly.

“Yes, I was there. I heard most of it, although…” He paused deliberately, letting his words hang in the air as he studied her face with unnerving precision. “I wouldn’t be entirely honest if I said my attention was focused solely on your speech.”

Elsa felt a faint warmth rise to her cheeks. There was something in his tone, something implied, that she wasn’t sure she wanted to interpret.

“And what distracted you, then?” she asked, trying to sound indifferent, though her voice came out softer than she intended.

Hans smiled, that soft and dangerous smile that seemed to say more than he would ever admit out loud.

“Well, I believe you can imagine, Your Majesty.”

Elsa raised an eyebrow, noticing how the weight of his words seemed to slide carefully toward a line neither of them should cross. And yet, there was something in the way he said it that left her utterly disarmed.

“You should be more cautious with your words, young Westergard,” Elsa replied with an air of icy authority, though it was betrayed by the faint blush on her cheeks. “They could easily be misinterpreted.”

Hans let out a brief smile, more a gesture of resignation than amusement, as if the game they were both playing demanded as much from him as it did from her.

“Oh, it wasn’t my intention to offend, Your Majesty. I was, of course, referring to how striking the Duke Halverson’s wig was. Frankly, it seemed to be competing with the chandeliers for everyone’s attention.”

Elsa blinked, surprised by the sudden shift in the conversation, and, despite herself, a brief laugh escaped her lips. She quickly brought a hand to her mouth, conscious that laughing at someone in her court—even the duke and his terrible wig—was hardly befitting of a queen.

“You shouldn’t say such things, Hans.”

“ What? The truth? “he replied, his gaze sparkling with mischief. “ Or note that the duke appears to have been slightly influenced by his time in northern France? Perhaps, Your Majesty, you should consider revoking his diplomatic privileges for his own good.”

This time, Elsa couldn’t hold back. A light but genuine laugh filled the room for a few moments. Hans said nothing, only watching her as her laughter slowly faded. There was something captivating in his expression—a mix of restrained grace and warmth that made it impossible to look away from him.

“Well, Your Majesty, I’m afraid this is not the best place to spend the night seeking distraction,” he said, gesturing toward the dusty shelves around them “. Half of these books are filled with political history and medieval tragedies. I wouldn’t want to ruin your mood.”

“And what do you suggest, young Westergard?” Elsa asked, her faint smile lingering.

Hans moved toward another shelf, his fingers trailing along the spines of the books in a gesture that seemed almost absentminded, though his words were anything but.

“Perhaps something less solemn. There are stories here that might suit your taste… “His fingers paused on an aged but well-kept volume, which he carefully pulled out. He glanced at the cover and then back at her “ This one might interest you. It’s about a young maiden forced to make a decision that could change her life forever.”

Elsa blinked, and though she wanted to smile at what seemed like a calculated response, she couldn’t. His words felt too personal, resonating within her in a way she couldn’t quite explain.

“And what does she choose? “ she asked, her eyes never leaving his.

Hans smiled—a slow, deliberate expression that seemed to hold more than he was willing to say.

“I’d rather not spoil the ending for you, Your Majesty.”

The words hung in the air between them. Elsa stared at him, and for a moment that felt eternal, there were no books, no shelves, no library—only the two of them, in a space that felt both dangerously small and impossibly vast.

Hans extended the book to her, breaking the moment with a gentleness that almost made her shiver.

“I hope you find it interesting.”

Elsa took the book and held it against her chest, the warmth of his hands still imprinted on the cover. Her eyes sought his for a moment that felt like forever, and though her lips formed a faint smile, there was something in her gaze that betrayed the calm she tried to project.

“Thank you for the recommendation, Hans. Good night.”

The echo of her farewell lingered between them as Elsa turned on her heels, her measured steps deliberate, as if each one was an act of will. She reached the doorway, her hand resting on the frame, indecisive, as though the weight of unspoken words anchored her there.

“Good night, Your Majesty, “Hans said from behind her, his voice low, perhaps sounding more strained than he intended, wrapped in a mix of resignation and something deeper” something that seemed to struggle to break free, though he kept it firmly contained.

Elsa closed her eyes for a moment, willing herself not to let his tone reach her, but it was already too late. There was something in his words, in the way he had spoken them, that held her where she stood, tugging at her like an invisible thread tethering her to the threshold of that room.

