#rises from the ashes to reblog this and then go back to the ashes

[cabinetofquriosities]

A F***ing Trial

Agatha x Rio x Reader

Warnings: sex pollen-like story and SO. MUCH. SMUT.

Reblog this if you like it 🖤

Agatha and Rio were already awake once you rose from your exhausted slumber.

After barely surviving the last trial that cut your group down to three, you had conked out by the fire. Your entire body was sore and your emotions in a frenzy. The night’s sleep helped your body and mind. You were still sad about your other coven members, but you also didn’t know them before meeting them three days prior.

Agatha, though. You had met her years ago in Westfield. She finally snapped out of the Scarlet Witch’s spell and found you. She had a list provided by another member of the new coven and your name was on it.

You had no clue you had any magic at all until Agatha tested you. Granted, throwing a chair at someone wasn’t the safest way of testing them, but it worked in your case. You flinched and the chair burst into flames, falling to ash as it hit you. You were a fire witch. A protector.

However, you were a fire witch who could only use your powers that one time. After that, it was as if you had a block. Agatha had thrown other things at you as her way of “helping”, though you wondered if she just wanted an excuse for a bit of violence. Nothing. Books and a wooden spoon bounced off of your head.

“Well, we’re just going to have to see what unlocks you,” she said.

The road was brutal and unforgiving, killing one witch per trial. It scared you to know that the next three could do the same to the remaining witches, yourself included.

Rio seemed strangely unaffected by the death surrounding them. Agatha did as well, but seemed a bit more sensitive to it than her ex. You had been a crying mess after the first loss. Now you were just afraid.

You had grown attached to the two other witches. Agatha was captivating. She was intensely ambitious to the point of selfishness, but also contained multitudes. You could see the layers of her emotions peeking through every now and then. She was larger than life and spellbinding. Rio, meanwhile, had more teeth. She was aggressive and passionate. While she seemed detached at times, she had this insatiable desire to live life to the fullest. It was as if she were new to it. Little did you know, she was out of practice when it came to feeling genuine attachment to people and being among the living.

You could tell straight away that the two had a long history. The tension was thick, hanging heavily in the air. The rest of your now deceased coven could feel it too.

When you woke up alone, the two surviving coven members were nowhere to be found. You walked out a bit into the woods, looking for them. You stopped short at the sight of Rio being pinned against a tree by Agatha.

Rio was smirking at the other woman as if to challenge her. Agatha leaned in, biting at Rio’s lips. Her thigh was pressed against her core, grinding against her leather pants. Rio smiled as she craned her head back against the trunk of the tree. Agatha’s hand let her wrist go and slid down her front, dipping beneath her waistband. Rio let out a gasp, earning a smug smile and arched brow from Agatha.

You tried to sneak away, but accidentally stepped on a twig, the snap alerting the couple to your presence. They both looked at you, making the blood in your body rise to your cheeks.

Your fingertips suddenly sparked, the magic you were previously unable to access now activating with arousal. You had always repressed your desires in the past, having been raised in a strict religious family. You had been intimidate with a partner in the past, but it was all very vanilla.

Agatha noticed your hands burning with fire, her mind working to decipher what that could mean about your power.

“I… uh, sorry,” you said, quickly retreating back to the fire, jumping when the flame surged on the burnt out logs.

You could hear Rio laughing mockingly in the distance.

A few minutes later, the pair found you. Rio sat next to you with that same smirk from before while Agatha barely even looked at you. Her eyes fell on the newly lit fire.

“Interesting,” she said, her face illuminated by the glow.

“I’ll say,” Rio said, her hand resting on your knee.

The moment Rio touched you, the fire grew in intensity. Agatha’s eyes widened, looking both alarmed and excited about what this meant.

“I guess we finally found your spark,” Agatha said, giving you a sly smile.

Two small flames jumped out of the fire, catching on the dirt in a way that wasn’t physically possible. A trail ignited, two lines of fire forming and spreading out. Agatha’s fascination turned to worry.

“Alright… enough spark, let’s pull it back…” she said nervously.

“I’m not doing anything!” you said, your heart racing.

The fire formed a path, the flames staying in two controlled lines that led them to a tower in the distance. Rio tilted her head, toying with a flower she bloomed from her hand.

“Well, I guess we know whose trial this is,” she said.

Your heart was in your throat. Your power was still so unpredictable. You had used it once in self defense on a chair and once just moments ago. You watched as the two other women led the way. Agatha turned around, regarding you before speaking.

“You can do this. The road wouldn’t be calling you if you couldn’t. Let’s go.”

She spun back around, dramatically flipping her coat with no regard for the flames. You took a moment to steel yourself before following them.

The path led to a tower made of ice. The walls reflected the moonlight, giving it a glow against the backdrop of the sky. The door had a stained glass portrait of the full moon with fire surrounding it.

You pushed the door open and stepped through, expecting the usual costume change. You looked at Agatha and Rio to see that they were naked. Agatha looked nonplussed while Rio had a wolfish smile. Looking down, you were mortified to see your own naked body with one addition.

“Well, I didn’t know you were packing more than magical heat…” Agatha purred, looking down at the sizable dick that had been bestowed upon you.

“No, I… I don’t have… the road did it!” you said, shocked at your new anatomy.

“Well, the road has wonderful taste,” she replied as you tried covering it with your hands.

“Enough admiring, we should find the challenge,” Rio said, looking you up and down once more before searching your surroundings.

The ceiling was out of your sight, positioned at the very top of the massive tower. There were portraits lining the circular frozen walls. They were lined up like film, carvings of stone with bodies in different positions. The floor was cushioned and covered in silk sheets and decadent pillows.

You walked along the wall, finally distracted enough to examine the room. You touched a wall and felt the cold against your fingertips. You stepped back to the center with Agatha and Rio. Once you were all in the middle of the room, an ice hourglass began to slowly fill with water, the cube on top melting as time passed. A shelf emerged with four icicles attached. A circle of low burning fire surrounded the coven as the timer began.

Something resembling snow fell from the ceiling, breaking into a fog the three of you breathed in. Your heart began to race and you felt a flush burning your cheeks. There was an iron frame that appeared over one of the portraits. It was a carving of two people entangled in the missionary position.

You noticed the other two women struggling to keep their focus. Their pupils dilated and focused on you. You looked down and saw where all of your blood had rushed to.

Agatha looked up at the carving.

“I think we know what your trial is,” Agatha said, her voice a bit raspy, “Little miss purity has to discover a few things.”

You would have been resistant if you had been with anyone else, but the two other women had been present in your dreams since the beginning of the road.

“Wait, what?”

“You heard her, firestarter,” Rio said, stalking up to you.

A thin sheen of sweat covered her body, causing a layer of goosebumps to break out. She looked like she was about to consume you.

“I know you feel it too. That need rushing through you?” she said, leaning in to whisper into your ear.

“The air of arousal,” Agatha said, her body nearly shivering with desire, “That’s what we breathed in. If we don’t satiate it, it can kill you. Are you okay with this?”

Agatha actually seemed to care about how you felt about this, despite the irresistible lust taking her over.

“Yes,” you said eagerly before you could stop yourself, “I wanted it before.”

You turned to Rio, who was standing an inch from you, her hands running along your arms. You pulled her into a kiss, the heat within you passing the point of no return. Rio fell back, pulling you with her. You landed over her, catching yourself with your hands. Seeing her beneath you like this was more intense than you could imagine.

Rio reached between you, her hand wrapping around your cock. Her touch sent a shock through you, the flames of the circle rising a bit. You lowered your hips down as she guided you into her. You both gasped at the sensation. Your eyes squeezed shut at the overwhelming feeling.

“Move,” Rio ordered.

You opened your eyes and locked onto hers. You slowly moved your hips, getting used to the motion. You let out a whine as you began to speed up. Rio rolled her hips with yours, bucking and grinding against you. You didn’t know what else to do but thrust. She reached down again and began playing with her own clit. Her cunt squeezed around you as her mouth fell open into a moan. The flames grew another foot. An icicle fell from the shelf, crashing against the floor. There were three left.

You could hear a cranking sound as the portraits spun around the room, the frame now over a carving of a woman riding a man. Rio sat up, about to top you when Agatha interrupted.

“You already got one,” Agatha said to Rio.

She nearly tackled you to the floor, pinning your wrists on either side of your head. She straddled you, grinding herself along the side of your cock. You squirmed, your breath shaking at the feeling of her wet lips massaging you. She reached down and positioned you before sinking down onto you. She threw her head back, her long hair falling down her back. Her chest was shamelessly pushed out as she moved. Her hips rocked and circled, leaving you without a thought in your mind. You bucked up, drawing a gasp from her. She took you by the wrists and guided them over her breasts. You held onto her as you fucked her, your back arching off of the cushioned floor. You sat up, kissing and sucking at her neck. Her arms encircled you, her hand tangled in your hair as she held you to her throat. You moaned against her skin as she rode you.

“Fuck… fuck, fuck, fuck…” Agatha whispered as she moved faster.

Suddenly, she tensed up, her body freezing her into a vision of pleasure. Her mouth hung open, her eyes squeezing shut. Her slick walls pulsed around you, making you shudder with your own orgasm. Another icicle fell as the fire grew again. You were still terribly hard in a way that was painful.

The whirring of the portraits snapped you from your haze. The one that was picked made your pulse quicken. You could see it had the same effect on your coven members. Rio smiled and Agatha looked you up and down.

Something inside of you took hold. You grabbed Agatha by the waist, flipping her onto her hands and knees. You looked at Rio, saying, “Move.”

Rio didn’t have to be told twice. She sat and opened her legs in front of Agatha. You checked the time, the hourglass half full. Sweat trickled down your face, the magic nearly driving you insane.

You moved to your knees behind Agatha, reaching down and grabbing her by the hair. She let out a shocked moan as you pulled her tresses before slamming into her. You shoved her head down into Rio’s pussy.

Her mouth immediately went to work, drawing hitches and sighs from Rio. You grabbed her by the hip with your free hand and pulled her into each thrust. The sound of moans, the wet sounds of Agatha’s mouth exploring Rio, and your thighs slapping against Agatha’s ass filled the tower. You felt a feral need to make her cum. Your hand went from her hair to her back. You dug your nails in and scratched down over its arch. You could feel the way Agatha reacted to it, knowing then that Agatha had a submissive side.

“Slap her,” Rio growled, “She loves it.”

You reared back, your hand coming down against her ass with a force. Agatha let out a wild cry against Rio’s warmth. She then went back to sucking on Rio’s clit, earning higher and higher moans. You knew she was close and also knew how to help Agatha to catch her up. You reached your arm around her and played with the sensitive bundle of nerves.

“Ah! Fuck, yes!” she cried out, pressing her cheek to Rio’s inner thigh before returning to her.

The two women’s moans rose in pitch until all three of you broke. You fell forward, catching yourself on your hands before crushing Agatha. You could hear the shattering of another icicle as it fell. One left. The flames were several feet high and licking at the walls.

The carvings spun one last time. This one was more confusing than the others. Two women, lying one on top of the other facing the sky. The man was inside of one while the other held her.

“Ah, I see,” Rio said.

She guided Agatha as she laid down. Rio lay under her, her front pressing against her back. They were stacked on one another, waiting for you. You looked at the hourglass and saw how close you were to the end of your time.

You were on your knees when you held Agatha’s hips and thrusted into her. Her head fell back against Rio’s shoulder. You took no time for foreplay. You fucked her with abandon before pulling out of her, earning a violent glare.

