#experienced traders

[thebestforexeas]

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[rosykims]

i genuinely love love love the iconoclast path in rogue trader SO MUCH. its one of the things that ultimately enamors me to the warhammer franchise as a whole despite empathy being so antithetical to its world and genre. its not just because iconoclast is the Nice Person route or because it subverts the foundational principle that In The Grim Dark Universe There Is Only War............ but mostly i love it because its the best way to actually engage w the morality system presented in 40k and explore it the way it deserves to be explored. its so unique parsing through the choices of the game and navigating how one might actually ACHIEVE goodness through - or more accurately without - the lens of liberal modern morality. because adhering to what we presently would call morality is arguably crueler than some of the dogmatic choices - or at least the game wants you to reflect on that and decide if that kind of morality still has value or not. and i like that they give you the opportunity to do that. youre rarely rewarded for kindness in this game and in fact your oftentimes actively punished for it (void shadows was a TRIAL for my iconoclast rt) which presents another question: are you being good because of a reward you believe you'lll be entitled to, or are you being good for the sake of goodness itself??? in saying that i do LOVE how there IS payoff in the iconoclast route eventually - when youve bleed and suffered for it enough. but theres a quality to it thats so..... so BITTERSWEET, because yippee you Empathed your way to the top - but also what IS the top?? congratulations, you are the kindest autocrat in the most bloodthirsty fascist regime in human history, sitting on your throne on a voidship run by all your slaves and serfs who die by the hundreds every time you make a warpjump for some dumbass sidequest. what the fuck. can you actually call that goodness ????? is whatever goodness-adjacent thing youve achieved worth it even if you cant change the system in the ways that matter ??? lastly - the iconoclast ending is both so wildly universe-altering to the point of feeling like a heretical ending - but also kind of. not mattering really lol. because even though its hopeful, the "good" ending still feels soooo tentative with the likelihood that its very likely not going to last. but that in itself is my favorite take away from playing this game as The Last Good Guy in the Galaxy: because the love DIDNT change anything. and it DOESNT save anyone. but ohhhhhhhhh my fucking god does it absolutely matter that it was there.

[chronurgy]

Something I'm enjoying so far about rogue trader is that it takes the world deadly seriously. The inquisition fights heretics and evil aliens and those things are real and horrible but they also abuse their power. They aren't cackling villains who do things for the sake of evil, they believe it all. You believe it all too, because you've seen it. But that power is also abused, sometimes intentionally, sometimes not. There are no angels. Just people attempting to claw their way through a brutal, unforgiving universe.

[valiant-if]

i really enjoy how my necromancer summons despawning leaves a mess next to my bed every morning

Baldur's Gate 3 screenshot below content warning: blood, just in case

[sophiamcdougall]

You're a reasonably informed person on the internet. You've experienced things like no longer being able to get files off an old storage device, media you've downloaded suddenly going poof, sites and forums with troves full of people's thoughts and ideas vanishing forever. You've heard of cybercrime. You've read articles about lost media. You have at least a basic understanding that digital data is vulnerable, is what I'm saying. I'm guessing that you're also aware that history is, you know... important? And that it's an ongoing study, requiring ... data about how people live? And that it's not just about stanning celebrities that happen to be dead? Congratulations, you are significantly better-informed than the British government! So they're currently like "Oh hai can we destroy all these historical documents pls? To save money? Because we'll digitise them first so it's fine! That'll be easy, cheap and reliable -- right? These wills from the 1850s will totally be fine for another 170 years as a PNG or whatever, yeah? We didn't need to do an impact assesment about this because it's clearly win-win! We'd keep the physical wills of Famous People™ though because Famous People™ actually matter, unlike you plebs. We don't think there are any equalities implications about this, either! Also the only examples of Famous People™ we can think of are all white and rich, only one is a woman and she got famous because of the guy she married. Kisses!"

Yes, this is the same Government that's like "Oh no removing a statue of slave trader is erasing history :(" You have, however, until 23 February 2024 to politely inquire of them what the fuck they are smoking. And they will have to publish a summary of the responses they receive. And it will look kind of bad if the feedback is well-argued, informative and overwhelmingly negative and they go ahead and do it anyway. I currently edit documents including responses to consultations like (but significantly less insane) than this one. Responses do actually matter. I would particularly encourage British people/people based in the UK to do this, but as far as I can see it doesn't say you have to be either. If you are, say, a historian or an archivist, or someone who specialises in digital data do say so and draw on your expertise in your answers. This isn't a question of filling out a form. You have to manually compose an email answering the 12 questions in the consultation paper at the link above. I'll put my own answers under the fold. Note -- I never know if I'm being too rude in these sorts of things. You probably shouldn't be ruder than I have been.

Please do not copy and paste any of this: that would defeat the purpose. This isn't a petition, they need to see a range of individual responses. But it may give you a jumping-off point.

Question 1: Should the current law providing for the inspection of wills be preserved?

Yes. Our ability to understand our shared past is a fundamental aspect of our heritage. It is not possible for any authority to know in advance what future insights they are supporting or impeding by their treatment of material evidence. Safeguarding the historical record for future generations should be considered an extremely important duty.

Question 2: Are there any reforms you would suggest to the current law enabling wills to be inspected?

No.

Question 3: Are there any reasons why the High Court should store original paper will documents on a permanent basis, as opposed to just retaining a digitised copy of that material?

Yes. I am amazed that the recent cyber attack on the British Library, which has effectively paralysed it completely, not been sufficient to answer this question for you.  I also refer you to the fate of the Domesday Project. Digital storage is useful and can help more people access information; however, it is also inherently fragile. Malice, accident, or eventual inevitable obsolescence not merely might occur, but absolutely should be expected. It is ludicrously naive and reflects a truly unpardonable ignorance to assume that information preserved only in digital form is somehow inviolable and safe, or that a physical document once digitised, never need be digitised again..At absolute minimum, it should be understood as certain that at least some of any digital-only archive will eventually be permanently lost. It is not remotely implausible that all of it would be. Preserving the physical documents provides a crucial failsafe. It also allows any errors in reproduction -- also inevitable-- to be, eventually, seen and corrected. Note that maintaining, upgrading and replacing digital infrastructure is not free, easy or reliable. Over the long term, risks to the data concerned can only accumulate.

"Unlike the methods for preserving analog documents that have been honed over millennia, there is no deep precedence to look to regarding the management of digital records. As such, the processing, long-term storage, and distribution potential of archival digital data are highly unresolved issues. [..] the more digital data is migrated, translated, and re-compressed into new formats, the more room there is for information to be lost, be it at the microbit-level of preservation. Any failure to contend with the instability of digital storage mediums, hardware obsolescence, and software obsolescence thus meets a terminal end—the definitive loss of information. The common belief that digital data is safe so long as it is backed up according to the 3-2-1 rule (3 copies on 2 different formats with 1 copy saved off site) belies the fact that it is fundamentally unclear how long digital information can or will remain intact. What is certain is that its unique vulnerabilities do become more pertinent with age."  -- James Boyda, On Loss in the 21st Century: Digital Decay and the Archive, Introduction.

Question 4: Do you agree that after a certain time original paper documents (from 1858 onwards) may be destroyed (other than for famous individuals)? Are there any alternatives, involving the public or private sector, you can suggest to their being destroyed?

Absolutely not. And I would have hoped we were past the "great man" theory of history. Firstly, you do not know which figures will still be considered "famous" in the future and which currently obscure individuals may deserve and eventually receive greater attention. I note that of the three figures you mention here as notable enough to have their wills preserved, all are white, the majority are male (the one woman having achieved fame through marriage) and all were wealthy at the time of their death. Any such approach will certainly cull evidence of the lives of women, people of colour and the poor from the historical record, and send a clear message about whose lives you consider worth remembering.

Secondly, the famous and successsful are only a small part of our history. Understanding the realities that shaped our past and continue to mould our present requires evidence of the lives of so-called "ordinary people"!

Did you even speak to any historians before coming up with this idea?

Entrusting the documents to the private sector would be similarly disastrous. What happens when a private company goes bust or decides that preserving this material is no longer profitable? What reasonable person, confronted with our crumbling privatised water infrastructure, would willingly consign any part of our heritage to a similar fate?

Question 5: Do you agree that there is equivalence between paper and digital copies of wills so that the ECA 2000 can be used?

No. And it raises serious questions about the skill and knowledge base within HMCTS and the government that the very basic concepts of data loss and the digital dark age appear to be unknown to you. I also refer you to the Domesday Project.

Question 6: Are there any other matters directly related to the retention of digital or paper wills that are not covered by the proposed exercise of the powers in the ECA 2000 that you consider are necessary?

Destroying the physical documents will always be an unforgivable dereliction of legal and moral duty.

Question 7: If the Government pursues preserving permanently only a digital copy of a will document, should it seek to reform the primary legislation by introducing a Bill or do so under the ECA 2000?

Destroying the physical documents will always be an unforgivable dereliction of legal and moral duty.

Question 8: If the Government moves to digital only copies of original will documents, what do you think the retention period for the original paper wills should be? Please give reasons and state what you believe the minimum retention period should be and whether you consider the Government’s suggestion of 25 years to be reasonable.

There is no good version of this plan. The physical documents should be preserved.

Question 9: Do you agree with the principle that wills of famous people should be preserved in the original paper form for historic interest?

This question betrays deep ignorance of what "historic interest" actually is. The study of history is not simply glorified celebrity gossip. If anything, the physical wills of currently famous people could be considered more expendable as it is likely that their contents are so widely diffused as to be relatively "safe", whereas the wills of so-called "ordinary people" will, especially in aggregate, provide insights that have not yet been explored.

Question 10: Do you have any initial suggestions on the criteria which should be adopted for identifying famous/historic figures whose original paper will document should be preserved permanently?