Her heart pounded as the weight of the moment took hold of her. Slowly, she turned back toward him, her eyes seeking his as if she wanted to say something, but before she could form the words, the book slipped from her grasp.

Several pages came loose from the binding, sliding onto the floor in a small, scattered mess. Before she could bend down, Hans was already at her side, carefully gathering the papers.

As they picked up the scattered pages together, their hands brushed briefly. It was a casual touch, almost insignificant, but it was enough to make them both look up at the same time, their eyes meeting in a moment that seemed to hold everything they hadn’t allowed themselves to say.

Hans froze, his fingers still grazing hers. His breath caught, and Elsa, her heart racing, saw the struggle within him. She could tell he wanted to step closer; it was there in the way his shoulders tensed and his eyes flickered to her lips. But she also saw how quickly that impulse was subdued.

With a resignation so palpable it seemed to hang in the air, Hans withdrew his hand, gathering the pages and standing up. His composure returned to his face like a well-placed mask as he held out the carefully ordered papers to her.

“Be more careful, Your Majesty,” he said with a formality that Elsa felt like a wall rising between them.

She took the pages but didn’t look away from him. There was something in his expression that made her want more, something that urged her to break down that self-imposed distance. Elsa knew that what she was about to do was wrong, something that could never be justified—but in that moment, she didn’t care.

With a swift motion, she made the first move. She let the book fall to the floor again, grabbed Hans by the collar of his shirt, and pulled him toward her, pressing her lips to his in a kiss that was both timid and determined—a mix of insecurity and long-contained desire.

Hans, shocked at first, stood rigid for a moment, but soon he gave in to the moment. His hands found her waist, pulling her firmly against him, his passion a stark contrast to the restraint he had shown just seconds before. One of his hands slid up her back, brushing against the bare skin where her nightgown didn’t reach, his fingers tangling briefly in the braid that fell like a current down her spine.

Elsa, for her part, felt Hans’s urgency blend with her own nervousness. Her hands hesitated before weaving into his reddish hair, holding him as if she needed an anchor in the storm swirling inside her. Her lips moved clumsily at first, but they quickly found a rhythm, one that spoke of everything neither of them had dared to say.

The kiss was deep, charged with emotions that had been suppressed for far too long, now spilling over like a river breaching its banks. Hans tilted his head slightly, intensifying the contact, and Elsa felt her initial shyness give way to something stronger, something she couldn’t—and didn’t want to—control.

When they finally broke apart, it was more out of necessity for air than by choice. Elsa kept her hands on his neck, but her breathing was erratic, and her face was flushed. Hans, still holding her by the waist, opened his mouth as if to say something, but Elsa raised a hand to stop him.

“Don’t say anything,” she whispered, her voice barely a breath between them.

Hans closed his eyes for a moment, as though trying to suppress something more than just words, and when he opened them again, there was something indescribable in his gaze—a mixture of desire, resignation, and a pang of guilt that Elsa felt mirrored in her own chest.

She stepped away from him with difficulty, lowering her gaze as the weight of reality came crashing down on her. Panic filled her eyes, and her breathing quickened.

“What have I done? This… this shouldn’t have happened. It… it can’t…” she murmured, shaking her head over and over as if trying to convince herself.

Hans, still standing where she had left him, looked bewildered. He took a step toward her, raising a hand as if to reach out, but stopped, hesitating.

“Your Majesty… Elsa… please, it’s all right.”

“No. Please, don’t say anything,” she said urgently, looking at him with bright, pleading eyes, as if doing so could halt the chaos swirling within her. “Pretend this never happened. Pretend none of this happened, okay?”

Hans frowned, his gaze searching hers. There was something in his expression that was both worried and frustrated.

“I can’t pretend that. I can’t… ignore this.”

Elsa pressed her lips together, her eyes closing as if to shut out his words.

“You have to. You must. This isn’t right—it can’t be right.”

Hans sighed, running a hand through his hair as if trying to find the right words.

“Do you think I don’t know that? Do you think I haven’t reminded myself every single day that what I feel for you is wrong?” His voice softened, but it lost none of its intensity. “But I can’t help it. I can’t stop feeling this for you. I love you, and I have for months—”

“Stop!” Elsa interrupted, her tone desperate. She stepped toward him, looking at him with a mix of confusion and fear. “Don’t say those things.”