You then slid into Rio, fucking her with the same force. She kissed and marked Agatha, her neck one big bruise. Your hands covered her breasts, pinching and tugging at them. She leaned down and kissed Agatha, pouring all of the hidden desire you had been harboring for her into it. You pulled out of Rio and sank back into Agatha, a whimper escaping her lips driving you absolutely insane.

She screamed as her cunt strangled you, her body spasming with her climax. You looked at her wild hair and her blissed out face. You wanted to remember this forever.

You then sank into Rio, pulling an animalistic growl from her that slightly scared you. Your thighs ached as you sped your thrusts, angling to find the part of Rio that made her scream. She shook and shrieked as she came with you following soon after, the pleasure blinding you for a moment.

The fire shot up, reaching the top of the tower as the final icicle fell. The walls melted down, water falling and rolling down to the ground. The carvings fell from the melted walls into the dirt. The hourglass filled and broke before disintegrating into a puddle. The fire that had been emanating from your magic returned to your hands. You looked down and your clothes were back and your member was gone.

“Well,” Agatha said, standing on wobbly legs before dusting herself off, “Good job, team.”

Rio snorted with a laugh, getting up and offering you a hand. You took it and walked with them, now knowing the trip down the road would be much more fun.

Thank you for reading! Reblog this if you liked it 🖤

[riizegasm]

Through The Fire || B. EJ

❀ pairing: &team byun euijoo x fem!reader (ft. nicholas)

❀ genre: bffs to lovers!au, angst, minor fluff

❀ word count: ~6.2k

❀ warnings: explicit language, reader has a house fire, slight possessive behavior, lots of introspection

❀ summary: Stability is a luxury that isn’t afforded to everyone. However, you’re lucky enough to have your best friend, who has remained as the one stable factor throughout your whole life, even through the fire.

❀ A/N: I'm so so excited to share my second work with you all! I think this is one of the fastest times I have ever written a piece, which I think just shows how much I really love it. I hope you all love it too! As always, likes, reblogs, and replies are always welcome :)

masterlist

Red. Blue. Red. Blue. Red. Blue. Red—

“Y/N!”

You blink, no longer blinded by the flash of cop cars. A quick glance across the parking lot reveals a familiar silhouette trying to cross the yellow caution tape, only being held back by a policeman. You release a shaky breath, trying to find your voice for the first time all night.

“It’s okay,” you call, praying your voice is loud enough. “He’s here for me.”

For once in your life, your voice is actually heard, the police officer nodding once before lifting the caution tape. Euijoo manages to duck under, his large frame only stumbling once before rising to his full height. His long legs allow him to move quickly, pulling you into a hug before you can even blink. From your sitting position, your face ends up pressed into the hard plane of Euijoo’s abdomen. You can feel his thundering heartbeat beneath the skin.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” he breathes, leaning down to press his cheek into the messy mop of your hair.

When the two of you part, you wince at the few black streaks that have transferred to Euijoo’s t-shirt. You know that ash is likely still coloring your face, the scent of fire and burning fabric clinging to your skin. Although the flames have been put out, there is still residual smoke pluming from the building behind you. You cough twice, as if wisps of clouded air are still swirling around your lungs.

Euijoo squats down, finally eye level with your seated form as he searches your face. You let your eyes flutter shut, telling yourself that you’re still dazed from the fire. In reality, you know that making eye contact with the man before you would be too painful. He has always been too transparent, emotions freely swimming in his brown eyes.

“Were you able to grab anything else?” Euijoo’s voice has fallen to no more than a whisper.

You just shake your head in response, not bothering to acknowledge your purse and laptop that are placed next to you. Everything else, as far as you know, is gone. Euijoo sighs.

“They said that tomorrow, we can come back to look for things,” you whisper, swallowing back the sob that threatens to escape your throat. “But they told us not to get our hopes up.”

Euijoo is silent for a moment, staring at you with those deep dark eyes. You can feel the intensity of his stare with your eyes closed, having been on the receiving end of that same gaze many times. You know he pities you, but that’s the last thing you want right now.

“I’m taking you home, back to my place. You can stay there for as long as you need.”

Your eyes pop open, meeting Euijoo’s gaze for the first time that night. “You don’t have to. I can get a hotel or something for the night.”

“Absolutely not. When you moved out here, I promised your parents that I would take care of you, so that’s what I’m going to do.” Euijoo stands again to his full height, reaching out a hand that you eye warily. “Now let’s go home.”

. . .

Euijoo’s body wash smells of wood and cinnamon, the smell filling the bathroom and replacing the scent of fire and smoke that had previously seeped into your skin. Even his body lotion has a very specific scent, one that you are all too familiar with. The aroma clings to his clothes, along with a faint hint of laundry detergent, filling your nose as you slip into one of his shirts and a pair of shorts. They both hang incredibly long on you, shoulders in the shirt sagging while the shorts are snug around your hips.

Your wet hair has been pulled back into a bun, which you know will be a mess to tame in the morning. But Euijoo didn’t have any of the right hair products, and you would rather die than ask him to buy you something at the moment. Even when he offered, you shut him down, letting him know that anything he was missing would be a problem for the next day. After all, it was already well after midnight.

Euijoo’s eyes soften around the edges when you finally emerge from the bathroom, smiling timidly at you from the couch. You plop down unceremoniously next to him, hugging your knees to your chest as you back into the corner of the couch. Its leather creaks with the movement, a familiar sound after all these years.

“I ordered some food, just in case you haven’t eaten,” Euijoo says, inching further into your space. It’s impossible to fight a flinch when he places a hand on your bare knee, right where his shorts have ridden up your thigh. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine.”

Without looking, you know that Euijoo is rolling his eyes, the tiny hint of sass that he’s harbored since childhood peeking through.

“Well, I called your dad, and he said you only texted your parents briefly. He wanted to talk to you but I told him that you were showering and probably didn’t feel like talking.” Euijoo gives your thigh a firm squeeze. “But I was hoping you’d at least talk to me.”

Your heart lurches at the thought of Euijoo speaking to your family, even though you know it has been a regular occurrence since you were teenagers. Your parents had always been fond of him, the picture-perfect image of the boy next door. And as you grew older, Euijoo had basically been absorbed into the family. Even though he’s been your best friend since you were children, you don’t know why the thought of talking to him right now is making your stomach swim.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” you mumble, shrinking further into the couch cushions.

“Y/N…just…look at me, please?”

It takes all your strength, but you manage to tear your gaze away from your knees to meet Euijoo’s own. His rounded eyes are sparkling like they always are, a hint of sadness dampening their brightness. His lips pull up into a small smile at the eye contact, plush cheeks dimpling. His warm hand is still placed firmly on your thigh, large enough to span most of its circumference.

“There you are,” he coos, beginning to rub light circles on the exposed skin of your thigh. “Listen, I know you. I know you’re going to keep saying everything is fine because you don’t want anyone to worry about you. But your entire apartment building just burned down. You’re feeling something. You have to talk to someone about it. Even if it’s not me, you have to let someone in.”

You blink, and when you reopen your eyes, your vision is cloudy. Fat, hot tears spill over, leaving scalding trails down your cheeks. You can barely make out Euijoo’s smile dropping before you are pulled into a tight embrace. When you both were younger, you used to hate when Euijoo would use his overwhelming strength against you. But now, you are grateful for it, knowing you wouldn’t have hugged him otherwise.

“I was so scared, Juju,” you sob into the crook of his neck. “I was just in my room and when I opened the door, everything was in flames. There wasn’t anywhere I could go! I was trapped on the balcony until they came and got me. I thought I was gonna die.”

Euijoo just squeezes you tighter at the outburst, placing a kiss on the crown of your head. “I’m so sorry. But you’re okay now. You’re safe here with me.”

The two of you are quiet for a few moments, the only thing interrupting the silence being the occasional hiccup or sniffle. It feels like ages until you have finally calmed down enough to pull away. But when you do, you notice the tear tracks drying on Euijoo’s ruddy cheeks.

“Why are you crying?” You ask softly.

Euijoo just shrugs, chuckling sadly. “I don’t like seeing you upset.”

You don’t have enough time to respond before the doorbell rings, signaling the arrival of your food. Euijoo excuses himself to go answer it, allowing you to admire the long lines of his legs as he retreats. You can’t help but feel embarrassed, as you always are around the man. But you hate the way he leaves your heart hammering in your chest as you stare.

It’s not like you are unaware of how attractive Euijoo is. After all, the first time you ever laid eyes on him at seven years old, you swore he was the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen. Despite the childish attraction, you had grown to love him in a much deeper way, the kind of love that only develops when you know someone inside and out. Euijoo grew taller, older, buffer, more handsome, and you had found a million ways to love him differently, love him deeper. The love you had for Euijoo surely changed, which leaves you hating the way your body heats up and your pulse picks up speed as Euijoo rounds the corner.

His wide smile is paired with crinkled eyes and you feel a piece of your heart turn heavy like lead.

“I’m like 90% sure they got some of our order wrong, but there’s still plenty of good stuff in case you’re hungry.”

You don’t bother looking at the takeout bag, too busy guiltily feasting your eyes on the sight before you.

. . .

Falling into a routine is unfairly easy. The two of you will wake up from your shared bed, at Euijoo’s insistence that you don’t sleep on the couch, and begin to get ready for the day. You cook breakfast as Euijoo gets ready for work, cherishing the fact that your job has permitted you plenty of personal leave. You watch him leave in a crisply pressed suit and daintily patterned tie, off to his accounting job for a few hours.

Then you sit in silence, ruminating over everything that has led you to this exact moment. You replay the moment that you were confronted with a wall of flames, feeling heat lick at your toes the same way it did that night. You let your shoulders shake in terror the same way they did when you were trapped on the balcony, fearing for your life. You cough like the billowing smoke is clouding your lungs, even though the air in Euijoo’s apartment is crisp and smells faintly of lemon-scented cleaner.

Then Euijoo comes through the door, and you slap a smile on your face. Sometimes he returns with takeout, bag overflowing with all of your shared favorites. Sometimes he comes with a bag full of groceries, which the two of you unpack together while Euijoo recounts his day. You’re quick to shoo him away as you begin to cook.

It’s the only thing that makes you feel like less of a parasite than you are.

You’re both following that exact routine until you reach your first Saturday, and Euijoo practically vibrates in excitement at the prospect of spending the day together. Despite living in the same city, the two of you have rarely spent full days together, work or other personal engagements always getting in the way.

“I was thinking of having a few friends over tonight,” Euijoo mentions over a bowl of cereal. “I feel like you haven’t met enough of my friends.”

“It’s your house,” you shrug, burying your nose into your own bowl so you don't have to face the disappointed look in his eye.

“Y/N, you gotta stop with that.”

“With what?” You snap.

You know you’re being difficult. You know that all Euijoo wants is some positive input from his best friend, but you can’t. It hurts deep in your core to give him what he’s wanting when you know you are already taking so much. You shouldn’t be here, and you definitely shouldn’t have a say in whether or not Euijoo has his friends over tonight. Yet, he wants to hear from you.

Like he thinks you’re important. Like he thinks you matter. Like he thinks you’re more than just a virus, invading a host for selfish gain.

You have nothing to gain, you remind yourself.

“I’m sorry, Juju,” you sigh, brushing a stray piece of hair away from your face. “I’m not trying to be a bitch. I mean it.”

Euijoo’s spoon falls into his porcelain bowl with a loud clink. “I know you’re not. You’re just going through a lot right now. But I just want to help you.”