Abandon this entire lamentable plan. As previously discussed, you do not and cannot know who will be considered "famous" in the future, and fame is a profoundly flawed criterion of historical significance.

Question 11: Do you agree that the Probate Registries should only permanently retain wills and codicils from the documents submitted in support of a probate application? Please explain, if setting out the case for retention of any other documents.

No, all the documents should be preserved indefinitely.

Question 12: Do you agree that we have correctly identified the range and extent of the equalities impacts under each of these proposals set out in this consultation? Please give reasons and supply evidence of further equalities impacts as appropriate.

No. You appear to have neglected equalities impacts entirely. As discussed, in your drive to prioritise "famous people", your plan will certainly prioritise the white, wealthy and mostly the male, as your "Charles Dickens, Charles Darwin and Princess Diana" examples amply indicate. This plan will create a two-tier system where evidence of the lives of the privileged is carefully preserved while information regarding people of colour, women, the working class and other disadvantaged groups is disproportionately abandoned to digital decay and eventual loss. Current and future historians from, or specialising in the history of minority groups will be especially impoverished by this.  

[stockexperttrading]

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[coinbasetradingguide]

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[furryrun]

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[hyenamurena]

BEHOLD! My xeno-OC's! <з

(and sorry for my bad eng)

Osytanis

The howling Banshee from the Shrine of Weeping Bones. Shortly after the events of Rogue Trader, she will join the ynnari.

For hundreds of years, Osytanis traveled the galaxy, honing her skills and exploring the world around her. On her long journey, she saw death and the birth of stars passing by, dispelling the darkness for a brief moment before being swallowed up by it again. The interconnectedness of all things was becoming more and more clearly felt, the threads of fate intertwining every living being in the universe were becoming stronger.

Her age is "stopped counting after the first thousand."

She has experienced many roles and paths. Each new role did not completely replace the previous one, but simply added to the accumulated experience of Osytanis. Going through these various roles, she explored many aspects of her own character. At her current age, Osytanis has already experienced many different roles and achieved a complex understanding of the universe.

Osytanis professes the ideology of forcible imposition, has an over-the-top conceit, she's an asshole of the 80 lvl and an insufferable old goat. But at the same time, she is no stranger to the concepts of politeness - she will not be rude to people just to show that she is a bitch, she knows how to say hello, she knows how to say "thank you" and "please", and in some moments she can even be quite an attentive and responsive ally. She does not touch children and she is no stranger to heroic impulses. It is more pleasant for her to solve conflicts in peace than to fight, because if she has to fight, she will not stand on ceremony.

Arzokith

How good is Arzokith? The best of the best.

Arzokith was born artificially, one of hundreds of equally Dark Ones. And just as early, he realized that he wanted something more, and, most importantly, that he deserved more. With hard and persistent work, he made his way to the cherished Obsidian temple. So, already in the first raids, he managed to prove himself as a skilled, lightning-fast and resourceful killer. The success of missions was snatched away by his clawed hand, and after several centuries he finally decided that he was ready to become an incubus. The very fact that he has endured extremely difficult and grueling training says a lot about the essence of Arzokith.

Now, not a single living soul knows about his past, before becoming an incubus. And won't know. Never.

Arzokith is endowed with serpentine grace, and in his every gesture, in every movement, there is the purest impulse to violence. With his whole appearance, he radiates danger and inspires primal animal horror.

Despite his more than dubious and formidable reputation, Arzokith himself is generally quite pleasant to interact with. He is much more cool-headed and calm, and rather resembles a kind of bloody monk.

AND THESE TWO, WELL-

Arzokith has been associated with Osytanis for thousands of years. They cooperate, then they fight, then they help each other, then they fight furiously again. She can't help but single him out and respect him for actually keeping his words and promises. Every time Osytanis and Arzokith managed to cooperate, he mercilessly tried to mock her to death. It took a while for such flirting jokes to give way to mutual sympathy, and then strong love. They were able to open their hearts to each other and finally intertwine their destinies and hearts only 160 years after the events of Rogue Trader, during the active events of the Thirteenth Black Crusade.

Once he stabbed her with a sword and almost tore out her guts, but she managed to tactically retreat. With a sword in his belly. And the next time they met, she cut through his helmet with this sword and almost pierced his skull, and then he tactically retreated. And when they had to work together on the same side… then he mercilessly trolled her, and she almost cut off his face. With that, they had a tactical sex. For the first time.

Neither Osytanis nor Arzokith took each other seriously for a very long time. Rather, as a temporary hobby, a source of entertainment and to "let off steam" when the opportunity arises.

Both Osytanis and Arzokith are warriors who live only to kill. Almost immediately after the meeting, they realized that we were made for each other, but there is… circumstances. They swear with abandon, then they fuck with abandon. Their favorite steps are dancing on each other's nerves. They compete in venomous jokes at every meeting. In a simple way, their relationship can be described by the saying: "it's bad apart, it's close together." In fact, these two just adore each other, yes, they are literally one Satan.

However, their relationship does not stop Arzokith from having multiple sexual relations on the side. Osytanis doesn't mind. Sex is not so important to them, there is a completely different level of connection between them.

[serpentface]

The (now extinct) utosai, the last of the great lacetors.

Lacetors are a clade of warmblooded reptiles that fill niches as large grazers. The only genera surviving in the contemporary are relatively small (averaging about the size of cattle), but many older species grew bigger than elephants. Utosai were the last remaining members of this branch, dwindling towards extinction as their once vast grasslands experienced rapid desertification over a period of a mere few millenia, becoming the massive, mostly uninhabitable desert region colloquially known as the Deadlands.

They would historically live in herds consisting of one male, several (sometimes dozens of) females, and their associated young, which would migrate vast distances to follow seasonal rains. Males would fight each other to gain control of their mates or tempt away singular females, with young males roaming in bachelor herds. As reliable grasslands grew sparser, these herds grew much smaller, with the last remaining utosai being found largely as small bands of females and lone, wandering males that would opportunistically mate when they were lucky enough to find each other.

Utosai had very thick scaly skin that folds in plates, in part a vestigial defense mechanism against large predators that had LONG vanished. Like many other lacetor, they had partly bony facial pads that grew large and colorful in males as display features. Their tremendous curving horns served predominantly as additional display features, while the smaller, jutting horns partly figured into intraspecies combat, with males standing side by side and front to back and swinging these horns at each other in ritualized combat behavior.

These horns were clearly of value to the people who once inhabited the same ranges as utosai, as their ivory figured heavily into their craftwork and holy objects and can be found near-ubiquitously in the burials of high ranking people in the east interior Deadlands. These surviving utosai ivory artifacts are of tremendous value, with the mere prospect of obtaining them tempting many graverobbers and other such wealth-seekers into the remains of ancient human settlements (a mostly futile and often deadly task, most accessible tombs have already been plundered and those still left in peace are hidden deeply beneath the sands).

Utosai lasted far longer than many of their counterparts, surviving on (and trapped within) dwindling patches of coastal grassland fed by ocean rains, too isolated within stretches of desert for any chance of migration to grasslands further from the equator. These last fragmentary populations were discovered by traders and treasure seekers sponsored by the early 2nd Burri empire, with many hatchling utosai being taken back overseas hundreds of miles north. It is unknown when the last wild utosai died, but all but the tiniest fragments of their coastal grasslands are gone and the great beasts are nowhere to be found.

The captive animals were bred in Bur and eventually produced a relatively large (and heavily inbred) population, probably maxing out at around 1000 individuals. They were never truly domesticated but could be made tame and well accommodated to handling, which eventually developed into their use as mounts, forming an elite cavalry unit used in warfare. A war utosai was outfitted with a shielded tower upon its back from which archers could fire from height, and would be driven by a rider on its neck. Their use was functionally similar to irl war elephants, being utilized for intimidation, to scatter enemy formations, and to lead (or break) charges. These were the largest animals that most people would have ever seen, and were often reckoned as nigh-invulnerable. The utosai was heavily used in Bur's wars of conquest, and became an esteemed animal emblematic of the second Burri empire's might.

Very few consistently effective counters to the war utosai were discovered during the duration of their use. One very famous, very successful counter was used by the pre-Wardi Ephenni tribe in its war of independence against the second Burri empire (which was already beginning to collapse). The province of Ephennos was of key import to the empire as a breadbasket, being highly fertile lands and providing much of the grain that sustained the empire. A cavalry of ten utosai (a VERY excessive number against a less well-trained, less well-armed group of soldiers) was brought overseas to assist in crushing dissent and were devastating in battle, with only two of the ten being killed in three years of protracted warfare.

In an act of cleverness, desperation, or both, a trio of khait were covered in pitch and set ablaze, and spurred into hurtling towards the bulls in the utosai cavalry. The utosai panicked and fled, trampling many Burri soldiers in the process and utterly destroying their formations, with three of the eight utosai falling onto their sides (weighed down by their towers) and killed by Ephenni soldiers. This allowed for victory in battle, and this victory ultimately turned the tide in favor of the kingdom of Ephennos and its eventual independence. A motif of three khait wreathed in flames is still widely used in this region and as emblematic of Ephenni heritage (who, while broadly assimilated into Wardi nationality, still retain a sense of individual identity, and pride in their city-state being a center of power and birthplace of kings within Imperial Wardin).

The use of utosai in warfare dwindled after the discovery of this fairly effective counter. They were no longer reckoned as nearly invulnerable, and the great cost of transporting and feeding these animals became increasingly inviable. Captive breeding began to dwindle along with their use in warfare. The last utosai were lost, killed, or slowly died off in the Burri wilderness during and after the empire's tumultuous collapse. Some folklore describes hidden populations surviving in some wilder areas- there are several places in Bur where people claim to sometimes see the silhouettes of these great beasts against the horizon, and the rural parts of Ephennos are rumored to have a few of them (perhaps descendants of the surviving war utosai, perhaps their ghosts). Otherwise, they are lost to the world.