Hans wanted to speak, to explain himself, but before he could, a soft knock on the door echoed through the library. They both froze as the door creaked open, revealing a young maid.

“Young Westergard…” The woman stopped abruptly, her eyes darting between Hans and Elsa before settling back on Hans. Her expression was one of pure bewilderment, and a blush quickly crept up her cheeks. “I-I’m sorry… I was sent to inform you that you may retire for the evening. There’s no need to continue cleaning.”

Elsa and Hans exchanged a quick glance, both visibly tense. The maid hastily lowered her head, murmuring something incomprehensible before offering a quick bow and closing the door behind her.

Elsa remained frozen for a moment, but the weight of the situation hit her harder than ever.

“She… saw us,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, though Hans heard it perfectly.

“It doesn’t matter what she thinks. No one… no one will say anything, Elsa.”

She shook her head, taking a step toward the door.

“I can’t stay here. I shouldn’t have come here.”

“Elsa, wait…” Hans tried to reach for her, but she hurried away, shutting the door behind her. He let out a long sigh, running a hand down his face as he tried to process what had just happened. He knew it shouldn’t have, but it was already too late.

•••

The morning sun barely managed to filter through the tall windows of the council chamber, casting a faint glow on the stone walls. Elsa sat at the far end of the long oak table, her back straight and her fingers interlocked in her lap. Across from her, Kay spoke with his usual efficiency, listing a series of political matters that would have commanded her full attention on any other day.

“…and as for the treaty with the Southern Isles, Majesty, King Richard has sent an envoy to negotiate the terms of shared fishing waters. Captain Bay and his delegation will be expecting you at the port for lunch.”

Elsa nodded automatically, but her mind wandered far from the southern seas. Every word Kay spoke seemed to fade into a distant echo as an insistent image crept into her thoughts: Hans’s hands, firm and warm, on her waist; the brush of his breath against her skin; the way their lips had met with an urgency that defied all reason.

For a moment, she recalled the pressure of his fingers on her back, tracing the line of her spine as though memorizing every detail. She felt again the weight of her own decision—the audacity of having crossed a boundary she knew was forbidden but couldn’t entirely regret.

“…Majesty, do you think it would be prudent to convene the council before making a final decision?” Kay’s voice continued, now little more than a faint murmur.

“Elsa, are you all right?” Anna asked suddenly, leaning slightly across the table to look at her with concern.

Elsa blinked, startled, and turned her head toward her sister, who sat nearby. Anna had insisted on attending the meeting, arguing that she wanted to be more involved in the affairs of Arendelle.

“Yes, I’m fine,” Elsa replied, forcing herself to maintain her composure.

“You don’t look fine,” Anna pressed, offering a warm but inquisitive smile. “Maybe you should take a break. It’s been a tough week, and… well, I can’t handle everything by myself, but I can at least try. I could go to that lunch if you’d rather stay at the palace.”

“I’m fine, Anna,” Elsa repeated, her tone firmer but still gentle.

Before Anna could respond, the door opened, and a maid entered quietly, carrying a tray with a cup of tea. Elsa glanced up and immediately recognized the young woman who had interrupted the scene in the library the night before.

The maid didn’t meet her eyes, but her hands trembled slightly as she set the tea on the table. Elsa felt her pulse quicken, heat rising to her cheeks. The maid quickly bowed and left the room without a word, leaving Elsa with a mix of shame and nervousness that she struggled to hide.

Anna raised an eyebrow as she sipped her tea.

“Well, that was weird. Are you sure you’re okay? Because now even the servants seem more nervous than usual.”

Elsa shook her head, trying to downplay the comment.

“I’m perfectly fine, Anna. Let’s just focus on the important matters.”

Anna studied her sister for a moment longer before giving her a soft smile and rising from her seat.

“You know what? I think you should take the day off. I’ll go to the port and have lunch with Captain Bay.” She leaned in and kissed Elsa on the cheek. “Just get some rest, please.”

“There’s no need, Anna…” Elsa began to protest, but her sister was already heading toward the door.

“Kai,” Anna said as she stepped out, “don’t give Elsa too much to do today. I need her in good shape for our picnic tomorrow.”

Kai, who had remained respectfully silent during the exchange, bowed his head in acknowledgment.