“You’re doing way more than just helping me.”

“I feel like I’m not doing enough.”

You sigh. “What do you mean? You’re already doing so much by just having me here and I can’t help but just wonder why.”

“Because I love you.”

The way he says it jumpstarts your heart, hotwiring it so it’s moving at a million miles per hour in your chest. You know he doesn’t mean it the way you want him to. He loves in the way a best friend loves, in the way family loves, that much is clear.

But there’s something in his open expression that has your heart clinging onto a maybe. Maybe he has loved you the way you have loved him and hated yourself for. Maybe he knows that being loved is all that you have ever wanted but is simultaneously your greatest fear. Maybe he knows that all of your belongings disappearing right before your very eyes while he was the only thing that remained meant something to you.

“You’re my best friend.”

Or maybe it meant nothing at all.

Euijoo sighs, leaning back in his chair before addressing you across the table from him. “It’s impossible for me not to worry about you when you won’t talk to me, or to anyone! You don’t leave the house and it just scares me. I want to help you, but I can’t do anything until you let me.”

You swallow, your bite of cereal feeling too thick as it travels down your esophagus. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Euijoo mutters as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Just let me in.”

“I’m trying.”

“Are you?”

You’re not, and you both know it. If anything, you’re doing the exact opposite, trying to close yourself off as much as possible. You shrink into spaces, making yourself so small that Euijoo will forget that you’re there. It never seems to work, though. The other man sees you no matter where you attempt to hide.

There’s a moment of silence as the two best friends regard each other. Silently, you mourn your cereal getting soggy in your bowl even though you have lost your appetite. Euijoo’s own is empty, his metal spoon resting against the pure white bowl. For a moment, you catch a whiff of cinnamon. You’re temporarily perplexed, only to have your own question answered when the neckline of Euijoo’s shirt shifts against your collarbones. Despite not wanting to feel parasitic, you can’t refuse the comfort of literally living in his clothes.

“I just want you to be happy and have some fun tonight, so I’m going to have some people stop by.” Euijoo doesn’t once break eye contact as he speaks. “It’s not going to be big, but it will be good for you to talk to someone who isn’t me.”

You suppress a scoff, knowing that you don't really talk to Euijoo either, not in the way he desires. “Fine. Like I said, it’s your house.”

You don't stay to hear the exasperated sigh that Euijoo lets out, choosing instead to dump the remains of your cereal in the trash. There isn’t much other space to retreat to, so you make yourself comfy on the sofa, just barely out of Euijoo’s sight. It’s only a moment before the man joins you, hoisting your legs onto his lap.

“Movie?” He questions, thumb rubbing small circles into the bare skin of your ankle as if all is forgiven.

You just make a small noise of affirmation before sinking further into the cushions, letting yourself get comfortable as Euijoo puts something on.

Euijoo’s touch used to fluster you, back when you were in that awkward stretch of preteen and early teen years. No guys touched girls the way that Euijoo touched you unless they were dating. The girls in your classes would always try and convince you that it had to mean something more, that he had to feel something more for you than just platonic love. He loved loved you.

It didn’t help that you loved him way more than you should have.

It was enough to make you flinch when he wrapped an arm around your waist and pull away when he trapped you in a hug. You avoided holding hands on the way home from school and refused to share earbuds when the two of you sat next to each other. It would all make your heart pound too hard and your palms so sweaty that your phone would slip through your grasp.

You were just friends; that you knew. It didn’t matter that Euijoo loved to play with the loose pieces of hair that framed your face or that his hand outgrew yours to the point where your fingers swam in the spaces between his. It didn’t matter that your chest constricted every time his right cheek dimpled or that your face burned every time he called you by your name.

Because every boiling pot eventually cools to a simmer when the heat dissipates.

As you two grew into late teens and early adulthood, you eventually relaxed into the affection that Euijoo would display. The constriction relaxed to a minor tightness and the burn became more of a minor glow. You became more confident that this is what friends feel for each other, a love so vast that it fills your core to the brim but never fully encompasses you.

You would gladly let him encompass you. But until he does, you’ll have to make do with his scent.

You find yourself using Euijoo’s body wash in the shower before the party, even though your own has made a home right next to his. You also use his lotion, rubbing the scent of him into your skin. As much as you contemplate wearing his clothes again, you know that it will only be right to put on your best for tonight. Your makeup and hair are done for the first time in a week, and you feel a bit more like yourself again.

You feel like a girl anyone can look at and not know she’s screaming inside. You consider it a win.

The few friends that Euijoo invites over arrive in waves. It gives you enough time to introduce yourself and make some small talk before having to do it time and time again. By the fifth or so introduction, though, you’re feeling a little worn out, even with the booze that helps ease your nerves. You grab another seltzer from the fridge and squeeze into the corner of the sofa. You only have a few moments of peace before the leather dips beside you.

“Mind if I join you?”

Deep, piercing eyes are only barely visible behind overgrown black fringe, the rest of his hair falling down the back of his neck. Nicholas’s smile is welcoming, extremely warm and familiar for someone you have just met a handful of minutes ago. Despite the assortment of clunky rings, silver jewelry, and thick eyeliner, he seems pretty soft and pleasant.

“Go ahead,” you mumble, taking a long swig from your can.

“You know, It’s nice to finally meet you, the infamous but ever-illusive best friend. Euijoo literally talks about you all the time.”

You wish you could say the same, but Euijoo has always been notoriously quiet about others when you two speak. It used to bug you, not knowing anything about who your best friend chose to spend his time with. But throughout the years, you were forced to let it go.

“Good things, I hope.”

Nicholas chuckles softly. “Great things, actually. But something tells me it still doesn’t compare to you in real life.”

“You don’t even know me,” you scoff. “How would you know what I’m like?”

“Well, if your personality is anything like your beauty, then I think Euijoo just barely scratched the surface.”

The snort that you let out genuinely takes you by surprise. You rush to apologize, free hand coming up to hide your grin despite the way Nicholas is smiling as well. He looks pretty like this, you note, with his cheeks twisted upwards and eyes shining with mirth.

“I’m so sorry,” you giggle. “But that was a crazy line.”

Nicholas shrugs. “Listen, making pretty girls laugh is an art form. I had to say what I had to say. You honestly looked like you were going to commit murder just sitting here.”

Now it’s your turn to shrug, the smooth beats of Euijoo’s playlist soothing the silence between the two. The brief moment of respite is enough for you to feel a pair of eyes on you from across the room. When you turn to face Euijoo, though, he just shoots you a calm smile.

“I don’t think he likes that I’m talking to you.”

“Who? Euijoo?”

Nicholas doesn’t respond, choosing instead to take a long swig of his drink. The silver rings on his fingers reflect the minimal light in the room as he tilts his cup back. You struggle not to trace the movement of his throat with your gaze as he drinks.

“Why would he not want you to talk to me?”

“I think it’s because you’re off limits, sweetheart.”

Before you can respond, a warm body plops down on the couch next to you, instantly pressing into your space. The woodsy scent of Euijoo’s cologne is confirmation enough, but the way his hand instantly finds a home on your thigh is a dead giveaway. When you look over to regard the man, his eyes are trained away, locked on Nicholas instead.

“And what are you two chatting about?” He inquires with an overly saccharine smile.

Nicholas just smiles. “See what I mean?”

He’s gone with little more than a wink and a subtle tip of his cup.

. . .

Sunday morning brings a welcome mundane energy. You and Euijoo stand side by side at the sink, sudsy hands working on washing sticky juice and lip gloss off glasses from the night before. There’s soft music playing from Euijoo’s phone, a pleasant melody filling the silence along with the sound of flowing water. Despite the serenity, you can’t help the question itching in the back of your brain.

“So what was that last night?”

“What was what?” Euijoo’s eyes are endearingly round when he turns to look at the woman on his left.

You sigh. “That whole thing with Nicholas? We were talking and then you came in seeming all threatened?”

“Threatened?” Euijoo chuckles. “Why would I be threatened?”

“I have no idea. That’s why I’m asking.”

The smile that rises on Euijoo’s face doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His ears begin to bloom a brilliant shade of red, tipping you off to the lie he’s about to tell.

“I wasn’t threatened. It made me happy to see two of my closest friends getting along.”

The sound of the faucet running prevents you from responding, Euijoo having turned it on with a sense of finality. You decide not to push it, knowing that when Euijoo gets cagey like this, time and space are the only thing that can make him open up. You guess it’s what makes the two of you similar, your limited ability to be transparent with each other over the things that really matter.

You spend the rest of the day circling around each other like animals in an enclosure. You share space, following each other from room to room while simultaneously keeping as much distance as physically possible. When Euijoo sits on one side of the couch, you sit on the other. When you rummage through the fridge, Euijoo stands by the breakfast table. It isn’t until you both find yourselves in the shared bathroom, brushing your teeth over a shared sink that you speak.

“I think threatened is the wrong word for it,” Euijoo says with a foamy mouth. “I just know how Nicholas is, so I wanted you to be careful.”

You spit. “What do you mean?”

“He’s the player type, likes to fuck around.” Euijoo spits and swishes some water around his mouth before continuing. “I know he thinks you’re cute or whatever. But you deserve better than that.”

“Since when do you care about my love life?”

“Since forever.”

There it goes again, the feeling of maybe. You are left to wonder if he means that in the sense that you want him to mean it. You wonder if his attention to you comes from his Virgo nature or from his genuine care for you. You wonder if it comes from his love for you, and if it’s the same type of love that you have for him.

“You know I don’t date like that,” you mumble, folding your arms over your chest. You’re once again clad in Euijoo’s tee shirt, a tiny pair of shorts disappearing underneath its hem.

Euijoo sighs. “I know. But I also know that Nico doesn’t care about dating. That’s not what he’d want from you.”

“And who’s to say that’s what I want from him either?”

“I didn’t know you were that type.”

I’m not, you want to say, but the words swirl back down your throat like water down a drain. You don't get a chance to respond before Euijoo is leaving the bathroom, running a hand through his hair. It feels pathetic to follow him out, but you do anyway, trying to find words as you plop down onto his bed. Euijoo switches the light off before settling in next to his best friend.

“Look,” Euijoo says after a moment of silence. “If you want to go after Nico, then I can’t stop you. I’m sure he’d be happy to have you.”

“Would you?”

“Would I what?”

“Have me? In that way, I mean.”

The words leave your mouth before you can properly process what they mean. You want to rush to take them back, to let the words that hang in the darkness return to the safety of your brain. For some reason, you let them linger.

Euijoo releases a shaky breath, the sound seeming thunderous in the silent darkness. For a good moment, that’s all there is. You would be convinced that the man fell asleep if it weren’t for the odd rhythm of his breathing and the way his body shifts.

“Y/N, I could never.”

The blood in your veins ices over, leaving you frozen in place.

“Oh.”

Euijoo shifts on the bed, laying on his side so that he’s able to fully face you. “I mean there’s all of this. You’re in a vulnerable spot and we’ve been spending a lot of time together. I’m sure you’re just feeling a lot right now.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Euijoo sighs. “That’s why I also want you to think twice before going for Nico.”

You want to scream. How Euijoo could bring Nicholas up at a time like this is beyond you. You don't know how he can’t see that this isn’t about him. This isn’t about trauma or a fire or needing a warm bed to sleep in. This is about you, both of you. This has been about you way before the fire and will continue to be about you for years after.

But it’s no use, you know that much. In times of conflict, Euijoo has always been quick to skirt around the topic, always trying to obscure the truth through diversion. But there’s one simple fact that remains clear; Euijoo doesn’t want you. Or rather, he doesn’t want you to want him.