[thethief1996]

As some of you might know, me and Misha @quicksillver are organizing a raffle to raise funds for @shahednhall's campaign to evacuate Gaza. These are the last two days to enter. If you haven't donated or shared yet, I urge you to. I really hope we can make a dent in her goal.

To those of you who don't know Shahed yet, she is a 21 year old college student from Gaza. The weight of evacuating her family from the genocide is entirely on her back and takes its toll on her. Her goal, as she explains on her GoFundMe, covers the evacuation of her parents, siblings and nephews as well as war traders' explotive fees (which made her raise the goal from 50k to 80k).

With the prospect of the Rafah border opening soon, Shahed decided that, if she doesn't meet her goal, she will stay behind and evacuate first her two little sisters, who suffer from severe hepatitis, and her father, who's a heart patient. It's such a hard decision to make at 21 and it haunts me everyday, especially knowing that she's barely escaped death at the hands of the IDF twice in the past month. I ask for your help to keep it from coming true. I truly believe we can reach her goal and no one will stay behind. She raised over 20k in the past two weeks. If 20 people donate $10, we match her most expressive donation from yesterday.

$10. That's R$ 56,16. That's C$ 13.86. That's €9.24. If you can spare that money, please do.

[richarlotte]

Relationship Tip?

You need to have interests that others can interact with.

I’m about as serious as a heart attack about this one. Having an interest that others can, and want to, interact with is important. It’ll help you make and keep friends, start relationships, meet new people, and provide you with a lively social life. People love interacting with other people, they love meeting and spending time with new friends, they love getting to know people through activities, and they love experiencing something new and then doing it again with the same faces or a new crowd.

What I’m saying is that you need to have an interest others can interact with. If you go on a date, mention you love sports, and then proceed to sit there and endlessly drone about baseball or whatever for two hours, you’ll find that the person you’re with probably won’t be as interested as you’d like them to be. But if you plan a date around sitting at a game, you talk about the sport, you have a great time, and you focus on getting to know someone through your interest, it’ll go over much better.

I love cooking, and I love to cook for people. Oftentimes, I’ll plan out recipes that are obviously much more complicated and detailed than my friends want to create with me, and so I go out of my way to plan easy nights that we can all have fun doing. We had an amazing time making Trader Joe’s pizzas the other night; we used the dough they have, and I had a selection of different individual set out. There was no stress involved, and everyone wants to do it again soon. Everyone had a good time, and it didn’t end up being an episode of The Bear or Kitchen Nightmares.

It’s okay to have one-sided interests, but you have to be eager and willing to share your other interests with people. Love blossoms when life is shared; people learn to love you through what you enjoy, and there’s so much to do and share in this world. If you’re not using what you love to make connections, you’re missing out on all the lives that you could be experiencing. Learn how to share yourself with people and don’t be afraid to introduce them to the things that you love; people who are true friends will want to get to know you and see how you live life; they won’t ridicule you or make you feel like you don’t have a place with them.

You have to be willing to open up, share yourself, and connect with people.

[theconstitutionisgayculture]

it's comically obvious that none of the people going "slavery = white history, surviving it = black history" have any idea what the etymology of the word "slave" is. it's derived from the Slavic peoples of eastern Europe because of how often they were enslaved. y'know, ones that are EXTREMELY WHITE and were enslaved by, among others, Muslim slave traders. so much for the "evil white people vs innocent POC" framing; turns out people of every skin color have both done and experienced awful things.

Just more woke bullshit so black supremacists and their supporters can excuse their own hatred and racism. History and reality prove wokeness wrong every time.

[nagarashi]

Well... I didn't think it would ever happen, but Rouge Trader somehow managed it.

(Some thoughts on Heinrix's romance... Lots of words.)

Going through the game I was highly impressed by the emotions I experienced. Especially the romances in the game. I never thought that I would like a character like Heinrix so much that I would go out of my way to be a Heretic for him. The unexpected and strong sympathy for him in general was a real surprise for me, as I like assholes like Marazhai (even though he turned out to be a romantic at the end).

But master interrogator, God, I was so impressed by him. He's a real knight, literally and figuratively. He says he wants to protect you, and he can do it, but the funny thing is that he makes you want to protect him so badly.

His romance is very tart and tender. And maybe it's just me, but there's something so elusively grim about it.....

Heinrix is a master of torture and it's very symbolic that in his romance with him, this very tenderness acts as a kind of torture weapon in Heinrix's hands for both of you, whether he realises it or not.

He doesn't reciprocate you sufficiently for a long time and at the same time doesn't give you a categorical refusal, constantly forcing von Valancius to smash against the wall of his commitment to duty, but then to start looking for a breach in it again. One can imagine how emotionally draining that can be. Intentionally or not, he gives you hope and at the same time takes it away time after time.

But I'm also quite willing to concede that Calcazar's interference is probably to blame. I'm sure that on his first visit to Footfall, Heinrix reported that RT was taking a strange interest in him. If I were the Lord Inquisitor, I would certainly take advantage of that to keep my agent as close to RT as possible, from where more can be heard and seen.... In bed. Ideally.

And Calcazar definitely knew about their "relationship" already at the time of Act 2, which is evident in his ambiguous words "don't forget you have an Inquisition agent in your bed", wanting to demonize Heinrix in the eyes of von Valancius, so that she stops trusting Heinrix, suspecting that all his feelings are nothing but lies, as well as stories about his sad past. Probably Calcazar began to realize that he was slipping out of his grip and decided to give up this pawn and undermine her trust at the same time.

The game unfortunately never explicitly stated this (I was hoping it would be, to be honest), but I think this sort of thing happened. The game is open to interpretation here....

In any case, the Lord Inquisitor's words become one more drop in Heinrix's already shaken psyche, which becomes especially noticeable further on...

Speaking of his mental state.

There's no mental health to speak of... It's hard to stay without "scars" when you've literally become the black sheep of the family. And the people you loved become strangers, cutting you out of their lives as if you never existed.... and now they'd be glad you didn't. You're no longer a person, but a stain on their family name that they want to wipe away. They mutilate you by stripping you of your implants, literally tearing out pieces of you, as if you were not a living being, but an unnecessary thing with useful screws. Seems to me, though, that Heinrix wasn't particularly loved as it was, considering he was nearly executed for simple childish stupidity.

After such shocks at a young age, it is hard to keep any faith in yourself (or anyone else). Obviously, this created an incredible vacuum inside, which Heinrix could not fill in any way and with anything. And even though he had grown up and lived for many years, there was still that unloved boy inside of him who longed for love (which again is seen further on). The problem with something like this is that over the years such problems get worse and can often take on a rather unhealthy form without proper treatment. To top it all off, this creates a terrible contradiction inside, in which Heinrix subconsciously desires to be loved, but this desire is constantly suppressed by a multitude of factors... His work, his firm belief that he's a mistake and doesn't deserve love, that he's dangerous because he's a psyker. Speaking of work... Given his craft, it's also safe to assume that part of his humanity was sacrificed long ago, in a sense it "turned him off".

Heinrix constantly lives in control of everything around him and himself first and foremost. It also drains a man psychologically and physically over time.

And now imagine that in the life of such a person suddenly appears someone who looked at him not as a terrible agent of the Golden Throne and not even as a psyker, but as a living person with feelings, with whom you can not just satisfy your needs, but feel something more.... A person who is attracted to you not because she finds you beautiful, but because it's you. She wants to spend time with you, talk to you, literally always happy to see you, want to touch and hold your hand, say kind words, listen to you, wants to... care for you, love you.

Heinrix, as a man who has been deprived of such things for years for his own reasons and the reasons of those around him (well, who in their right mind would want a serious relationship with an inquisitor?) this sudden attitude must be like.... a sudden downpour in a desert where it never rained!

One could only guess how it disarrayed and further brought discord inward as he saw that RT had no thought of stopping, and he had to fight himself, fight for his control, which was slowly beginning to surrender...

This was something completely new, something he wasn't ready for, but had always wanted...

The fatal step is Commorragh, the place where everything starts to go wrong.

Nothing like death to motivate. Heinrix will try to keep the line between himself and Von Valancius, but if she's a little harder, then...the interrogator will surprisingly easily throw off the muzzle and personally erase the last line that separated you from each other.

After that everything changes, Heinrix is no longer willing to hold back his desire for RT, because he has now tasted it like a wolf tasting its first blood. Whereas before he would have done anything to end it, even if RT hated him, now, you can hear how weak his voice is when he expresses doubt that RT would want to continue the relationship.... and the hot relief in his voice when she agrees to continue. You can now easily hear the change in his tone when addressing his beloved. It's obvious, of course. But how his rhetoric has also changed. There's a special adoration for her in his voice and words. It's such a contrast to the Heinrix we knew before the Commorragh. It's like he's been replaced... He says that he often thinks of her, how he is ready to neglect business in order to be with her for a while longer, revels in the thought of her touch and her beauty....

And then there's that date where he suddenly starts saying again that they can't have a future together. He says this to the woman he's asked to continue their relationship this time. What is this? Suddenly sobering up, or...  just a boy who wants to feel his beloved beating for his heart again, wanting to give him her love? Wanted to hear the words of how she wanted to be with him against all, again, one more time so that he could reward her with his closeness? Hmm...

Yes, I'm suggesting that he may well have used manipulation. Whether consciously or not, it's harder to know.

Now, with that assumption, let's remember the Freeze scene.