“Of course, Princess Anna.”

Once Anna left the room, Kai returned to his formal stance, picking up where he had left off in his report.

“If I may continue, Your Majesty, you might be pleased to know that the preparations for the Christmas celebration…”

But Elsa wasn’t listening. Her mind betrayed her again, dragging her back to the library, to the way Hans had said her name, to the intensity of his lips on hers. The images were so vivid she could almost feel the weight of his hands on her back once more.

Finally, unable to bear it any longer, she interrupted Kai.

“I think we should remove Prince Hans from my service.”

Kai blinked, startled.

“Prince Hans, Your Majesty? May I ask why?”

Elsa hesitated, searching for the right words.

“I’ve noticed that… lately, he hasn’t been fulfilling his responsibilities as he should. He’s easily distracted, and… I’m not sure his presence is beneficial at the moment.”

Kai frowned slightly, clearly taken aback by the comment, but he nodded slowly.

“I see, Your Majesty. Is there something specific that has caused your dissatisfaction?”

Elsa turned her gaze to the window, avoiding Kai’s questioning eyes.

“There’s no need to go into details. I just think it would be better to assign him different tasks. Something more… physical. Perhaps working in the gardens or assisting with the repairs at the port.”

Kai tilted his head, still puzzled but too respectful to press further.

“As you wish, Your Majesty. I’ll see to it.”

Elsa nodded and wrapped her hands around her now lukewarm tea, her thoughts racing. She knew this was the right decision. What had happened that night in the library could never happen again.

She clenched her hands tighter around the cup as the weight of her emotions pressed on her. Allowing herself to feel even a shred of longing for Hans was dangerous—for her, for him, and for the kingdom.

Elsa had always prided herself on her self-control, her ability to put duty above personal desires. But in that one fleeting moment, she had faltered. She had crossed a line that could never be uncrossed, and she couldn’t let it happen again.

Hans would have to leave her presence. It was the only way to ensure that she didn’t repeat her mistake.

Her chest tightened painfully at the thought, but she forced herself to push it aside. She had made her decision. For her kingdom, for herself—and for Hans—it was better this way.

Hi, how are you all? Here’s this new story for you. For those who already follow me, you’ll probably notice that this is sort of a prequel to the Christmas story (The chime of a forgotten bell), where Hans and Elsa seemed to be hiding something that happened one night. Well, this is more or less what took place. I’m trying to connect the stories I’ve created, and I really hope you like it. I’d love to hear your thoughts! Feel free to leave your comments or even share any ideas for a future story. Thank you so much for your support, as always!

[scentedpepper]

Okok so I have this request that's technically lip x m!reader x Ian where lip and reader are in a relationship but Ian has had a crush on reader since he started hanging out with lip. And once they officially started dating, Ian was pretty much heart broken about it but reader is oblivious to it so they stay friends. Until the relationship starts to get rocky with them arguing all the time (as canon lip high key sucks at being in relationships) and it eventually leads to Ian comforting reader after a dramatic fight with lip and Ian confesses and maybe they kiss 🫶

Bar Fights and Candle Light

IAN GALLAGHER X MALE READER

Summary: You're flawed, but Ian will scream he loves you for it until he's blue in the face.

Content Warnings: Toxic relationship dynamics, reader has been cheated on, impulsiveness, poor attachment styles, sexual implications

Other Pairings: Lip Gallager x Male Reader

AUTHOR NOTE(S):

Hey Anon I'm ngl it's 4:30 in the morning rn

Much to my misfortune, I woke from my sleep at 2am and had an unbearable urge to finish this so lucky for you 🫶

This starting to look a little like a twilight scene..

Anyway, usual shameless stuff, lip is lip, reader is flawed to a determinate blah blah blah

Hope you enjoy 😛

---------------------------------------------------

Lip Gallagher held the kind of charm that reminded you of drunk bar fights and somehow, simultaneously, roses. The kind of trouble that ends with an eyebrow raise and the kind of kindness that gets you on your knees.

As much as you loved him, the man really had no sense of what loyalty was and instead seemed to revert to breaking the hearts of every girl he had ever slept with.

You knew such things well and your ogling from a distance soon became a thorne in your side that you wished to diminish.

You met Lip when he accidentally stumbled upon a gay pride rally. How he'd got there? You weren't entirely sure of those facts even now.