“I really hate when you do this, you know,” you spit.

You can almost hear Euijoo’s eye roll as he speaks. “When I do what?”

“When you try to tell me how I feel. You don’t know shit about how I’m feeling.”

“I could,” Euijoo retorts. “But you never let me in. So what the hell do you expect me to do?”

Even in the dark, you know the man’s face has turned red, hot with frustration. The knowledge is enough to keep you silent for a moment, carefully mulling over your words before you speak.

“If I tell you how I’m feeling, I’m going to end up telling you too much.”

“You could never tell me too much.”

You can’t help but sigh, letting your eyes flutter shut. “I just did.”

. . .

Cleaning the entire apartment is how you choose to put salve on the wounds of your friendship. You scrub away at the grime on the countertops, wipe the grease and stains from every mirror, and mop the floor until you can see your reflection in it. It’s not much, but it’s something to distract you from the red hot feeling that blooms in your chest when you think about the night before.

Bits of yourself seeped through the locked cage of your heart last night. And now that they’re out in the open, you’re not sure if they will ever return to you.

Euijoo returns home from work with a sigh, loosening his tie right when he comes through the doorway. The skin underneath his eyes has taken on a purplish hue, fine lines settling deep from exhaustion. He doesn’t even look like himself, despite looking everything like himself. You hate how you think he looks beautiful.

“Hey,” he greets softly when he strolls into the kitchen. “I didn’t have time to pick anything up, so I ordered delivery.”

You nod once, before tuning into the fact that the man has yet to look at you. “That’s fine.”

The silence that overcomes the kitchen hangs low like nimbostratus clouds, heavy with rainwater. It’s almost oppressive, the way Euijoo’s gaze remains down at his feet while you pick at your cuticles. Never in your decades of friendship have you ever had tension like this. You hate the way it makes your throat constrict, suddenly parched for a connection that won’t come.

“Are you okay?” You manage to croak out. “You look…stressed.”

Euijoo lets out a sarcastic chuckle. “Maybe because I am.”

“Why?”

Finally, Euijoo’s gaze snaps up to meet your own, eyes holding a sense of disbelief. “My best friend propositioned me last night and I turned her down. And when I turned her down, she lost it on me.”

“Juju, I—,”

“No,” he interrupts, voice scratchy from the thickness in his throat. “Don’t do that now. I’m just…what’s going on with you, Y/N? I don’t know what has changed, but it’s killing me. Why can’t you just tell me what’s been going on with you so I can help?”

Your eyes begin to sting as Euijoo speaks, the beginnings of tears welling up near your waterline. It takes a few seconds for you to swallow down the lump that sits high in your throat. Your hands are dry from various cleaning solutions as they flex and contract at your sides, looking for something to grasp onto. You just end up balling them into fists, letting your nails press grounding pains into your palms.

“I told you how much you’ve already helped me.”

Euijoo sighs, running a hand through his hair. “And I told you that wasn’t enough. So talk to me, tell me why I can’t help you anymore. Tell me why you asked me to sleep with you all of a sudden! Tell me why you’ve been so weird about this whole situation from the beginning!”

“Because I need you!”

You don't know when your voice gained enough power to come out as a yell, shrill and pained. But once it does, the dam breaks. You know you are helpless to stop it.

“I need you, and it scares me, Juju. You’re my best friend and I love you and need you in ways that you don’t need me. You provide me with everything and I’m just here as your best friend. I’m the friend you don’t even bring around much and the friend you don’t let anyone talk to! You make it so clear that you don’t need me and yet, here I am, living off you like some parasite.

“I love you, Euijoo. I’m in love with you. And knowing that you don’t love me back is one thing. But for you to take my love for you and throw it in my face as just another one of my vulnerabilities is cruel. You ask why I don’t let you in, and this is why. If I do, I’ll just tell you how I feel and you’ll pity me like you do now.”

Lightning strikes across Euijoo’s face as he listens, expression slowly twisting in pain. It’s a flash of a million emotions at once. Surprise, hurt, disbelief, and then it all mellows out into a calm nothingness.

“Have you only felt this way since the fire?”

You fight the urge to scream at the top of your lungs. “No. I’ve felt this way since forever, maybe.”

“Are you sure?” The man’s eyes reflect the light in the room, glossed over and twinkling with the first hints of unshed tears.

“You know what’s funny,” you bite out. “When I lost everything, there was only one thing that remained constant in my life, even through the fire.”

“Me?”

“My feelings for you.”

Euijoo sucks in an audible breath, shaky and laborious. It’s as if the confession finally sunk into his consciousness, as if he finally understood exactly what you meant when you said you loved him. His shoulders immediately sag in relief as the first few tears begin to trail down his cheeks. Despite the tears, he can’t help but smile.

“Y/N, I’ve been in love with you since we were eleven.”

“What?”

Euijoo just chuckles, sniffling twice before continuing. “I thought that you knew and that’s why you were shutting me out! And then when you just asked if I would sleep with you, I thought you were just rubbing it in my face. Either that or you were just emotionally a mess and needed some support.”

“Well, I am,” you respond with a watery smile. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t love you, too.”

Euijoo slowly approaches your tense figure, as if not to spook you. Even his hand movements are subtle as they reach for your dry hands. With just a small tug, you find yourself stumbling forward, far into Euijoo’s space. The height difference is enough to force you to crane your neck upwards to make eye contact, not surprised to see the man already smiling down at you.

Tears continue to stream down Euijoo’s face, the wetness dripping from the tip of his nose down to the floor. You know you probably look similar, despite having tried your hardest to fight back tears from the beginning. It’s no use now. Your walls have already come crashing down.

“I love you,” Euijoo whispers, as if sharing a secret not meant to escape your own personal bubble. “I always have, and I think I always will.”

You release a shaky breath, body trembling in Euijoo’s hold. “I love you, too.”

“Can I…?” Euijoo doesn’t finish his question, eyes simply darting down to your lips before meeting your gaze once again.

All it takes is a slow nod before a hand is wrapping around your waist, pulling you in closer and closer until—

When you were twelve, you had your first kiss. It was nothing more than a simple peck, shared on the back of the school bus on a school field trip. You remember the way your heart fluttered back then, palms clammy and body vibrating with nerves. You felt kind of gross afterwards, but giddy nonetheless.

When you told Euijoo later that day, he looked shocked. He floundered for a moment as he stood in place, frozen on their walk home from school. You remember lightly punching his shoulder, asking him what his deal was. It seemed to be enough to shock him out of his stupor, only snapping back to attention to say:

“That was your first kiss. They always say that’s the one you’re going to remember forever.”

Euijoo was wrong. If there’s one kiss that you will remember forever, it’s this one, with Euijoo’s large hands spanning the circumference of your waist. It’s this one, with Euijoo’s plush yet slightly chapped lips grazing yours. It’s this one, with the salt of tears mixing in with the taste of each others’ mouths. It’s this one, with Euijoo.

When the two of you part, Euijoo presses his forehead to yours, allowing your breaths to mingle as you pant. You can’t seem to quite open your eyes yet, simply basking in the sensation of Euijoo taking over all of your senses. You relish in the sound of his labored breathing. You love the warmth of his palms through the thin t-shirt you’re wearing.

You bask in the scent of him, the bold aroma of cinnamon, tinged with a hint of smoke.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Just One Reason: Eye to Eye

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Lloyd Hansen

masterlist - to be added

Summary: A chance encounter at the sandwich shop doesn’t end how you expect.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

It’s all a blur. Grey and obscure. You wallow in your reawakened grief until you’re too tired to cry any more. Consciousness isn’t much different than the alternative and when the world comes back into focus, it’s just as confusing as ever. 

The pillow under your head is firm yet warm. You peel your cheek off of Lloyd’s arm and stare down at it groggily. How long has he been there with you? 

His eyes are closed, his chest rises and falls evenly, and he looks for once, at peace. When he’s awake, he is like a wild animal. Always talking, always smirking, indefatigable. Seeing him like this almost makes you think you’re dreaming. 

You groan and sit up. You put your back to him and bend over your lap. You wear the same clothes as before. Your only clothes. Everything is gone. Even you tears. You have nothing left to spend. 

You pull your hands away from your face and grip the edge of the bed. You stare at the window frame, the curtains rich and finely patterned with golden ivy. The walls are pristine as is every other piece in the room. All of it nicer than anything you ever had. But what you had before was priceless. 

The tickle along your back makes you squeak. The bed shifts and Lloyd grumbles, “tootsie, you okay?” He drags his fingertips up your shirt. 

You’re silent. You are not okay. You've been trying for more than a year to be okay. It’s time to accept that you’re not. 

“Hey, you need something? Some water?” He squeezes your shoulder and you wince. 

You shake your head. “I-- I think I should leave.” 

“Leave? What do you—you can’t--” 

“I’ll find somewhere. I did it before. It’s... not your problem, Lloyd,” you murmur. 

He moves across the bed to sit next to you. His slings his arm across your shoulder. “I can’t let you go. Not as your friend--” 

“You don’t have to,” you insist as you twiddle your fingers, shrinking under his thick arm. 

“I want to,” he says. “Look, tootsie roll. I’ve never been a good man. Never been great at the truth. Or emotions. Any of that. You saw that. That day we met. But look, I... you changed me. You helped me. So let me help you.” 

“What?” Your lip trembles as you look at him. “I didn’t--” 

“You did,” he winks, “come on. I was a jackass. And I can still be one. I won’t pretend I’ve repented but you did something. Hell, it’s selfish, ‘specially after everything, but if you go, I’m gonna be a mess.” 

“No, you’re just saying...” you mumble. 

“Hey, I don’t say anything I don’t need to say. Trust me. Alright? You’re twisting my arm here making me pour my heart out but if it keeps you here, safe, well, I’ll just suck up my pride,” he says. “So, it’s up to you but I’m just saying, I don’t mind if you stick around.” 

You stare at him. He’s right, when you met him, he did seem to be a bit of a jerk. Since then, he’s been... better. More so, he’s been there. 

You look down and think. It feels worse to just go. Not only because you don’t know where to go but because you’d just be leaving him after everything he did. He deserves better. He deserves to know. 

“I didn’t tell you something,” you say quietly. 

He leans in, squeezing your arm as he holds you against his side. “Didn’t tell me what?” 

You sniff and rub your nose, “I didn’t... last year, my dad died. We were close and it’s... tough.” You blink against the burn in your eyes. “His ashes were in my apartment. That’s all I had left.” 

He’s quiet. For a long time. You are too. It feels lighter to say it out loud but it also feels real. And he feels tense. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t mention it,” you utter. 

“No...” he clears his throat. “That’s... thanks for telling me. Can’t be easy.” 

He retracts his arm and stands up. He crosses his arms then drops them. He seems restless. 

“You want a coffee? I need a coffee,” he says. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t mind a tea, if you have it,” you slip over the edge so your toes touch the floor. 

“Take your time, sweetie,” he waves you off, “kitchen’s downstairs. Hook around the banister and it’s the first door behind that.” 

“Right, thanks,” you nod. 

He leaves you. You don’t think he’s upset, maybe he just doesn’t know how to handle that news. Like he said, he’s not good at emotion. Well, you don’t think you are either. 

You inhale and stand. You pad around the room and hug yourself as you go out into the hall. You blanch at the decor. It’s all so nice. Is he really that rich? And he’s been hanging out with you? 