This scene also shows the full extent of Calcazar's influence, which may have caused RT to doubt the genuineness of Heinrix's feelings. Combined with everything that has already happened in the story, Heinrix simply has a breakdown, he finally loses what remnants of control he still had, his life literally falling apart in his hands because of everything he has learnt.... and now von Valancius, what if now she's doubting him? What is there to go back to now? How can he show how much he cares for her, how much he needs her.....

Heinrix literally comes to RT to kill himself in front of her. She needs to see how much he needs her help. He wants to be saved by her hands.... Unconscious manipulation? Maybe. A scream for help? More than that. An attempt to prove that all his feelings are true and she has nothing to worry about? Definitely. But if there's nothing to worry about, why does his "forever" sound so creepy? ..... ?

Yeah, after RT gets involved, Heinrix does something crazy.... He declares he's quitting the Inquisition, he's not afraid of the consequences... any of the possible consequences. He has literally become blind to everything except his desire to be with RT. He even ignores her concerns.

Heinrix, at this point, is more than ever like a man who has never tasted alcohol in his life and then once tasted it became a hopeless alcoholic. He's intoxicated with a feeling he's never known before, the vacuum that was inside him turned into a bottomless void that devoured more and wanted more, craving that euphoric feeling of being wanted and loved.

And when he says they're gonna be together forever. it sounds like a real unhealthy obsession, because the Heinrix we knew never said anything like that. Or maybe he's just always been like this and finally got to show the real him? He accepts his "new" self - a heretic and an oath-breaker - extremely calmly. Even with some irony in his voice, as if he always knew it would happen and just waited... It's impossible to just forget about whole decades of his past life so indifferently.

And he never once asks if RT even wants that forever? He always puts her in front of a fact that she only has to accept... whether it's him leaving the Inquisition or wanting to always be by her side, whether she wants it or not.

.... or not.

Yes, RT could break up with Heinrix and then we might hear from Idira that something is wrong with Heinrix, the voices tell her that something frighteningly monstrous is going on in his head that has never happened to him before. So you wonder what's going on in his head..... Maybe he's thinking about trying to kill himself again or... bring her back by force? By brute force or using his position in the Inquisition? There's no way to guess...

Not to mention the responsibility he puts on RT, because he gave up his past life for her and she wouldn't let him kill himself. We're responsible for those we tame, aren't we?

It's like he's thrown more shackles on her....

Even in the epilogue in which he becomes the Master of Whispers, the fact that he is always there for RT is emphasised. Not about what happened with them then, after the end of the story, not about whether he became part of the dynasty by becoming RT's companion or anything else, but again the emphasis on his desire to be with her, reminding of his "forever".

You know, there's a song one "Mir allein" by Subway to Sally, Heinrix has a good chance of being a character in that song.

It's funny, but if you think about it that way, Marazhai seems even healthier to me than Heinrix XD

I'm sure it's all just my speculations and everything is much simpler) But if it's not, then.... I will only love Heinrix more as a character, because hiding something dark under the wrapper of a knightly romance, that's what I love.

... ... and I still love him :D

[ryolina]

Chapter 4. The Tournament and The Death of the Queen

Pairing with Daemon Targaryen

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Sumarry: The tournament held simultaneously with Queen Emma giving birth ended in the absolute loss of the Targaryens. Apparently, the terrible event last night gave a bad omen that went unnoticed by anyone. The prince's defeat in a one-on-one duel with a poor knight whose family name was unknown to anyone. until the loss due to a difficult birth caused the death of the queen and the baby in her womb. The entire kingdom fell into deep sorrow, and the king was plunged into prolonged grief.

WC: 3K+

The day changes again, a bright morning rises again. Leaving behind yesterday, which was full of unexpected events. That was clearly the most memorable first meeting for a girl who had never left her hometown. Let's say that Oldtown is just a small corner of the edge of Westeros. A city located far to the south with no neighbors except the open sea in the Sunset Sea.

That morning was the busiest day Argent had ever experienced shortly after her arrival in King's Landing to answer her father's call. And perhaps it was the most enjoyable day she had ever experienced after being confined in Oldtown since she was born. The girl who finally saw the vast world beyond the castle walls. More interesting than all the books in the Citadel library that are often visited. It is truly an honor to stay in the castle of The Red Keep and visit the historic corners described in the records.

Argent wore an emerald green dress that she always wore when attending a meeting. This time, it was a new item that Otto had prepared for Argent to wear during the tournament. Of course, it is not just a welcome gift, more than anyone, Argent is aware that she is being offered to the rulers of various noble families. As a trader who expects profit, Otto will consider it thoroughly. Will they be useful to him or just a burden that needs to be discarded. Otto would evaluate it slowly.

The green dress is very beautiful with strands of gold thread scattered on its surface. The outfit was already too extravagant if Argent continued to wear the necklace with the large green gem as well. She took off her other jewelry, replacing it with something smaller.

The reflection on the surface of the large mirror was so eye-catching that anyone who saw it would surely be mesmerized. However, the face of the owner of this body did not look as luxurious as the clothes she was wearing. Her face looked sad when she was confronted with reality again. While forcing a smile, Argent whispered to herself, "I must not be afraid. Because fear will surely destroy you. I will face my fear, feel my fear. Once it's over, I will be stronger. I must not be afraid." The sentence was repeated several times as if she were chanting a prayer for the gods to hear.

Argent heard several knocks on the open door of her room, where her father stood, seemingly mesmerized by his daughter's presence. The saying is indeed true, he is always right. That face was exactly the same as the one Otto had seen when he first met Alyrie. Of course, a face is an important asset for girls, but what truly made Otto agree to marry Alyrie was her intelligence. What's the use of a beautiful head if it's empty? What's the point of keeping a girl who is pleasant to look at but cannot hold a conversation?

Otto ordered the servants to leave, leaving his eldest daughter alone inside. Slowly, Otto entered while gazing at his daughter, who had apparently grown up. "You look just like your mother when we first met, my dear."

Argent shook her head as she listened to her father. "No, Father, Alicent looks the most like Mother."

 "You heard what I said, you look like your mother."

"Yes, Father."

 Otto took his daughter's hands, which were clasped together. The fingers felt a bit rough, perhaps because Argent had been writing too much in Oldtown. "You are as beautiful as your mother was when she was young, my dear," he said as he finally kissed the back of the girl's hand. "I hope we have plenty of time to hear your stories from Oldtown, sweet child."

"Yes, Father."

"I hope you won't disappoint me." Hearing that command, Argent held back the sadness that was slowly creeping to the surface. "Don't wear your mother's perfume, wear the fruity one your brother gave you."

"Yes, Father. As you wish."

"Good"

Otto stroked the back of his daughter's hand once more, brushing away the sad and possibly tearful face. "Don't be too sad, I will choose the best partner for you."

"The most beneficial for you, you mean." Argent pulled her hand away from her father's grip. Her body turned away from the old man who had not moved from his spot.

"I will let you prepare."

Argent did not want to hear her father's words anymore. She had turned her back because she didn't want to hear any words coming out of his mouth. She has had enough of giving up her freedom to live under their uncle's care. Letting Argent do all the household management work instead of sharing it and learning gradually. Although she still had various privileges, they were never comparable. Not long after, Alicent's voice was heard from behind, the girl must have just arrived after finishing her preparations to attend the tournament.

But Argent did not pay attention to her father, who even said goodbye. Her back remained turned instead of her face, which chose to look out the window. To the carriages that began to arrive, accompanied by the noise of the procession following the rulers of the great houses. Until then, Alicent hugged her from behind, "I hope I can help lighten your burden, sister."

"You don't need to trouble yourself with that, my sister."

 "Well, maybe I can help you with something else."

Argent looked at her sister after they released the warm embrace. "Something else?"

"Yes, I see you haven't styled your hair yet, let me style it for you."

"Wow, I didn't know you had such a skill."

 +++

Everyone had gathered in the courtyard prepared for the grand tournament. The plan for the celebration to welcome the son who might become the heir to the Iron Throne and the protector of the realm. His birth will surely be met with a grand celebration from all corners of the realm. Besides the king's heir, who is his brother, everyone is worried that he might bring destruction instead of the prosperity that has been brought since the reign of King Jaehaerys. Viserys, who eventually ascended the throne, bears the burden of maintaining the kingdom on his shoulders. Striving as hard as possible to maintain this peace for a long future.

Viserys stood to give a speech to all the knights and lords from the great houses across Westeros who had accepted the invitation to participate in the Heir's Tournament. The warm welcome received enthusiastic cheers from all the people present. In the middle of the speech, Rhaenyra finally arrived at the event, taking her place next to Alicent on the same dais occupied by the council members.

Aside from the unpleasant turmoil of sadness, Argent was pleased to see the most important and influential people so close. Being under the same tribune as them.

 In the front row, the sons and daughters of the royal council, such as Alicent and Argent, were seated opposite their father's chair. In the second row, the council members were seated, followed by the heads of the great houses. Everyone rejoiced at the birth of the son that the king had longed for.

 "I know many have come from afar for this tournament, but I promise, you will not be disappointed." A snippet of the king's long speech. "When I see all the great knights on this list, I see unmatched individuals in our history."

"This beautiful day is now even more blessed with the news I will share with joy." The king's smile could not be hidden when he said he wanted to share the joyful news. "Queen Aemma has begun to give birth!!"

Instantly, applause and cheers erupted as the king announced the joyful news. he then continued with hope and officially started the heir tournament. "May the Seven's fortune bless the fighters."

The applause did not wane, everyone stood excitedly as a horse entered the arena followed by another horse on the other side. Running gallantly, ready to start the heir's tournament.

Duel in the tournament is conducted using horses that run swiftly while facing knights on the other side. They pointed their lances at each other while defending themselves with shields and armor. Some of them fell to the ground, which slowly became wet with blood. The fallen knight could continue the duel if still able or end it by surrendering. The winning knight could continue by challenging another participating knight.