Four months after you'd befriended him and simultaneously, his red-headed brother, when you'd lost your dignity and, later, your boyfriend, Lip had looked at you with, if not genuine empathy, then interest.

"I know what will make you feel better. " He had urged, and you had just rolled your eyes and pressed your face further into the warm pillow.

You had just been cheated on, and nothing Lip could say would be as appealing as lying in the rundown springs of your mattress to inevitably– sink in with them.

However, the things he could do was a different story.

When you, in a half drunken state amongst the alibi a few days later, admitted to what had occurred in your bed the same night your boyfriend dumped you for a woman, of all people, Ian was –for some reason– under the assumption you would've rejected Lip's idea in entirety.

"Wait, " he laughed, his finger prodding the side of your ribcage until you were squirming with a wince, "you–really?"

And he could not believe his ears when you told him the truth of it.

Ian learned two things that night.

One, his brother had more flavoring within him than he otherwise assumed.

And two, no matter how much he tried to shove his affections for you, they only seemed to grow stronger.

Into the next months, however, where it was not entirely shocking, but rather, indescribably insufferable to Ian, you entered a very hot and heavy romance with a rather short and bitter soon-to-be-ending with his brother.

He was doomed.

He knew it from the moment the blush touched your cheeks and not your ears when you spoke of Lip.

And every second of it felt like searing hot daggers plunged and twisted into his stomach.

Ian wanted to resent you but everything you did, be it picking apart the little lies around his brother or, right down to the way your brow pinched in concentration when you played UNO, had Ian just adoring you more.

It was probably unhealthy how quickly he had fallen and you should've noticed the intensity of his stare.

But, nevertheless, your sight was akin to that of a bat.

And Ian cursed you for it.

What he also cursed you for was not understanding his pain.

Falling for the wrong person.

Sure, Lip was charming and deceptively gorgeous but he was as cold and disfigured as a snowman that seemed to melt no matter where he went.

Oh, and how you were the sun that shined down on him.

"You're just-! Fucking-!"

"What, Lip!? I'm fucking what!?"

The unsavory sound of the two of you came to Ian's ears on a Saturday morning.

Like a dog who's been kicked around, Ian reluctantly walks up the stairs with a heavy sigh and a headache already blooming within his skull.

Knowing you and his brother, he braces himself for the worst with a wince.

"For fucks sake!" Lips' voice pitches to an all time high when Ian removes the physical barrier of wood between he and the two of you, the first thing he sees being the redness of his brother's neck, and then the vein popping from it as he yells at you. "You're a real piece of work you know? Fucking selfish. "

"Oh–I'm selfish?"

Ah, and your voice, laced with salt and hurt, such a strange contrast from what he swore to be giggling 5 minutes ago.

"Lip.." he begins to warn, though if anyone catches the genuine concern within him, no one seems to bother notice.

"You are so fucking unbelievable, Lip! You realize what a fucking wreck you are, don't you?”

Ian's head spins with a stutter of thoughts.

He doesn't have the fortitude to beg this to stop nor the confidence to storm away.

His only options, and the ones he decided were best, was to wait until the dust cleared–the chances of things growing civil between the two of you was extremely high, when not fighting, you were an absolute sweetheart, however much you looked tough to be –but never once did Ian try to stop the arguments.

Because inside of him, the part that is far too gone for you, was vindictive and wickedly happy with the idea that you were growing discontented with his brother.

He knew –while guilty over the idea– it wouldn't make you easier to have.

"Youre too fucking clingy, Y/N! I can't breathe around you! I can't even stand to look at you sometimes, fuck!”

The pure, toxic rage spews forth from Lip's lips and Ian winces at the harshness of it.

He hated to see people yell like that.

You, however, were unrelenting as you shouted, like an echo through the house, the vicious noise came to him again.

And as you moved in pace, fists tight and feet steaming for the friction with the floor, Ian was in a comatose-like state and had no trouble tracking the beautiful anger you expelled.

"You fucking asshole!"

You started with a shove that sent Lip halfway across the room. There were tears springing from your eyes and the water glistened like stars.

When you shoved Lip again, his back hit the wall and while not very strong, was still heavy enough to make an ungodly thump.

Lip grabbed your forearms with a fierceness sure to burn through your bones, though everything within him was shattered, down, down, to the core of his heart.