You cringe. He’s seen your apartment. Saw. Oh. It brings back that feeling of when you were a kid. Everyone else had brand new things and you had what would do. You appreciated everything your dad got you but when you’re young, you think those things you matter. You wish he was there so you can tell him how much he did. 

You falter as you get to the stairs. You reach for the railing and begin a slow descent. You’re so weak, you think you might fall if you don’t hold on. You get to the bottom and recall his directions. 

You follow the thrum of the electric kettle into the kitchen. Lloyd intently slides a small metal cup attached to a long wooden handle into a fancy red machine. One of those fancy espresso makers you see in cafes. 

“I have some chamomile or green. I got a gift set a while back but I don’t really do tea,” he explains over his shoulder. 

“That’s fine. Chamomile, please,” you reply. 

“Sit,” he nods toward one of the high seats along the island. “You just take it easy. Let old Lolly take care of you.” 

You climb up and cross your arms over the cold marble. You watch his back. His shirt strains across his broad silhouette, outlining his shoulder blades.  

Looking around and at him, you still wonder, why is he wasting his time on you? All because you were nice enough to pay for a wrap? Has no ever been nice to him before? That thought makes you sad for him. You’ll stay, just a little bit, until you can get back on your feet. 

[numinously-yours]

Choose a bird: How to be the best version of YOU

Thank you to those of you who messaged. I appreciate both your ideas AND your patience. I really thought things were settled down when I asked for your thoughts and then they ramped right back up. But here I am!

Choose a bird from above for a free reading. Today's topic: how to be the best version of yourself. I asked the cards three questions:

What does the best version of yourself look like (to you)?

What steps can you take on your journey to your best self?

How can you avoid getting caught up in others' perspectives?

Your choices are below! Like, reply, or reblog if it resonates, and tag your group if you feel inclined :)

Group 1: Aibo Tarot

What does the best version of you look like? Three of Wands

The best version of you is someone confident standing on their own. You may be dependent on other people for your happiness but you want so badly to be happy on your own. There is a fear that if you start your own journey that you won’t find other/more people that make you feel comfortable and safe.  I have a sense that the people you surround yourself with are simply fine, but they also don’t make you feel empowered to do your own thing or speak your differences. There is a lot of keeping the peace because that’s easier than being alone. It doesn’t mean these people are bad friends or negative influences necessarily, but you know there could be something more. You are longing to find that. You are longing to find yourself, too.

What steps can you take in the process? The Tower & The King of Pentacles

It’s time to create your own tower moment. It may sound counterintuitive since the Tower represents upheaval and chaos. Typically, it’s not something someone is excited to bring upon themselves. But, I think in your case, it’s going to be more beneficial than detrimental. You have to burn some bridges. You have to have some falling outs. Yes, moving forward from your comfort zone is going to feel weird as hell. It’s going to feel scary. You may be worried that ending friendships or setting boundaries was a bad idea, but it is all for the sake of becoming the best version of you. Trust me.  The reversed King in particular is asking you to “give yourself permission to break free and do something different.” Just as a phoenix, your tower will rise again from the ashes even stronger than before.

How can you avoid getting caught up in other’s perceptions? Moonlight, Four of Cups, The Magician

The visual for this pull is below because it was kind of a fun way for the cards to drop 😊 I asked this question and the first card fell: Moonlight in reverse. This moonlight card is specific to this deck, so it doesn’t necessarily have the same meaning as The Moon does in tarot. The first phrase that came to me when I was looking at the card was “turn that frown upside down”. Because the card doesn’t have a traditional meaning, I wanted to shuffle one more time for cards that DO have trad. meanings. These are the two that came out – in this order! THE FROWN IS TURNED UPSIDE DOWN! What does this mean in execution, though?

Recognize the power you have in creating your own life and stop dimming your light. I know that it takes work to feel confident in spaces where you feel small but it is worth the practice! The more you execute your power, say yes to yourself, and make yourself heard the easier it will get. Not only easier in doing it but easier in believing it, too.

Group 2: Delos Tarot

What does the best version of you look like? Two of Cups

For you, I think to feel like the best version of yourself, you are wanting to be in a space where you can create and maintain meaningful relationships. It’s not that you lack relationships, but they feel a little surface level or superficial. You want to feel that SOMETHING, and you want to bring that something to others. You may have your own personal goals when it comes to relationships – wanting a work bestie, wanting a romantic relationship, wanting a strong relationship with a sibling, etc. But overall, the ability to form these relationships as a whole is really what you long for.

What steps can you take in the process? The Devil reversed

My first thought “quit thinking you’re the devil!” lol When in relationships, you focus on your negative qualities. You are always thinking of how you can bring more to the table rather than focusing on what you already DO bring to the table. You tend to psych yourself out when you get close to forming the bond that you crave. An actionable step you should look into taking is working on your shadow self. There are a lot of websites with lists of shadow work questions that get to the root of these types of fears. Shadow work makes you think of things in a different perspective. It could help you determine WHY you shut yourself off at certain times. It helps identify triggers in relationships so you can sense them when they appear and know how to deal with them. Then, I know this is easier said than done, but you gotta push through the discomfort, too. Perhaps your relationships fade when you’re right on the brink of vulnerability. Instead of ebbing backward, take that leap into the unknown. It’s the only way you’re going to get passed that piece.

How can you avoid getting caught up in other’s perceptions? King of Swords rev. and Strength

I know it’s way easier to say online but finding the courage to just be yourself is honestly going to be the best thing you can do for yourself. I feel that you may preemptively get caught in what you THINK others’ perceptions are of you before you know their true perceptions. I know you KNOW what your inner truth is, but you deserve to understand WHY it’s your truth. You have a lot to contribute to relationships and having this better relationship with yourself can also contribute to gaining courage to just be yourself. Doing that shadow work can be really good for you in that growth, too Each time you seem caught up in someone else’s perception, ask yourself why you’re caught up in it. Is it actually an accurate depiction of who you are? Are you trying to protect yourself before anything scary actually happens? Find the strength to be rational because it’s gonna change your mind set a LOT. 

Group 3: Everyday Tarot

What does the best version of you look like? Ace of Swords

The best version of yourself, group 3, is someone who is continually growing. You want to be open to expansion, ideas, spontaneity, and adventure. You may feel a little stuck right now. I definitely think you have the excitement and adrenaline inside you, and you’re ready to let it out. You’re not longing for motivation or inspiration, you’re longing for an outlet for the motivation and inspiration already inside of you.  You may wonder, “how do I explore new opportunities if I don’t know where to start?” “How can I continue growing when people and places around me aren’t growing?” Let’s find out!

What steps can you take in the process? The Devil reversed & The Queen of Pentacles

Let go of unhealthy attachments and nurture yourself if/when you feel guilty for doing so. Part of what keeps you feeling a bit stuck is not wanting to leave anyone behind. You care a lot about a lot of people and want them to experience this growth with you. They’re not quite ready though. YOU being ready doesn’t make you better than them, it just means you’re in a different place. Accepting the unknown that lies ahead is also important for you, group 3. No matter how ready you are, moving forward (likely on a solo journey) is scary! It’s like jumping off the high dive. You just…gotta do it. Lastly, as you move forward onto fun adventures, remember to keep some sense of practicality – this means being aware of what might be TOO much right now, but also knowing that you can do hard things.  

How can you avoid getting caught up in other’s perceptions? King of Wands reversed

Stop setting unrealistic expectations for yourself! I think this really speaks from that last bit of steps you can take. Being practical also means believing in yourself and your amazingness. I feel this extends to knowing you’re capable of being in these people’s lives while still going out and expanding your boundaries. It doesn’t have to be either/or, it can be both. The perceptions you’re caught up in currently might be self-created. People around you might not have even considered the thoughts you think they have. Stop yourself in your tracks if you find you’re going down a road of worry. These people are proud of you and WANT you to succeed. They also think it’s pretty neat that they’re friend is so cool 😉<3

[niki-phoria]

pairing: dabi x male!reader (no pronouns used; masc reader) genre: angst (??)/suggestive word count: 755

includes: reader being shirtless, lowkey asshole dabi, smoking/sharing cigarettes, might make a part 02, written with male reader in mind

a/n: school starts tomorrow for me (<//3) so fics will probably slow down for a while but i've had this idea for a while so i figured i would write it, lowkey based on this

summary: late night smoking with situationship dabi

likes, reblogs, comments, and feedback are always appreciated <33

pushing the door open, you wander into a nearby alleyway. you can still smell the weed from the group of stoners that live in the flat above you. at least they have the decency to go outside. cool air stings against your skin as you step out onto the freezing concrete - silently cursing yourself for not at least grabbing a coat before you left. 

despite the goosebumps rising along your skin, you stumble further into the darkness before leaning your back against the brick wall. it feels damp against your bare skin - likely from the storm that had hit last night. 

you hold a cigarette between your lips as you flick the lighter on; cupping your hand around the small flame. you slip the plastic device into a pocket of your sweatpants once the cigarette begins to burn. 

the familiar feeling of smoke invading your lungs gives you an unsettling feeling of comfort. your eyes flutter closed as you slowly exhale; letting the fumes hang heavily in the air. 

your eyebrows furrow as the events of the day swirl throughout your mind once again. a sigh escapes your lips as you take yet another puff from your cigarette, hoping the methodical action will somehow improve your breathing - like the exercises your counselor had drilled into you from behind her thin glasses and scowl.

breathe the smoke in. breathe your worries out. 

“bad day?” 

a voice interrupts your silent introspection from above. your features contort into a scowl of your own. the sun had set long ago, disguising the man in darkness; though you recognize him by voice alone. you can almost picture the smug smirk on his lips - staples pulled taut because of the action. this time no smoke leaves your lungs when you exhale. 

“something like that.” exhaustion drips from every word that leaves your lips. you’re sure he’s picked up on your annoyance, though he makes no move to leave you alone. 

dabi’s combat boots scrape against the half-wall he had been kneeling on as he jumps down onto the ground below. your tired eyes meet his own as he casually wanders over to stand beside you - so close that the denim of his jacket brushes against your shoulder. 

against your better judgement, you shift slightly to look over at him. your eyes study the stitches decorating his coat and jeans. everything about him is covered in staples; it seems.

bright blue eyes meet your own when you finally look up at him. disheveled black hair falls into his eyes. you resist the urge to reach a hand up to brush the stray strands back into place - instead taking yet another long drag from your cigarette. 

“wanna talk about it?” he asks, breaking the prolonged silence. it’s not an unusual question, though it’s once that you find particularly difficult to answer. nothing from dabi comes for free.

you flick the cigarette between your fingers, watching as the ash falls to the ground. you can feel dabi’s unrelenting stare on you with each movement you make. piercing blue eyes study your expression: the way your lips have remained in a slight frown; your still-furrowed eyebrows; your gaze fixated on the wet ground you’re both standing on.

before you can take another puff, the cigarette is stolen from between your fingers. dabi takes a drag himself before almost immediately blowing the smoke into the air around you. your protests die on your tongue when he reaches over to grab your face. his fingers feel hot against your skin. your breath hitches in your throat as he leans in until your lips just barely brush against each other.

dabi’s hand falls to gently wrap around your neck, keeping you steady. “y/n,” he murmurs. your own name sounds foreign to your ears. 

“touya,” you whisper. his fingertips heat up even more. your hand snakes into his hair, tightly gripping the strands. 

“let me take care of you.” his breath ghosts against your lips. you unconsciously lean even more into his touch. “just for tonight.”