The duel was won by someone in ordinary armor that actually looked worn out. He bowed to the rulers and then quickly retreated from there. Resting to continue another duel when his turn arrives.

 "Mystery knight?" Rhaenyra asked.

"No, that's Cole from the Stormlands," Alicent replied, standing beside her.

"I've never heard of the Cole clan from the Stormlands," Argent interjected. "Yes, neither have I," Rhaenyra added.

The duel continued, and a knight who seemed to be from the Baratheon family stood before them. The Baratheons were the family of Princess Rhaenys on her mother's side, but calling for support by referring to her as the Queen Who Never Was sounded annoying to Argent's ears. "The Queen Who Should Have Been," she whispered softly, correcting the title.

Princess Rhaenys stood when her name was called, perhaps she was also slightly taken aback by that title. A nickname that was not meant to honor her but to openly insult her. This is what Argent dislikes. About the restrictions on various things just because they are women. Large breasts will not hinder her ability to ride a horse or even her ability to swing a sword. The nickname was a mark of defeat bestowed upon Rhaenys by the people for her cousin, who ultimately ascended the throne instead of her simply because he was a man. But as a queen she was, she remained standing tall on the castle of Driftmark with her lord husband and children. If the opportunity arises, Argent swore she would stand on the battlefield fully equipped with her armor, shield, and sword.

After taking the flower crown from the front table, Rhaenys walked over to her cousin. She placed it on the spear that was pointing upwards. With a smile, she encouraged him, "Good luck, cousin."

"I'll take it if I need it," he replied to Rhaenys.

 The duel continued, and the knight who had previously won was now his opponent. Everything happened quickly as the spear aimed by the knight named Cole struck his solar plexus. Making him fall. This is a sight worth watching for Argent, who was previously furious.

"Karma has been paid in full," Argent whispered.

"Sister," Alicent warned her sister over there.

Rhaenyra shifted slightly to the side, and Ser Harrold, who was not far from the princess, moved closer beside her. They were talking about a knight named Criston Cole who had just taken down two Baratheon sons. The conversation provided some information about who the knight's parents were and how he possessed the skills that impressed several people.

The drum was beaten several times to signal a change in the game. This time, the applause became lively when the flag with the black deer emblem on a golden background was replaced with the flag featuring a three-headed red dragon on a black background. Argent could guess who might be coming and she had prepared for every possibility.

From another direction, the mounted knights walked in. Standing in front of the grand tribune as the event host walked forward. "Prince Daemon of House Targaryen," he said. "The prince of the city will choose his first opponent," he continued.

Alicent grabbed Argent's hand, who was clearly excited beside her. They exchanged smiles as the person in question cleared a path to the playing area.

And from the opposite direction, the knight approached. Running fast in front of the waiting participants. Daemon wore black armor with a touch of red on some sides. He entered carrying a large spear and a shield with a three-headed red dragon emblem on its surface. His pace slowed as he approached his opponents, considering who he would choose as his first adversary.

It wasn't such an extraordinary spectacle because the prince merely rode in and entered the arena. However, perhaps because he was Daemon, Argent also became nervous watching from the stands. She even accidentally squeezed Alicent's fingers that were holding her hand. Making her younger sister turn and smile teasingly. "Nervous, huh?"

"No," she denied.

Daemon finally chose an opponent after he observed all the knights lined up in front. His gaze was always condescending as usual, and then he pointed at Gwayne as the first opponent. Making Argent a little worried that her brother might get seriously hurt.

"Prince Daemon Targaryen has chosen Ser Gwayne Hightower of Oldtown, the eldest son of the Hand of the King, for his first challenge," the guide said.

Soon, Daemon moved to his place, and Gwayne also headed to the other side. This one-on-one duel wouldn't be so thrilling if the chosen opponent weren't Gwayne and the chooser weren't Daemon. But here they are. Facing each other in the war game area. Tension arose around them. Not only in the arena where the game takes place, but also in the second row seats above the stands. There, Otto and Viserys sat side by side, with Viserys looking very proud of Daemon's choice and Otto not very pleased because his son might lose badly in the fight.

 Alicent bit her fingers, causing Argent and Rhaenyra, who were beside her, to turn towards her simultaneously. Besides Argent, Rhaenyra's position was also less than favorable. She would clearly wish her uncle good luck, but perhaps she wouldn't be able to show it too much because the one there is also her friend's brother. Rhaenyra could only calm her friend by holding her hand during the fight.

 Daemon's eyes swept across the entire stands, searching for someone he had sworn to defeat. From where he stood, he stared at Otto with a grin as if to say that he had to see how Daemon would bring down his son in the first attack. Then the gaze shifted to the young girl sitting among the sons and daughters of the council members in the front row. Not signaling anything, he just smiled mischievously at her. That gaze might not have been noticed by Argent due to her position, but it was clearly caught by Otto, who was right behind her.

The incident happened very quickly. moments after the game really started. Daemon and Gwayne ran swiftly towards each other.  The first attack did not immediately knock him down because Daemon's spear broke upon hitting Gwayne's armor. But in the second round, Gwayne seemed not to predict that the spear would not be aimed at him but at the horse's leg, causing him to fall there immediately.

Alicent let out a quiet scream upon seeing it, while Argent simply sighed in relief. She had indeed predicted that Gwayne would lose, so she was grateful that fortunately, her brother would not be seriously injured. Maybe his joints will hurt tomorrow, but Gwayne will surely be able to handle it. Argent saw her sister looking at their father behind them as if asking whether he would be okay, and he was only answered with a nod from their father.

Their little sister was indeed gentle and a bit timid, so she must have been worried after seeing that. "Calm down, Alicent, our brother is a valiant knight," said Argent before they rose to approach Daemon, who was smiling triumphantly in front of the stands.

"Very impressive, Uncle," Rhaenyra smiled, congratulating her uncle.

"Thank you, Princess."

Argent, who had been following Rhaenyra's movements, finally reached the barrier in front of them. Staring at the prince who still held his smug smile. The prince's attention quickly shifted to the young girl in her emerald green dress.

"I am confident I can win this match, Lady Argent. I hope for having your favor to ensure that," he said.

Argent tilted her head slightly, her eyebrows raising a bit as she heard the arrogant words from the prince who had stolen her heart. Argent stepped back slowly to take the bouquet of flowers in front of the small table near their chairs. Her slightly bowed body accidentally met the gaze of her father, who looked very displeased with her actions. But Argent had been disappointed several times, and she would not be surprised if her father disappointed her once again this time. Argent finally returned to the previous place with her hand now holding a bouquet.

Argent placed the bouquet on the spear that was directed at her. Her smile widened slightly as she expressed her support to the prince. "May all fortune always be with you, my Prince."

The tournament continued with matches between other knights. Something quite terrible happened to the knight from House Arryn of The Vale. But they moved on to the next battle between Prince Daemon and Criston Cole. Perhaps Daemon was too full of himself to remember that someone might bring him down from the top. He surely did not expect that the poor knight with his tattered shield and unknown family name would make him surrender to save his life. A downfall that was never expected from a mighty dragon-riding knight. And perhaps a downfall for his entire family.

Criston, who won the tournament, received a blessing from the princess. With this, the match finally ended, but news of the tragedy soon enveloped the entire kingdom. The members of the council who were seated in their chairs immediately rose and left the area, the news of the queen's death during childbirth quickly spread. Making Argent and Alicent look at Rhaenyra simultaneously.

That was indeed shocking news, and the princess was too stunned to react in any way. She ignored everyone's gaze and just stared ahead, full of emptiness.

+++

The news of mourning quickly spread throughout the realm. The news of the queen's loss due to that impossible birth became the cause of her death. No. The original story is much more horrifying. The queen was a mother who could not possibly give birth to her son under normal circumstances, the baby was breech, which was the reason why the birth was impossible to carry out. In the most difficult situation, the maesters could not decide on their own. They have tried their best. Trying to find the most likely method to deliver the baby and save the mother. But it was still impossible.

The summoned king looked unable to bear seeing his wife struggling. She struggled alone to deliver their baby. When the maester explained her condition, the king was unable to choose between them. The baby or the wife. The baby born without a mother, or the mother saved without her baby. Ah no, this is the most impossible condition. Both cannot be saved with the limitations of human ability. No magic could save either of them, only one. And Viserys silently asked, "Can you save the baby?"

"Yes, my king."

The result was that they still couldn't save either of them. Their baby couldn't survive for more than a few hours. When everyone was busy taking care of the blood-soaked queen's corpse. They had to divide the tasks because the baby they tried to save ultimately could not survive. The procession ended with their burial.

All the lords from the great houses of Westeros gathered at Rhaenys Hill, including the council members and their sons and daughters. One of them in the front row, Argent and Alicent stood side by side with their father who was not far from there.

Princess Rhaenyra stood in front of a pile of wood on which lay the bodies of her mother and brother. This girl is clearly saddened by the loss of both. She has already lost four of her siblings, and now her mother is gone too.

Rhaenyra’s eyes gazed far ahead, but they were so empty. She didn't see anyone, she didn't want to pay attention to anyone. Everyone is waiting for her, waiting for the dragon to breathe fire. This is the funeral tradition for the Targaryen family. But there was no movement from the princess. At least until her uncle behind her gave her a little signal.

They were discussing something in a language unknown to anyone else, only by them, the Targaryens or dragon riders. Others refer to it as the Old Valyrian. For a moment, the princess looked at her father's face, but he continued to gaze ahead aimlessly. Making the princess, who was already filled with sorrow, a little angry at her father's indifference towards her.

In this world, it's not just him who has lost, but Rhaenyra as well. She lost a mother whom she loved so much. At that moment, the command came out of her mouth to the dragon.