Yet, all he could do was continue to yell obscenities right back into your face.

That is, until Ian had had enough.

The redhead stepped forward and finally yelled your name, much louder than he usually did.

Which was a bit horrifying and nerve-racking and every negative synonym to such an event.

He had to force himself in between the two of you to push you apart and without thinking, his palm smacked you square on the chest in an attempt to set you aside and there was barely a beat in between your hit to the floor and Lip's hands thrown around his shoulders.

"What the fuck is your problem, man?!" His elder brother seethes and Ian doesn't flinch.

"My problem?" He grinds and before Lip can let the flame singe him more, Ian shoves him off of him like it's nothing. "My fucking problem is the two of you. You can't keep yelling at each other like this, jesus. Grow the fuck up. "

If he hadn't seen the shame fill the space of where you both were only minutes ago, he might not have expected you to hang your head and break out crying.

"Oh, for fucks sake. " Was the exclamation of exasperation Lip gave to you, sighing angrily at the sight of you sobbing.

It made you cry harder, feeling betrayed by even his outburst.

Ian thought his lungs might explode.

"Hey-" Lip tried but when his hand came near you you were quick to smack it away.

Lip had made an attempt to further his explanation but you promptly cut him off with an ear shattering yell.

"Get out! Get the fuck out! I don't want to see you again you fucking piece of shit!"

The fiery look in his dark eyes contrasted awfully to your words of pure, burning red.

Hurt, is what he showed.

Broken, is what he felt.

"Fine. " He dared and your nostrils flared.

The door slammed shut not long after he finished, the sound leaving your eardrums ringing and your mind racing, filled to the brim with all the hatred you could possibly have for a single man.

The last emotion you thought you would have to battle, however, was empathy.

It was quiet.

With the tears still leaking from your face, your palms lifted to press against the spaces of your sockets and you hiccuped pathetically to no one.

No one except Ian who had slowly, after the initial shock had worn off, carefully inched his way across the floor towards you.

Right now, Ian held the kind of charm that reminds you of drunks that carry with them the very essence of a candle lit room and some kind of naiveté that was hard to put a finger on.

The kind of trouble that ends with the tightening of sheets and the kind of kindness that just breaks the dams.

He, unbeknownst to your knowledge, had learned how to treat you for a long time now.

He saw the way the plump of you lips tightened when Lip didn't make it home on time and didn't send word, the way the skin around you eyes grew darker when not sleeping in the same bed and the twitching of your hips when kissed anywhere less than suitable for a child.

From the comfort you sought within yourself and within your friends, to the tears shed all alone in your bathroom, Ian became quite versed in everything that made you, you.

"Hey, " the word comes out as soft as his heart feels and you don't move to acknowledge his presence. The sudden relief that sits beneath your skin has him gaping open with an ache pulling at his heart. "Hey, what did he say?"

You shake, maybe not violently, but enough for Ian's hands to move like magnets toward you.

They rest on the sides of your legs at first because that's where you're tucked, hiding and deserted. All alone in your cave as you try to collect the shattering pieces but all you feel is shame.

When Ian attempts to gather you closer, you fall apart and so he comes together.

"I'm sorry he's such an asshole. " He breathes into the side of your hair, rubbing his thumb along your back.

"He–" You hiccup, your body rising and falling again and again before you could get the sentence out. "He said he wasn't attracted to me. "

Ian thought he should vomit.

Or rip Lips cock clean from his body.

"He lied. " Ian insists and he wonders where that came from but when you sigh it's to shift and press your head down the top of his shoulder. His fingers run along the bones of your spine as he ponders for a moment.

"You're fucking hot, Y/N. " Is the next thing he says, hoping to encourage the confidence, but what takes over Ian when he sees the blush form so fast on your neck, is the absolute need to impress you with his tongue.

"Yeah?" Your tone isn't flirty or surprised, rather, exhausted, in need of someone who's not belittling you.

It's everything Ian is and feels.

You laugh softly next, but it feels sarcastic and cynical.

"Everyones attracted to you. " He tells you then and lets the gentle thumping of his chest bring you to solace. "Even me. "

His statement gives the impression of an abnormality.

Your heartbeat halts its rapid state and Ian tries not to flush when the thought of an engagement or invite forms illustrate inside his head; all from an accidental confession.