“you always say that,” you mumble, though you make no effort to pull away.

dabi’s hand ghosts against your waist. despite his natural warmth, his touch still sends shivers up your spine. “and i always mean it.”

it’s a bold-faced lie and you both know it, but you remain silent for the moment. vulnerability has never been your strong suit either. 

instead, you lean in until you catch dabi in a kiss - molding your lips together the same way you always do.

[asumofwords]

Smoke, Fire and Ash

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence, death and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on.

This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. You are forced to navigate the difficult surroundings of your upbringing and the eventual disintegration between your family and the Hightower's relationship. What will happen when your older and estranged uncle suddenly takes a more sinister interest in you? (Dark!Aemond x Reader)

Masterlist

Characters: Aemond Targaryen X Reader, HOTD characters.

Note: All of your replies, and reblogs, and love make my heart so very full! You are all so sweet, thank you so very much! I wish I could reply but I am a dumby who made this blog as a secondary one and tumblr wont let me reply with this account :( this chapter was so bittersweet to write. Currently writing another Aemond POV chapter from this story since you all loved the last one, and will post soon! <3 Thank you all again for all the love you show this fic! <3

Chapter 40: Tales from the dead

It was as if your body was on autopilot. Your feet pushed you forward as fast as you could go, racing toward the two figures, pushing past the pain in your side, or the burning in your lungs.

There they were. They were real. In front of you.

Home. 

And nothing in the world could have prepared you for this moment. You could not think, could not do anything, but run towards them with every bit of strength you had left.

“Y/n?” Queen Rhaenyra’s voice cut across the open air, uncertain as your body ran towards them both. 

“Mother!” You cried out, as you got closer. 

Your father beside her tensed as he watched you. You could see their faces now, Rhaenyra in complete disbelief and Daemon in shock. Your side ached terribly but you pushed on.

Rhaenyra broke away from the path running towards you, hands clenched in her skirts, holding them up as her Knight followed behind her. You ran as fast as your legs could take you, feet slapping against the cold stone as you got closer to each other, when suddenly your bodies collided together. 

You clutched at her robes as she held the back of your head, crying loudly, pressing kisses to the side of your face. You could feel her chest rise and fall, and shake as she sobbed. You inhaled the smell of your mother, and that was when it hit you. 

You were home. 

The dam inside of you broke, and the tears began to fall. You could be strong for them and you would, but in this moment, you could not hold it back. All of the loss, all of that grief and pain, every single part of your experience flooded out of you.

Queen Rhaenyra pulled you back at arms length, looking at you for visible injury, and to reassure herself that you were truly there with her. Her eyes were dark, and face wet with tears. Those beautiful eyes you loved so much, red and raw.

You smiled through it all as you sobbed, before the voice of your father caught your attention.

“Y/n?”

Daemon stood behind your mother looking at you, still in shock, mouth agape. He was dressed in all black as usual, with the Dark Sister blade at his side. He had large bags beneath his eyes, and even his usually neat hair looked as though he had combed many a stressed hand through the silver white strands.

His eyes were glassy.

You nodded your head tearily at him and sobbed louder before he broke the spell, wrapping his arms around both you and your mother. You cried loudly into their arms as they held you tightly. Your father pressing a soft kiss to your head, sniffing into your hair.

The Rogue Prince pulled back, looking down at you, eyes wild searching your face.

“How?”

You craned your neck and looked behind you to the two brothers who stood watching the teary reunion. 

“They helped.” You spoke through your tears, smiling gratefully at the two men whose backs straightened as your mother gazed at both of them.

“It is not as valiant as she tells it to be.” Darras awkwardly intoned.

His brother gave him an irritated look.

“I promised them gold.” 

Your mother looked at both of them as they waited with bated breath for the Queen or King Consorts reaction.

“Give them whatever they want.” Daemon purred to your mothers Knight, before turning his attention back to you.

“Thank you.” Rhaenyra spoke to the Dornish men behind you, voice soft as she still held you.

Sumayl and Darras bowed their heads.

“Come.” The Rogue Prince gently spoke to you and your mother, turning as he began to lead you back up the path to the castle in front of you. 

You stopped in your tracks, before letting go of your mother for one second, turning to walk alone back to the two brothers. You threw your arms over Darras roughly, pulling him into a sharp hug before gently kissing his cheek. 

“Thank you.” You whispered to them both, nodding your head at Sumayl who watched with a softer expression.

“You were not lying.” He stated.

“I was not.”

“Then we are rich men.”

“You are.”

You looked at Darras once more before holding his hand. 

“Please do good by her.”

“I swear this to you, as I did before.” The Dornish man smiled, before you let go of his hand, walking back up to your mothers side who held you close, as your father flanked your other side hovering over you. 

It did not feel real.

You walked up the path together in a blur, your surroundings flying rapidly as you felt your heart beating in your chest. The halls were still the same, the walls were just as you remembered, and there was warmth from the fires inside.

But there was something amiss. 

There was no loud laughter to be heard, nor the racing footsteps of your brothers, nor the recounting of stories in broken High Valyrian. For all that was the same, the castle felt still with the absence of your brother. 

There were no books strewn about your chambers as you were escorted there. There were no snacks on the table, half eaten with crumbs left behind by greedy hands. There was no cloak, or coat or jacket, thrown haphazardly on the chair, or chaise, or bed, by a boy who had grown warm by the fire. 

The emptiness in the room stifled you. 

Your bed had been made, your sheets had been changed, and the fireplace was still lit in your absence, waiting for your return. And although the room was full of your two maids who doted on you, and the Maester and your parents, you still could not help but feel alone. 

Even when Joffrey came to your side, and your eldest brother came and gripped you so hard you could not breathe, and the pain in your side caused you to cry out, and all those around you rushed to inspect what was wrong, there was still something missing. 

There was no small mop of brown hair in your room. No small boy to laugh at your silly jokes, or listen to your tales of Old Valyria. There was no small boy to eat dates with in secret, or fall asleep beside the fireplace as he told you stories of ghosts. There was no little boy who was scared of the sea, or becoming the Lord of Driftmark. 

He was gone. 

And with him, a piece of you died.

And as you sat in shock in your chambers which suddenly began to suffocate you, you could not help but notice that he was not there to comfort your anxiety, to hold your hand and soothe you. His cherubic smile was not there to assure you that everything would work itself out.

There was a stillness to the castle that had not been there before.

The brave little Velaryon boy who had stood up to his uncle with a blade was no longer. The small boy who loved so deeply, no longer existed. Your brother was gone. 

Lucerys was dead.   

And the castle was still.

Your surroundings rushed back around you and suddenly your father was standing before your face, uttering your name softly in concern.

You blinked. Once. Twice. And felt your face wet with tears. You sniffed and apologised softly, as you looked about the room. 

Your two maids stood by the fire, stoking the flames whilst peering back at you in concern. The Maester had brought more maids to the room with medical supplies, and had begun to fuss about the table beside you as you sat numbly. 

Your mother stood at your side, stroking your hair gently as she watched you with hawk like eyes, whilst your brother, Jacaerys stood beside her, watching you in concern.

“Sorry.” You cleared your throat.

“My sweet, there is nothing to be sorry for.”

If only they knew the truth.

You felt that vile wave surge inside you again, grief clawing its way up your throat as you looked down in your hands. You fought against the tide that surged within, its dark thick crest rising inside of you. You began to drown in it, falling deeper and deeper into its swell as it dragged you down, reality catching up to you.

You had been in survival mode for so long, that now that you stopped, you felt yourself slipping. You sucked in a ragged breath as your ears rang. You cleared your throat again, sniffing as the ringing disappeared and the surge subsided.

The Maester spoke again, in a tone that alluded to him having asked you once, or perhaps even twice already.

“Where are you injured, Princess?” The old man asked. 

Numbly you pulled the large shirt from beneath the loose breeches, pulling it up your side as you leant to expose the makeshift bandages that Darras had given you. You felt your mothers hand still against the back of your head.

“May I?” The Maester asked.

You nodded, looking away, eyes fixating on a spot on the floor by the fire. You had sat there before many times. Reading, or drinking or eating with Lucerys. Playing games with him and your brothers. Teaching him High Valyrian, listening to his ghost tales. And despite the spot being before the flames of the fire, it looked cold. Empty.

Still.

The Maester's steady hands began to softly and slowly, as to not hurt or frighten you, unravel the rags from your side. 

Time stood still.

Your mother gasped quietly beside you, as the last of the rags were pulled away. The Maester came closer inspecting the injury as you felt the hot gaze of two violet eyes staring at the wound. 

Your gaze moved from the floor to the Rogue Prince, who stood in front of you. His hand was clenched on the hilt of the Dark Sister blade, whilst the other was stiff beside him. His eyes were burning with rage as they never left your side, jaw tensed and nostrils flaring. 

“Princess,” The Maester began, unsure of how to continue, “These are quite extensive.”

“How?” Your mother blurted.

“Aemond.” You uttered, voice quiet in the room. 

A flash of black moved in front of you, as Daemon began to storm out the chambers, hand on the hilt of his blade, fury rolling off of his tense shoulders.

“Where are you going?” Your mother called across the room.

“Where do you think? I am going to end this as we should have in the beginning. With their heads mounted on spikes.” Daemon spat.

“Kepa.” (Father) You softly called out to him.

His eyes flicked to yours as you called.

“Please.” You begged. "I have only just got you back."

The Rogue Prince stood as he made a hard decision, unsure of how to react as he stared at you, watching him in anticipation. The Prince looked at his wife, before back you, and slowly made his way back over, standing in front of you again, watching as the Maester continued to inspect your side.

His gentle fingers prodded at what was left of the stitches. Humming as he softly wiped you with a wet cloth. The cloth stung as it touched your wound and you grunted, flinching away.

“It seems that they treated your injury whilst in the Red Keep.”

You nodded down at the healer.

“You’ve healed well.”

You nodded again. The cloth stroked you gently.

“Though I see you have torn some stitches here.” His finger hovered above the open part of your wound, which had begun to heal thickly beneath.

“New bruising.” The man muttered to himself as he looked on.

“New?” Your father asked.

Maester Gerardys hummed, finger hovering around your side where the stitches has pulled loose, dark bruising blooming from the edges, underneath the old yellowed bruises. 

You did not look up, nor did you attempt to. 

You did not have the strength to meet your fathers eyes just yet, or recount your days in the Keep, or tell them of Aegon’s assault. Or how you spent days in your room listening to the wails and cries of your aunt at their hands. 

Or how you fell into the depths of a storm after watching the brother you failed to protect, be crushed by Vhagar’s jaws. Or how you watched your own dragon be attacked as you plummeted towards the sea below, unable to do anything. 

You found that you did not even have the strength to tell them you were okay. 

Nor did you have the strength to lie. 

The wave began to build inside you again. 

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to the tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! Enjoy <3

Tag List:

@izzicle @ej-shitchats @may-machin @alegria1580 @witchy-jadda @videovampire @inkdelicious @queteimporta39 @virtualsweetsqueen @fo-cus @auratiqs @feyres-fireheart @queenofshinigamis @asoiafwh8re @teasandcrumpets @shesjustanothergeek @grungegrrrl@queenofsarcazm @marihoneywk @curlszx88 @virgogaia @loser-keiji @asoiafwh8re @whore-of-many-hot-men @vipervixxen @theonewiththeimaginaryboyfriends @watercolorskyy @lavendervisions @mazmack666 @chokefrog @orangejump-suit @nik2blog @serrhaewinin @ohemgeewhat @winxschester @cryptidsrcool @drinking-tea-and-be-obsessed @celestedonut @bloodyvelvet777 @iamapersonthatsalive @av-sos @yentroucnagol @sanzu-s @opheliaas-stuff @bellameshipper @maviee @persephonerinyes

[winterandwords]

✍🏻 WRITEBLR INTRO

👋🏻 Hi, I’m Winter. I write dark, emotionally intense, queer fiction with characters to go feral over, inspired by city streets and stormy seas, scars and synchronicity, synesthesia and l’appel du vide.