"Dracarys!"

[honeymaki]

𝘐 𝘨𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘢 𝘣𝘢𝘥 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘥𝘮𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘐 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 .｡.:*･

Warnings: mentions of bodily harm, oral sex (f → receiving), penetrative sex, creampie, unneeded religious themes, mentions of body hair; reader has a hydro vision and is from Inazuma.

Words: 6k

Characters: Cyno; mentions of Tighnari as a reluctant tutor.

→ Notes: this is my first fic in honest to god years, proper thought out all consuming insane in the head fic; and I am proud of this.

The heat of Sumeru was different to the heat of Inazuma, the sweet smelling summers and the cool touch of the vast ocean on your toes were now just memories wisping like the steam that rose from streams, and the breeze that picked up the morning dew drops from leaves larger and thicker than any you had ever seen.

Inazuma summers meant blue ice pops and sweet milk beverages, lounging in you underclothes on the veranda, fanning yourself and whoever was your companion for the day, sucking on juicy melon slices and watching the fishermen bring in their catch of the day down by the shore, the crystal waves just beckoning you in for a much needed swim. The heat there was bearable, almost, with the promise of a fiery red autumn to follow if the sun got high enough and always smelling oh so sweet in the evenings when restaurants and common folk would move their cooking outdoors, smoke from the barbeques dancing in the mellow breeze like rice plumes in their paddy fields, carrying drippings of fat and roasted lavender melons to your nose. If the night was just right, you could just catch the slow baking of Tomoki’s dango, sweet rice cakes lathed with caramel or a soy glaze, both welcomed after hours wandering the slopes beneath Narakumi. 

Sumeru summers, despite only experiencing a few in your recent years, were so stiflingly different and yet, a gentle reminder of what it was like back home. It was definitely - wetter with sweltering days that made it hard to breathe and made way for almost frigid nights, dew settling fat and heavy over the land, clouds gathering to tease a storm but only showering a gentle drizzle. The sprawling fields and jagged islands of Inazuma made way for the jungles and vast forests of Sumeru, sunlight dappled and sparkling no matter the time of day, shining through leaves and spider webs and flowers you had yet to name, catching in the estuaries and ponds snaking across the landscape. And the desert, dry and barren with the formidable beast in the sky baring down at all moments, was teaming with the same greenery as your new residence. You didn’t often venture past Caravan Ribat and the few times you did travel there, the sun was shielded behind great hanging cloths and rugs of immense beauty, some old and worn and some witnessing their first day protecting the residents and travellers of the threshold of the desert. Though the shade and protection of the trees was much more suited to you and your gentle memories of Inazuma, flitting from branch to branch the way you used to with the sea caves and shipwrecks of your home.

Sumeru summers meant ripe Zaytun peaches and crunchy radishes pickled with chilli and mint, sipping on lukewarm water from your pouch but wading through ice cold streams to document new outcrops of lotus’. It meant the constant shout of brightly coloured birds beyond your window, the low hum of traders passing through and offering their wares, the enticing aroma of curries and unleavened breads, both sitting heavy and comfortingly in your belly after every sweltering excursion. 

There were times you missed Inazuma, deeply and painfully, but as it was, fate had called you beyond the services to the Shogunate and beyond the great sea which had previously been barred. The lifting of the decree saw a mass migration of people, some back to their original homes and many off to new, including yourself in the form of a letter from the Akademiya offering to school you in the great city of Sumeru. 

That summer saw your first sea voyage, and your last taste of Inazuman sweetness for many years. The Akademiya was good to you, one of the first Inazumans in an age to study among their natives, bringing your knowledge of Inazuman biology and medicine to their foresight and introducing them to a world of eternity and strange new ways to ferment soybeans. It was difficult to grow accustomed to their culture, their ways and laws, and their itchy uniforms, preferring the loose garb that the forest rangers wore, their bows and their nimble knowledge. Studying under the Amurta discipline was a gentle reminder of home, reading about all sorts from around Teyvat, wishing so dearly to travel even beyond Sumeru to see it all for yourself; sitting at your desk in the early hours of the morning dreaming of the mountains of Liyue and the beauty of the Qingxin that you would find, wondering what it would be like to swim in the waters of Fontain and venture among the ancient forests of Mondstadt. Your love of the forest, of all things green and living and thriving sent you to Gandarva Villa, under the apparently famed and somewhat reluctant mentorage of Tighnari. Reluctant in that upon reading your thesis and realising that you had already submitted your first manuscript, and concluding that he had little idea of the basis of your study and that you had already nearly finished it entirely. 

Inazuma had been closed off, shut to any and all outsiders for a generation, prompting only theories and wild ideas about your archon and her dealings; which lead to a dramatic decline in knowledge flowing from her shores, not only technologically but also botanically. Growing your first successful lavender melon on a rickety trellis in your front garden was talked about for weeks, fuelled only by your multiple displays of how one could cook, eat and utilise it. Food from Inazuma was indeed traded in the cities, but many of the forest rangers rarely ventured into the winding, bustling streets so in between studying and writing up a new version of your manuscript; you took it upon yourself to grow as much as you could from home to share with your new and beloved friends. And the Sumeru summers were the perfect growing conditions to do this, spending your pink and orange evenings pruning the naku weed and spreading straw beneath the amakuno fruits, tending to the delicate blooms of your unsuccessful dendrobiums. 

Which is where you found yourself one calm and thankfully cool evening after feasting with your companions. Knelt on the grass, books and papers surround you and your distinct annoyance, chewing your lip and pondering on the answers you finally found regarding your one nemesis. A single sprout curls and threatens to wither before you, rejecting the sprinkle of water you summon from your palm, looking very sorry for itself; a sad reflection of its carer, 

“I didn’t think I’d have to resort to such sinful methods little one,” you grumble, theory confirmed by the pocketbook of your own writing completed some years ago, “But I promised Tighnari and he looks really silly when he pouts,” as if your words would suddenly spark the sprout into blooming, a crumb of soil instead shuddered and dropped from its crisped leaf in defeat. A creature called out in the distance, wind blew gently through the valley and rustled your papers, concealing the staggering breaths of a person advancing on your delicate little world, and concealing the unsheathing of a small pocket knife. It was clear your intention, fuelled by your field notes and the archived history of Nazuchi Beach, and in a dramatic display; you held your hand out over the sorrowful sprout with the blade kissing your skin. 

A hiss of breath and the nicking pain never came, pressure and a grunt revealed a hand holding your wrist far from the shining lick of the knife. 

“What exactly are you doing?” the familiarity of that gruff voice causes a chill to ripple down your spin, hanging your head with heat in your cheeks, “I didn’t know it was Inazuman custom to sacrifice oneself to plants, dead ones at that,”

“I wasn’t going to entirely sacrifice myself, these plants grow only where blood has been spilt and I'm not going to ask someone else to do it for me, or start a war like they did back home so I figured -,” turning to face him, something catches you off guard. It wasn’t unusual for the General Mahamtra to pass through the valley, even stay for a few nights with his fellows, but it was unusual that he seemed - not quite right, despite still gripping you and staring at you with unimpressed judgement. So much so that you abruptly ended your swotty explanation and tried to pull away from him, to no avail,

“Are you okay? You look kind of unwell?” voice gentle and curious, causing Cyno to tighten his grip on your wrist even more, “Ah ! - you’re hurting me,”

“Where is Tighnari? I need to see him, something has happened…I’ve done something regreful,” even though he seemed to have been speaking perfectly fine a few seconds ago, Cyno suddenly sounded a thousand miles away and almost intoxicated. Eyes glancing around furtively, searching for nothing and everything, specifically your reluctant mentor who currently -,

“He’s away right now, Liyue - ow ! - there was a cooking event he wanted to go to and so I asked if he could pick me up some Violetgrass and also some starconches,” you say through your teeth, struggling out of his grasp and rubbing your wrist, squinting at his figure in the doctor-ish way Tighnari taught you. All of a sudden, he didn’t look much like a General Mahamatra, or even a matra; trying desperately to hide the sways in his body and the shaking of this fists held tightly by his side, tongue dipping out of his mouth to lap at the beads of sweat rolling down his upper lip, eyes red and rimmed dark. Words seem to be a loss for him at the news, swallowing thickly and looking down at his feet, toes digging into the carefully curated moss of your garden,

“What did you eat?” your sharp question stuns him out of his stupor for a moment, scrambling to your feet to assess him properly, “Or drink, but I assume it was something edible that has you sweating like the grand sage in a brothel,”

“Don’t - ,” he spits, “Don’t mock me,” you step back, hands up in submission, face shining with the want to help, 

“I wasn’t Cyno, I promise, Tighnari isn’t here right now so I’m going to help you, but I need you to answer my questions so I can do that,” it occurred to you for a moment that as the General, Cyno probably knew about his friend’s little excursion and yet, came straight to you instead of the Akademiya. But a sharp exhale banished that thought from your mind, 

“In the North, near Vanarana, there were Fatui breaking protocol,” at the mention of the mysterious and mostly unmapped region, you usher Cyno into your humble hut, drawing the wicker shutters and lighting a candle in the dwindling dusk, “they had stolen goods - crests from all over Teyvat, mostly food from Inazuma, some kind of mushroom …,” 

“Oh Cyno, we have both told you never to -,”

“Yeah, yeah, never eat something I can’t name, I know; but it looked like a starshroom, it was glowing and I can obviously name that so, I ate it,” sinking into a chair, Cyno suddenly looked pale in the candlelight, wiping sweat from his brow and shifting his hips beneath your scrutinising gaze,