You, none the wiser, have the audacity to open your eyes and look up at him from beneath your lashes.

When you see him, he seems as though he himself is an extension of a person made of every emotion there is that you haven't learnt how to properly decipher, yet somehow, you felt connected to him for it.

"You're nice. " You say it like there's a small child in front of you, too young to understand you, too old not to want to speak to you.

Your voice is small and the sound it makes is akin to that of a mouse.

While it amazes Ian and has a great hold on his heart, he also knows you've only used the simplest way to describe his softness.

He stares back at you, frozen in a way he can't describe, his heart hammering like he's been told to run a mile and been given nothing but the anticipation of knowing it was, in fact, coming.

When he cups your jaw, the gesture is out of place for two friends, certainly, though your eyes close, serene.

You did not take his statement to heart.

But he meant it with all of his.

As usual, Ian was drowning.

Into another night of contemplating the intricacies of his next move and of the next possible one itself.

Because, without context, it appeared his brother had left him with his ex, sitting alone together, and would probably be fucking the living daylights out of any girl he could get a grasp on.

Lip had a poor source of regulating his emotions.

But so did you.

However, more than just the want to steal you away as his own, Ian felt the need to help you.

The kind of want that hurts like starvation.

‘You okay?’

Was the thing you'd often say to Ian before slipping into bed beside Lip and watching him slink from room to room.

Back and forth in a weird paranoia and an annoying kind of behavior that you couldn't quite put your finger on.

Every time you asked, however, he was adamant on not opening his mouth for anything but a yes.

And you stared at him strangely, the same way you were now.

Again, Ian's lips parted for just one word.

"What?" He asked with a sort of soft laugh that felt like you were a leaf spinning gracefully in the wind across a green, fruitful park.

"You're sort of beautiful. " You told him, without 2nd thought, and Ian jolted.

"Ha. " He laughed –or at least breathed it in a laughing manner, if the strain against his lungs was of any significance– and the warmth was instant.

"Thanks.."

Ian knew.

And you were unaware, but you knew, too.

"He doesn't deserve you, Y/N. "

With every inch of his body aching to scream a declaration, what it resulted in instead was a calm sincerity with an earnest kind of gleam in his eye.

"I know. " You spoke it as a whisper, like it was forbidden and someone would have your head for it. But Ian's reassurance is enough to allow your shoulders to slump as they give out under the weight of the world.

Like Atlas, who caved at the sight of eternity, you feel it too.

Feels as though he were holding up, not the moon, not the stars, not the sun, not the planets, not the earth.

But you.

"Ian. " You said it, ghostly.

A call, something dark and heavy inside of you, the kind of dense which reminds you of death, rising and falling, beckoning you in a way that could only end poorly for yourself and any other life you might choose to cherish.

"Yes.." Ian acknowledged, more a breath against your skin than actual words from his heart.

"Kiss me. "

You didn't allow him the patience for one extra second.

Reaching up, you captured Ians lips with a simple tilt of his head, kissing him like it was the last time you ever would.

There was an odd feeling resonating within you.

One that said, this will most definitely not end well, it was the kind of thing you never seemed to listen to, even before, with the way you treated life like it were the ocean and you were trying to find Atlantis.

Like that, Ian became the kind of addict you held.

It started with the gentle way he kissed, his hands running small tracks down the curve of your cheeks and even smaller ones down the line of your jaw.

"What is this?" He managed to whisper between his lips that began to overtake yours, the glide smooth and succulent.

You don't know the words to respond.

Ian is no fool.

But for you, he resigns the right to be.

And he's kissing you like you're made of sugar and honey and he's been starving in a desert for days. The craving is hard to sate when it's been long fulfilled, the love never gone, the want and desire still constant.

How can this be so wrong? You can't even register the thought because it feels so delicious.

Maybe when one door closes, another opens, but neither was meant to be swung with a latch.

Maybe this is wrong; his conscience tugs, but he doesn't care.

You both ascend, but it's pure teenage stupidity that you enter this together, a high reaching just below the clouds, and you couldn't see past his eyes.

Couldn't see further than the feelings and the affections he gives you; that Lip had somehow left so much that Ian could easily fill up the vacancy.

Fill it so well that, this, all of this, is alright.

Just for now.