💬 I'm writing-related ask and tag game friendly and I love reblogging your WIP snippets.

📚 You can read my stories online for free at 🔗winterandwords.com. It's the only place they're available. More information about each book can be found further down this post.

📱 I'm winterandwords on 🔗Bluesky for writing stuff and 🔗TikTok for daily life stuff.

☕ If you enjoy my writing and would like to offer support, you can do that via 🔗Ko-fi. I share my stories for free with the option to donate if you can afford to, so your contributions are super appreciated!

🌈 It always makes happy to encounter queer characters whose identity and narrative aren’t limited to or by their queerness, so I’m writing the characters I want to see in the stories I want to read.

📝 I write for an adult audience, but my stories don’t include explicit sexual content because it’s not my vibe (not a genital in sight here, folks). That said, if you’re uncomfortable with fiction that's frequently dark, sometimes spicy, and often chemically enhanced, I might not be the ideal writer for you to follow. Not everything is for everyone and that’s OK.

🛑 I would prefer minors didn't follow me. I don't follow minors, at least not intentionally. Sometimes it's not obvious and I'm not the age-in-bio police. In the kindest possible way, if you're under eighteen, my writing is not for you and I'd rather engage with other adults only.

💜 My reblogs tend to be writing-related, with a few exceptions. My likes are (mostly) non-writing-related things I get a kick out of, or personal posts that I want to acknowledge but that don’t feel appropriate to reblog.

💌 If, for some reason, you need to contact me outside of the hellsite, you can do that at winterandwords[at]gmail[dot]com

🌊 NOVEMBER BREAKS (complete)

BASICS Genre: Transgressive, literary Audience: Adult Length: Approx 52k words Working title: Project Storm Tags: #november breaks and #project storm More: Story summary

�� To read online for free, please visit winterandwords.com

VIBE Crime, weather symbolism and questionable life choices. Hurt me, I need to feel alive. Violence is a drug. Also, drugs are drugs. This is a love story like crude oil is a tea. #ThatShouldNotBeHot. Nothing’s real anyway.

INTRO No conscience, no problem. Noah kills for money. Brett hides a life of crime behind a successful career. Officially, they both protect people from people like themselves. Unofficially, everything is falling apart. Until they meet. And it all gets worse.

💀 SPIN CYLINDER (complete)

BASICS Genre: Transgressive, literary Audience: Adult Tags: #spin cylinder More: Story summary

💻 To read online for free, please visit winterandwords.com

Spin Cylinder is the sequel to November Breaks, which can be read here.

VIBE Slice of life, but life is drugs and crime. They deserve each other (derogatory). Violence as a substitute for therapy. Very elegantly wasted. My favourite mistake, my weapon of choice, and the parts of ourselves that we can’t leave behind.

INTRO Bound by desire and destruction. Contract killer Noah and white-collar criminal Brett retire from successful but stressful careers to build a home together on a foundation of obsession, shared secrets, and murder. But when they start to feel restless and the downward spiral beckons them deeper, how far will they go to find their way back to themselves?

🗡️ BRIDGE FROM ASHES (complete)

BASICS Genre: Cyberpunk, neon-noir Audience: Adult Length: Approx 70k words Working title: Project Frequency Tags: #bridge from ashes and #project frequency More: Story summary

💻 To read online for free, please visit winterandwords.com

VIBE High-rise buildings and low-life scum. Everything hurts, but not enough to feel good. Yes, that’s a gun in my pocket and no, I’m not pleased to see you. If mind control is real, why do I still have to make decisions?

INTRO Too useful for prison and too dangerous for freedom, underworld assassin Rafael Turner is sentenced to serve in a secretive military agency. When a mission to infiltrate a criminal operation drags his past to the surface and someone he thought he’d lost forever unexpectedly returns, how much is Rafe willing to risk to settle old scores and have a chance at a future he’d given up hoping for?

🔫 NAME FROM NOWHERE (WIP)

BASICS Genre: Cyberpunk, neon-noir Audience: Adult Working title: Project Aria Tags: #name from nowhere and #project aria More: WIP summary

Name From Nowhere is the sequel to Bridge From Ashes.

VIBE Found crime family. Memory is a curse, but it’s also a weapon. What doesn’t kill you makes you deadly. No identity, still a crisis. Life may be more than survival, but survival is a good place to start. Because fuck you, that’s why.

INTRO Imprisoned for a crime or five that she definitely committed, Aria made it through her sentence remembering more than she was supposed to but not enough to make sense. An illicit trade syndicate gives her a fresh start and the acceptance she won’t admit she craves, but her blood family’s betrayal is seared into her mind and revenge is only ever an opportunity away.

📇 TAG INDEX

#the shit in my head | rants, rambles and writer life

#november breaks and #project storm | WIP excerpts, updates etc for November Breaks (working title Project Storm), the prequel to Spin Cylinder

#spin cylinder | WIP excerpts, updates etc for Spin Cylinder, the sequel to November Breaks

#bridge from ashes and #project frequency | WIP excerpts, updates etc for Bridge From Ashes (working title Project Frequency), set in the same world as Name From Nowhere

#name from nowhere and #project aria | WIP excerpts, updates etc for Name From Nowhere (working title Project Aria), set in the same world as Bridge From Ashes

#my writing | snippets and other wordstuff

#your writing | other people’s words

#writeblr tags | tag games and memes

#answered asks | replies to your questions and messages

#writeblr connect | boosting writeblrs for the community

#reblogs | what it says on the tin

#reblogs plus | reblogs with my additions

#tumblr meta | hellsite stuff'n'things

#calmwrimo | info, updates and reblogs for CalmWriMo, a chilled-out November writing and self-care experience

📸 IMAGE CREDITS

Profile picture My own

Header and background Original photo by Yaroslav Shuraev on Pexels, edited under license

November Breaks My own

Bridge From Ashes Original photo by Drew Dizzy Graham on Unsplash, edited under license

Spin Cylinder Original photo by Jeremy Bishop on Unsplash, edited under license

Name from Nowhere Original photo by Wilmer Martinez on Unsplash, edited under license

[draguta]

.a court of fate and fortune | one.

pairing: lucien vanserra x fem!reader

summary: | book two | lovers separated, powers that won't be controlled, a doomed wedding. with the threat of war looming over prythian, lucien, Y/N, tamlin, and rhysand's inner circle must scramble to find allies and prepare themselves for what is to come. but Y/N only has one aim; to find her way back to lucien, and protect him at all costs.

chapter warnings: smut, 18+, minors dni, unprotected sex, p in v, fingering

chapter word count: 3747

a/n: chapter one of our sequel! yessssss! (side note: forgot to add my taglist for the entirety of a court of ash and smoke, so we're back with the taglist for the sequel lol) for this series i will be posting if and when chapters are ready rather than on a schedule (i'm moving across the world this month so keeping up with a schedule is going to be hard)

🔮 series masterlist 🔮

please remember to reblog, like, and share a comment if you enjoy this series - it is always appreciated by writers to see their hard work valued.

🔮 tip jar 🔮 tag list 🔮

Missing

Hands caressed bodies. Some falling to the hair of the other, tangling and twisting at the roots. Some pressed against chests, rising and falling with laboured breathing. Some travelling down, past the point of no return, to where each of you needed it the most. His lips were on my neck, sucking at that spot just under your ear that made your head fall back in pleasure, made your toes curl in anticipation.

“I missed you so much,” he said as his lips traced lower, over your collarbone, nipping slightly at the skin there, down past the crevice between your breasts, turning to pull each nipple into his mouth. The only sounds that you could form were breathy moans, whispers of his name, a pleading to show you just how much he had missed you.

A hand pressed down over your dripping heat, the heel of his palm pressing fervently to that spot that caused you to shudder irrationally. Then a finger was dipping inside, bringing with it a wave of pleasure unlike any you had experienced before. Time made the heart grow fonder, and distance made the pleasure grow stronger.

“How perfect you are,” he whispered against your skin, breath hot as lips caught with each movement of his hand inside you. “How perfectly made, just for me.”

Because you had been made for him. And he for you.

His fingers disappeared, and you whined at the loss. Until, that is, you felt his tip nudge against you, gathering your wetness. His forehead pressed against yours, and as he pushed in, the pure euphoric bliss almost overwhelming, you allowed your eyes to open. They caught his in a second, and you didn’t let them go. You watched every ounce of pleasure that etched itself into the colour of his eyes.

One russet. One golden.

“Never leave me again,” he said, voice almost breaking.

“I will never leave you,” was your reply. And you knew that was the truth.

“I love you,” he huffed out, close to a beg, as if he were pleading for you to accept it, to let him love you. Little did he know that you had accepted it a long time ago with open arms. “My mate.”

His mate.

Your mate.

You woke with a start, so fast that you could barely grasp your surroundings. Your skin was hot, clammy and sweaty, and there was a fire burning in the pit of your stomach, one that you doubted could be doused in any kind of water.

There was only one way to put out those flames, to dull them to nothing more than embers. Only one person. But he wasn’t there, he never was. That dream wasn’t real, a monstrous lie told by your own traitorous mind to keep you from going crazy. From losing it entirely. Your mattress was cold, your bed empty, and your heart aching for that one soul that you couldn’t see.

The door swung itself open, revealing the High Lord of the Night Court himself leaning against the door frame, hands in his pockets. “Again?” He asked. You could do nought but nod, running a hand through your sweat-drenched hair. He meandered inside, closing the door behind him, and perched on the end of your bed. He could no doubt scent the arousal in the air, but he didn’t comment on it - he never did. That was an unspoken rule between you.

He mourned the curse-breaker. You mourned the emissary. And you did so, each and every night, in each other’s company. You never spoke of it, never discussed the things that hunted your nightmares or his, but you were there for each other when the ones you both really wanted could not be. So you would sit, curled up in front of the fire, tea appearing before you as a courtesy of the very house that you lived in. And you would wallow in silence.

Dreaming of your mates.

Fate was a fickle thing.

You had never been one to believe in fate. For as long as you could remember you had scoffed at the idea that there was some higher power setting out a plan for your life. You preferred the idea that the things that happened to you were the outcome of a butterfly effect; that a decision you had made, however long ago, had led you to that particular moment, for whatever reason that may be. It wasn’t fate leading you there; it wasn’t the Cauldron or the Mother making those decisions on your behalf. It was you. Your strength. Your determination. Your courage. Your conscious choices.

Although you knew that choice wasn’t something that everyone was granted without hesitation. You weren’t given the choice to become High Fae. You weren’t given the choice to keep these powers. And you weren’t given the choice to have Lucien as your mate, although you would have chosen him regardless.

Even as a child you clung to the belief that your life was solely controlled by you. But that had been before, when you were mortal, naïve, and had thought the span of your world lay within the confines of your family’s estate in the Mortal Lands. When you’d assumed that the farthest you would ever go would be the village market, that you would never venture past the Wall, and that the male you cared for the most would be that of your blood brother, Arleon.

You knew better now.

How strange, how quickly things can change.