“Did you say it was glowing? You ate a glowing mushroom?” this was hardly the time for jesting but you couldn’t help but grin, vanishing in a second under Cyno’s scowl, “Tighnari is going to be so mad at you, I thought it was obvious not to go around tasting things that glowed! We teach that to children! And newcomers who have never seen anything like it before,” your berating is only half serious, rummaging around you various knapsacks and baskets for the ingredient you needed to ease his pain, handing him a strip of dried something or other with a kind look, “Chew on this, it should stop the pain in a few seconds but just hang tight okay? I’ll take care of you,”

As much of a mother you seemed around those who made mistakes, berating them sharply before showing them the right way or the solution; Cyno almost felt like a lover to you in the way you cupped his jaw to make sure he was indeed chewing on the bark, stroking the tops of his cheekbones and the round of his collar in search of a rash, fingers soft and methodical, loving in a way he was unsure of whether you used towards other patients. He watched you work, content with his stabilising condition and preparing some kind of drink, back facing him and sweetly busy at your workbench. You were so precise and aged in your movements, picking the right herb and concoction without having to think, mixing them perfectly into a hand thrown cup with an extra spoonful of something for good measure,

“Here,” you sat down in the chair next to him, pressing a cool palm to his forehead beneath his headpiece, “I put some sugar in it to make it a little easier to drink, m’fraid I didn’t have any lavender melon syrup left,” the cup is heavy when you push it towards him, eyes curious and ever watchful, “If you need to throw up then warn me first,”

That struck him as odd. “Why didn’t you make me do that as soon as I arrived here? Surely that’s the first protocol in eating something dangerous?” you jerked your head, an indicator for him to drink and truly, the sugar did nothing to hide the foul taste and Cyno couldn’t hold back the winces and the gags as he swallowed,

“You ate fluorescent fungus, probably a rarer sub-specie that is very similar to the starshroom and native to Inazuma, obviously. The spores would have touched your lips first and as it is a very delicate plant -,” you fiddle with a small pocket book left on the table, showing him a beautiful painted depiction of the yellow-ish fungus he ate, “your saliva would have dissolved it before it even hit your stomach so vomiting would not have done much,” he nods, somewhat in defeat, gulping the last of your concoction with a poorly hidden gag, “We can sit until you feel better if you’d like, I’m surprised you didn’t have worse symptoms. Usually people get hallucinations, fainting, loss of limb control; the usual when one eats a poisonous mushroom, but you’re strong I guess,” you steal a glance at his body reclined and tense in the chair, “or just resistant,” Cyno doesn’t reply, tilting his head back and taking a shallow breath, still uncomfortable and unwell, “Just relax, it’ll take effect in a little bit, I’ll take care of you while it does,”

There was that strange feeling that made Cyno want to suck in his cheeks and puff out his chest, but it was not all that unfamiliar. Moments like this were common, more so in the recent visits, the ones where he felt like you could be a little more than the Inazuman who knows surprisingly too much. Sat around the fire in the cool nights, palm held in yours, tracing the deep callouses and lines and pretending to be a mage from your home city, making up some jumbo about his future and him suddenly so wishing you were in it; waving at him from down in the valley, wading with the fishes and the fungi, trousers rolled up to your knees and looking just about the happiest he had ever seen you; listening from the shadows as you animatedly retold stories from travelling around Watatsumi and foraging the pearls hidden beneath the glowing waters, an eagerly fond look twinkling in his eye; slyly asking about you at the Akedamiya, wondering about your studies and pretending to be interested in your thesis when all he could see was your printed name at the top of the manuscript; times when you thought he couldn’t see you looking at him with his headpiece off, a cut on his brow or a set of cards on the table in front of him, noticing your longing gaze and keeping it safe for the lonely nights in the desert. 

You were looking at him now, thinking he was resting, allowing your eyes to trace the steady rise and fall of his chest, the soft skin of his stomach and the trunks of his thighs, spread and inviting. It takes all he has not to smirk, or flush, or even move. It’s strange, he thinks, he feels almost uncomfortable in that he desperately wants to do something about it, in an all the more wanton way. Makes him feel wound up, on edge almost, biting his tongue and scrunching his toes in case he might stand up and simply confess. 

“How do I know if I’m hallucinating?” Cyno knows he isn’t, but it fills the heady silence and he hears you readjust yourself, sitting up a little straighter, 

“Well, first of all, you shouldn’t be hallucinating now since the medicine should be working,” there’s concern in your voice, licking like a lover over his ears, feeling you press forward and he feels you caress his closed eyelid, “look at me? Why could you be hallucinating now?” he’s lazy in aiding your poking and prodding, allowing you to remove his headpiece and place it on the table, blinking blearily, “Describe what you are feeling please, and what you’re seeing,” 

“I’m not sure how to describe it,” he grumbles after a moment in gathering his thoughts, struggling in your close proximity, “You’re so close, it’s interfering with my concentration,” you furrow your brows, confused and more than concerned, that same soft scowl of a lover settling on your face at his words, “there, you’re doing things and saying things and making me feel things I’m not accustomed to, it feels wrong; like it and you and all this shouldn’t be here,”

“And so, you think that you’re experiencing a hallucination of what exactly?” you feel for a temperature, sitting back in your chair at his leaning forwards into the touch of your hand, “I’m not sure you’re hallucinating Cyno, your vitals are - ,” precise fingers dig into the doughy, giving skin under his chin to feel for a pulse, finding it strong and fluttering like a small bird, “Let me get you something to drink, water this time I promise,” you’re not angry with his feigning symptoms, or that concerned at his apparent anxiety, not berating him in that motherly way like you usually do and that only causes his pulse to rocket higher and the anxiety creep further into his gut. You’re acting in that way again, sweet eyes and a sweeter voice, like honey, fetching him a cool welcomed cup of water in the way such as after a night of -

You distinctly remember hearing absolute silence in the seconds between you standing to get your guest some water, and then feeling his imposing presence behind you, close enough to feel his breath on the back of your neck. Time stops at the sound of his fists clenching by his side, swallowing thickly at the sight of your inviting skin, physically shaking in his restraint,

“I feel like I’m dreaming, like none of this and none of what I am feeling is real,” you’re silent still, barely breathing in the confined space he’d boxed you into, a small corner of your hut with a sink that provided you some much needed physical support. Psychologically however, you were in turmoil. Cyno, the Great General Mahamtra, felt as if he was having a hallucination or some kind of dream in his apparent romantic or lustful pursuit of you, and the implication of what was standing behind you was suddenly too much to bear. 

“I could - pinch you if you’d like,” the voice that leaves you doesn’t sound like your own, shaky and shy, “Dreams aren’t real, you shouldn’t be able to feel or touch or taste in a dream, if you concentrate hard enough,”

A beat passes, filled with sharp, quiet breaths passing between you and it aches that you cannot see what he’s doing, or what he looks like or how he feels. Your heart flutters like a sakura petal in the spring breeze, mouth dropping open when you feel his hands rest on your hips, burning hot through your clothes. Cyno sucks in a breath, lips dry and cool as they part against your neck, tongue darting out to taste the damp saltiness of your skin, 

“I feel you,” he mumbles into your jugular, thick hair sticking to the side of your face and his nails dig into the cushiony flesh of your hips, “I feel you, and you feel - soft, so soft,” hips press into you, strong and hard and fluid, “And you taste like nectar, like honey and wine and - like a dream,”

“It’s been more than enough time for the medicine to take its full effect, you shouldn’t feel any more side effe…Cyno,” his name comes out a sigh at his attaching his mouth fully to your throat, wet and warm and causing your knees to buckle. He catches you, almost, slinging an around around your middle and hoisting you back against him, panting against the back of your neck, 

“I guess you’re right,” one hand grips your wrist, urging you to put down the cup and Cyno lifts it to his lips, nose running down the pulsing veins as it trying to absorb your scent and the effect he has on your pulse, throbbing beneath the delicate skin, “How could this be a dream, a hallucination if I can feel everything, taste you on my tongue, touch you like this?” 

He’s grinding against you, body writhing in tandem with his in response, mouth open with heady gasps and mewls that remind him over and over that not only did you save him from certain madness, but you also were eagerly reciprocating his equally eager advances. Long fingers unlace the ties of your trousers and dip beneath your waistband, instead dragging up into your shirt, loose and comfortable for your planned evening of study, now easily parting like clouds on a blustery day for him. The first touch against your chest sends you shivering into his grip, fingertips brushing the underside of your breast oh so softly and politely before gripping a little firmer, then altogether greedily. Flesh spilling between his fingers, nipple catching on a callous, rough and a little mean but eliciting such a submissive little reaction that Cyno nearly folds forward against you. 

“Please, please, please,” you’re muttering desperately, sacred like you’re saying a prayer, pushing your chest further into his touch and arching your back, “Touch me please,”

“You’re always so polite,” he isn’t much for words, let alone praises but you’re so dear and so sweet in his arms, shivering like a little lamb and even bleating at the slithering of his other hand into your trousers. With his face still nuzzling into your neck, Cyno is only just able to hide his distinct devastation at how wet you are, positively soaking your underwear and covering his fingers in honeyed slick. He grips your breast harder, plucking at your nipple at the same luxurious pace as his forefingers sliding through your cunt, slipping sloppily over your clit and you all but howl. You aren’t quite sure what to do with your hands, the one he was previously lathing kisses to was now somehow tangled in his hair, holding him in place and it’s grounding, it’s anchoring you to the intense, gooey pleasure coursing through your gut. Your other hand is gripping his forearm, the one deep between your thighs or the one greedily fisting your breasts, you aren’t sure but your nails hurt and you think it’s because you’re holding on too tight, but how can you not when too much is happening all at once? 

Cyno feels your arousal coating his hand, palm sticky and fingers pruning with his assault, languid circles over your clit, following the shivers and writhes of your body with grinds and jerks of his own. Gods, he’s so hard that it hurts, and he knows that you’re so close, so fucking close to cumming but he can’t help but still worry if he’s dreaming, if this is all an after effect of his incident, if you’d neglected to tell him how long something like a hallucination could last. He vaguely hears you howl in agonising dejection when he rips his hand from your trousers, strings of arousal glistening in between his fingers in the light and he’s struck with how you’d much prefer to cry over the loss than watch him lick up the mess you’d made. You only just manage to catch his eyes rolling back at the taste, dripping down his wrist, three fingers shoved into his mouth and positively devouring the essence of you. Tears leak down your cheeks, replacing his fingers with your lips in a whirlwind of need and hard, hot desperation, swallowing his surprised grunt with a whine of your own. Cyno doesn’t respond for a moment, shocked at your display of wantonness, tongue licking inside his mouth in a thinly veiled attempt at tasting your own arousal and his grip on you suddenly becomes all the more fierce. 

“I can’t - I can’t -,” your kisses grow sloppy with your begs, struggling to pull your trousers down, almost losing your balance and it pains Cyno to part from you for even a second to disrobe himself. Red eyes follow your every movement, toeing off your shoes and ungracefully kicking away your trousers, bending over for a moment and it takes everything in him not to cum on the spot. Nestled between your thighs, dripping and plump, the scent of it wounding him to his knees, crawling half dressed over to you,

“Gods - fuck,” eyes fluttering closed at your suprised gasp, tongue darting out to lick gently, lightly like he was licking honey from his finger, catching the leaking drops and feeling his stomach clench, and his cock kick against his thigh. You remain in place, frozen against his curious, pointed licks, flattening his tongue after having his fill and splitting your pussylips with a lewd noise. He could be content between your thighs for the rest of his life, Akademiya be damned, coming home from his duties to this lifeline of saccharine sin that he swallows down greedily and selfishly. The wings of your shirt sit bunched over your hips, sliding low over your ass until he frustratedly fists the cotton against your cheek and spreads you enough to put his whole mouth against you. 

“Cyno! Ah - !” you startle forwards, but he only follows like a worshipper, slurping and swallowing every flutter and every throb of you, fingers digging hard into your thigh and ass to keep himself in place. A tentative hand cards into his hair, a question and his answer was a long, slow moan directly into your cunt, vibrating between your hips and the result was your closeted strength almost shoving him over, nose hitting your clit and causing you to gyrate deliciously. 

That was all he wanted, this drawn out stupor only stabilised by your shuddering grinds against his tongue, palm slapping against the countertop. If you’d allow him, Cyno would do this every day, he’d gladly station himself in the city if he got to taste the heaven between your thighs even for a few seconds in the mornings before he was called in to deal with the country’s worst and the best. It would be a welcome reprieve, one he’d been craving without even knowing it; in the moments alone with you, sacred and secret, soft and sweet and warm. To feel you gushing down his chin, moans reaching their crescendo and legs shaking on your tiptoes, all but sobbing into the crook of your elbow as you cum; it would be worth the sacrifice. 

Cyno felt selfish, detaching himself from your cunt, resting his forehead against the back of your thigh and smoothing his hands over your shuddering calves, down to your ankles and then back up to your ass. 

“Are you okay?” his breath is hot on your skin, and through your gulping pants, you manage to answer with a cracked ‘mhm’. You feel him smile wide and smug, standing and hiccuping at the state of you, slumped against the sink and writhing as if in pain, whole body breathing with your dwindling orgasm, “Come here, I got you,”

Carefully and all too greedily, Cyno scoops your torso against his with his hand angling your jaw, tilting your face up to his. A kiss is pressed to your lips, languid and lazy, a stark contrast to the blunt head of his cock kissing the lips of your cunt. You shudder, unable to return his kisses but trying so desperately to keep his stare, eyes boring into yours as he angles his hips. 

“I got you,” he murmurs a promise, feeling your fingers lace with his over your throat, watching your lids flutter as he presses into you, “Stay with me, I got you I promise, just a little more,” 

Breathy and fleeting, Cyno recites his words like a prayer, thrusting gently and shallowly at your wobbling bottom lip, swallowing your discomforted hiccups. He doesn’t thrust to the hilt like he so dearly wishes to, filling you in one swipe and leaving you reeling - no, he’s slow, methodical, precise and doesn’t break eye contact for even a second. Keeping a firm grip on your jaw, chasing the breaking down of your resolve every inch he slides into you until there’s no more, snug and warm and so fucking wet. He feels you against his pelvis, against his thighs, sticky and warm, shuddering when he kisses you once more, almost like a praise for taking him all the way. 

You’re trying to speak, trying to make any sort of sound but the breath is stolen from your chest when he starts an agonisingly deep grind, up into you, hardly leaving the warmth of your cunt and digging hard into your belly. It feels as though he’s in your throat, eyes never leaving yours and sending you spiralling, gasps turning into whimpers turning into hiccuping sobs of his name with every defying push of his hips. Cyno sees your eyes flutter for a second, lips parted and brushing yours, swallowing every delicious sound you make, responding with grunts of his own in both encouragement and sin. 

“Eyes on me,” he purrs, a crack in his voice at the sudden way you choke him, cunt clenching at the drop in his tone. Cyno shudders, pace slipping and he slides his hand down over the swell of your belly, feeling for the slippery bud of your clit. When he decides to match the slow, heady pushes and pulls of his hips with heavy thrums over your clit, you’re quite unsure of how you manage to stay standing upright. 

“Ah - ! Cyno !” he never falters, not even when you grind back up against him, not even when you try to lick into his mouth for even a semblance of grounding, not even when you cum so hard that fat tears roll down your cheeks, not even when you finally catch your voice and reach back to grip hard at his hair, “Again, make me cum again please,” you beg, “Please Cyno, please - inside, cum inside, make it deep - please,”

Begging didn’t seem to be about your usual person, the one he knew that shared their meals and knowledge with anyone who asked, so to hear it fall from the heaven of your lips was surely his downfall. It was unexpected, it tore a deep and long snarl from his chest, grinds turning into thrusts turning into something damning and gut wrenching. The fingers on your clit were kinder, swift circles to keep you leaking down your thighs but the cock battering your sensitive walls was less so. 

He never stops watching you though, even when you reach a second completion, all the more messier and sloppier than the first, red heavy eyes boring into yours without faltering for even a second. Cyno presses his forehead to yours, the angle causing your neck to ache but it goes unnoticed through the life giving pleasure he brings you, with every greedy slam of his pelvis against your ass. Lips touch yours in the moment he cums, eyes finally snapping shut and you think he looks beautiful through the fog of your orgasm; illuminated by the candle light, sweat flecking his brow, hair mussed and tangled in your fingers. Jaw ticking with every twitch of his cock deep inside of you, warmth spreading through your hips and thighs, feeling his hand flatten over your stomach as a kind of worship, caressing the space he fills so deliciously. 

“I - ,” he swallows heavily, 

“It’s okay,” is the first thing you can think of, “I wanted it too,” Cyno’s eyes open and he searches your face, “For… a while,”

It feels like eternity before he answers, nudging his nose against yours affectionately,

“Would it surprise you to admit I felt the same? That I waited far too long, and chose a rather idiotic time to do it?” the corner of his lips lift in a smirk,

“Honestly and with your track record? Not really, you have a bad habit of keeping things to yourself,” with bated breath you lean to kiss him softly, “But so do I, I guess,”

Cyno clenches his jaw as he pulls away from you, surveying the mess of your coupling before surveying the mess between your thighs. He flushes dark, lust threatening red again at the white threatening to spill to the floor, 

“Here, let me - help you,” he aids in removing your soiled shirt, using that as a rag between your thighs and he hisses along with your protests at the sensitivity, “I’m sorry, I’ll be gentler next time, I promise,” you aren’t shy in your nudity, how could you really? And you turn to Cyno with heated cheeks, 

“Next time? When - urm - when do you plan on having a next time?” Goosebumps flurry over your arms, nipples perking in the coolness of the night and Cyno can’t help but reach out, cupping the weight of your breast and sighing at the feeling, “I can’t, not right now - that’s too soon Cyno! You gotta let me rest! Don’t be so - !”

And he laughs. Full and loud and hearty, gripping you and embracing you and kissing you with laughter wrinkling his face, craning you backwards and swaying you to and fro. You squeal, thighs tacky and sticky but following his movements, allowing him to swing you over to your cot on the far wall. 

“I would never defile you without asking, and not before tasting you thoroughly too,” Cyno kneels before you, a covenant and their disciple, hands tucked together in prayer, “And besides, I’m still questioning whether this is a dream,”

“I could pinch you, again, if you like?” You draw your blanket up around your shoulders, sliding backwards further on to the bed, noticing for the first time that Cyno still had a majority of his upper clothing on and there was something about the exposure of his abdomen, the ripples of his muscles, the thatch of white hair trailing down from his belly button to his cock resting between his thighs that gets you all tingly and warm again. He folds himself into the small space with you, catlike and flexible, kissing your forehead with a hum, 

“Maybe in a few hours, I’ll probably wake up and need a splash of something on my face to remind me I’m not hallucinating,” it takes you a second to catch on, hiding your face in your hands with a mortified groan and Cyno laughs again, gathering you close, keeping your quaint reaction to his terrible joke a secret, a safe little slice of heaven only for him to enjoy. In the back of his mind, he remembers suddenly that out of everyone; you’re the only one who entertained his jokes and silly puns, and the first time you genuinely laughed at one was also probably the first time he decided that he loves you. The word chases tails in his mind as he succumbs to sleep, tucked up against you and keeping his lips firmly pressed to your forehead, an imprint of himself for you to feel even when he wasn’t there.

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