You could only assume that it hadn’t been your own decisions that had ultimately led you to where you were. You could only hope. Because the idea that every step you had been forced to take, every path you had been pushed to follow, was somehow due to something you had done, was all-but sickening to you.

Every life lost. Every battle fought in that cold, cavernous mountain. Every memory that haunted your each and every waking moment.

Every dream of him.

But that was the thing, you supposed; it had been worth it, you were certain of that. Whether it had been fate, or the will of the Cauldron and the Mother, or your own choices alone, those steps had brought you here, to Velaris. They had found you Feyre, had taken you to Prythain in the first place. And they had united you with Lucien, even if he was not so very far away.

It was all worth it.

Weeks had passed since Rhysand had first brought you there. The Night Court had been nothing at all as you had been expecting. When you had pictured torture chambers, instead sat plush bedrooms and studies and libraries. Where you had imagined the streets run red with the blood of victims, you had alternatively found cobblestone streets where the laughter of children bounced and echoed from the walls. It all seemed so lively. No bloodshed. No pain. Just pure, undiluted happiness radiating from the very streets of this city. How wrong those rumours in the Spring Court had been.

You had found yourself feeling strangely at home there, and you were certain that it wasn’t solely because of the city itself, but rather because of the people that you had found yourself surrounded with there. The Inner Circle of Rhysand’s court, his brothers, his cousin, and that terrifying black-haired female, had all welcomed you, regardless of where you had come from, and who your brother was.

Tamlin. You would have been lying if you said his name hadn’t crossed your mind on more than one occasion since your arrival there. You wondered if he might have been looking for you, if he knew who had taken you in the first place, if he had worked out that you had come willingly. That you had wanted to leave him behind. It was the least that he had deserved.

Perhaps Lucien had told him of your letter. No, surely Lucien wouldn’t do such a thing, not when that letter had been for his eyes and his eyes only. You hadn’t felt the need to include that; you knew all too well that he would understand the implication without it needing to be explained.

Lucien. Cauldron, how you missed him. Your entire body ached for him, for his touch. Each and every night he would visit you, and his hands would caress your body, his lips would brush against your skin, and everything would feel so right once more. Until you woke up, that is, and realised that it had all been in your head. That bond inside you, the one that was still entirely one-sided, that tied you to him, drew you back to him, to find him and never leave his side again. But you knew that you couldn’t. Not until you knew that you were no longer a threat to him, and for that you would risk missing those days with him. For that you would risk him falling back into resentment against you for leaving. You would never hurt him, even if it meant he hated you for it.

Your training had been going well. Each and every morning was spent in the ring at the House of Wind going over your manoeuvres with Cassian, who seemed more than impressed by how much you had already managed to grasp in the short time that you had been training. You cited Silas - your teacher - as the sole reason for that, although Cassian had been quick to shoot down the idea.

“Nah, that’s all you,” he had said, thumping you hard on the shoulder. Not hard enough to leave a bruise, but rough that it left a lingering pain.

Your afternoons were usually spent with Rhys going over the training of your powers. Even in just the few short weeks that you had been practising, you had already managed to get a grip on how to swell and shrink your power if and when you needed it - to bring it to the forefront and hide it away to lie in wait, only at your non-verbal command. Loosely was the optimal word, however; you still hadn’t quite perfected it just yet.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Rhys’ crooning tone sounded from behind you. He had found you in the spot that you seemed to have taken residence in more than anywhere else during those first weeks. The very corner of the balcony where you had spotted your first glimpse of Velaris, where the stone met at a point, providing you with the perfect place to lean into and simply look out upon the city that so few dared to venture into. Rhysand copied your stance, bringing his forearms up to rest against the stone of the railing, clasping his hands together, violet gaze trained on you. “You’re thinking about him again, aren’t you?”

“I’m never not thinking about him,” you admitted, refusing to meet his stare for fear that, should you see those eyes filled with a knowing sympathy, the very walls that you had built to keep yourself guarded might crumble, leaving you a weeping mess at his feet. You hadn’t divulged to him that Lucien was your mate - hadn’t even mentioned that you loved him - but Rhysand had garnered that there was at least something there, some sort of feeling that made you ache for him the way that you did.

“I know a little of what that feels like,” he said, his lips pulling into a sorrowful smile. And there you remained, as you had for so many nights, standing in silence, lonely but not alone, staring out across the city that he called home.

Mourning those you could not have.

The Spring Court had never felt so…empty. It bustled around Lucien at a never-ending pace, preparations readying for what Ianthe had begun calling the wedding of the century. Everyone was in high spirits - even Tamlin, to a degree. That stoic demeanour was still just as it had been on the day Y/N had left, yet there was a glimmer in his eye at the thought of what lay ahead. A lifetime with the female he loved.

Lucien couldn’t help the twinge of jealousy that ricocheted through him at the very idea.

Feyre, he had noticed, seemed to be the only person who wasn’t excited for the upcoming nuptials. Well, the only person besides himself. She had closed herself off, more so with Y/N’s departure to the Night Court. It had left her with no one, not really. She had Tamlin, and his arduous mood swings, and Ianthe who seemed to be trying to paint her into the portrait of an obedient High Lord’s wife. And she had him, but he couldn’t deny that his heart simply wasn’t in it anymore.

There was no more teasing from him, no more humoured lilt in his tone when he spoke to her. He too, it would seem, had become closed off since Y/N had left, for a different reason, of course.

Because his heart longed to be with her, to be near her, and no matter what distractions he might find for himself - training with Silas and the sentinels, or heading out on hunts, or lending a hand to Tamlin with the court’s paperwork - that need for her never dissipated. It was always there, bubbling under the surface.

Tamlin hadn’t given up searching for her. Sentinels had scoured every inch of the Spring Court in search of anything, and Lucien himself had been sent to damn-near every court in the hopes of retrieving her safely, or of at least finding a clue as to where she might actually be. Lucien knew, of course, although he wouldn’t share that information with his High Lord. He knew for certain that it was Rhysand and his Night Court goons who had ‘supposedly’ stolen her away in the night. Tamlin knew that too, although he was woe to believe it; he had scented that male in her room that night, and had pieced the puzzle together. Silas had even said as much, having stated with such conviction that it had been them. But Tamlin knew better than to go storming into the Night Court and risk starting an all-out war between courts without proof that she was even there, and Lucien was doing everything he could to make sure that didn’t happen.

And so, it remained, Y/N in the Night Court, Lucien in the Spring Court; two lovers trapped miles, and multiple courts and territories apart. Tamlin continued scouring every book that held any information about the laws of Prythian, and still sent his sentinels out in search of clues. Lucien kept his friend distracted from invading Night Court lands, did his best to keep Tamlin focused on the Spring Court and Feyre and the upcoming wedding. And the best that he was able to do was dream of her, to think of her when he closed his eyes, and to imagine that she was there by his side.

He felt her in every Spring breeze blowing the scent of jasmine and lavender from the gardens; her scent. He felt her in every kiss of sunlight that fell against his skin as warm as her lips, every click of blade against blade when he sparred with the sentinels. In the birds that chirped that reminded him of that night Under the Mountain when they had stared out of that little window in his chambers for hours. In every smile that he saw plastered onto the faces of passing village fae, beaming and glowing and beautiful.

He felt her everywhere, except beside him.

“That was good,” Rhys said with a small chuckle. “Although next time, please try not to go for my face. You nearly took my head off.”

You rolled your eyes and unwrapped your legs from their seated position. You had been at it for hours, trying to get your powers to reveal themselves in a non-threatening way. Rhys had said that this was the obvious next step - to learn how to let them out, to breathe, even when there wasn’t a threat. Until now, it would seem that anytime you let your powers out, they would immediately lunge for whomever else was present, as if their sole reasoning for being was to kill. And all of your previous lessons had forced Rhys to place a protection shield around himself. But now, it would seem, he was willing to take the risk. Perhaps he trusted you enough now to not let them hurt him. You weren’t sure you trusted yourself with that though. Until that point, the only person that the red smoke hadn’t tried to harm was you.

You had been perched on the rooftop of the House of Wind, away from any civilisation that may have been caught in any destruction your power might have made should it not go to plan, for what seemed like forever. Every ticking second only stood to remind you of how little you really knew or understood of these powers, and how little you were able to control them. They had already lunged for Rhysand well over ten times, and you could only assume that they would try again.

“It’s not working,” you muttered, wrapping your arms around yourself to protect from the sharp chill of the mountaintop. “It’s pointless. I’m never going to be able to control these fucking powers.”

Rhys frowned. “You’re not giving yourself enough credit. These powers that you have are strong, and the way that you’re able to wield them already, to let them out and reel them back in on command, is already showing a lot of restraint.”

“Not enough. They still try to kill you every time.”

Rhys sighed, rising to his feet and shoving his hands in his pockets, allowing his shoulders to shrug ever-so-slightly. “We’ve not been doing this for long. You need to have patience.”

“Because it’s not going to happen overnight, right?” You scoffed, echoing the words that he had told you countless times already, spinning on your heel to look back at him. His lips went thin in what you could only assume was pity.

“Exactly,” he affirmed. “You think I was able to control my powers immediately? No, it took me centuries to get this kind of grip on them, and even still, there are aspects that I haven’t perfected.”

You winced. Centuries. Centuries away from Lucien. You weren’t sure you could make it that long without him. You were sure you would go mad from want long before that. “I just feel…useless,” you admitted, kicking at the snow on the rooftop with the toe of your boot. Rhysand sighed once more, moving to clap a hand on your shoulder.

“You’re definitely not useless,” he said quietly. “Have more trust in yourself than that. I know that you’re eager to get it right, but don’t push yourself.”

“What would you suggest instead?” You asked with a raised eyebrow. He chuckled, turning and wrapping an arm around your shoulders, pulling you back toward the door. You relished in the warmth that his arm provided; it seemed any training that you had been doing was finished, for now.

“Patience,” he said again. He looked at you from the corner of his eye, watched the way your shoulders slumped, and your breath clouded in front of you as you exhaled deeply. “I have to admit, these few weeks I’ve been watching you train, I’ve noticed some similarities between your powers and Azriel’s shadows. They’re not the same, far from it, but they act in a similar way. Maybe he could be of some help to us.”

The only thing you could do was nod.

Patience. You had to be patient. But if you were being honest with yourself, you weren’t sure how long that patience could last.

It was quite a scene, really, that Lucien had stumbled across. He rarely found himself in the rose garden - preferred to leave it as a place for Tamlin, a place where he could feel closer to his mother. But for some reason, in the weeks since Y/N had left, he had found himself drawn to that little rose garden, the flowers that bloomed there year-round reminding him of her. Of the rose he had gifted her for Solstice that had been more of a jibe against her than a real gift.

He regretted that now.

But as he wandered the gravelled path, the little stones crunching and sinking beneath each step of his boots, his eyes fell on Feyre. Her familiar haunch was perched on the edge of one of the stone benches. Lucien couldn’t deny in that moment that she looked rather angelic - golden-brown hair amidst blood-red roses. The scene would be like that of one of the paintings that Feyre loved so much, if it hadn’t been for her ghostly pale skin, paper-like from endless days trapped in the house.

As he grew closer, he noticed that she held a rose in her hand, twirling it between her fingers. Each thorn was gone, ripped from the stem with what he thought looked like almost angry intent.

He cleared his throat, and she looked up, catching his eye in surprise.

“Didn’t think I’d find you out here,” he said, finally coming to a stop at the bench and taking a seat beside her, stretching his legs out straight against the gravel.

“I could say the same thing,” she muttered with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She drew in a sigh, turning away from him and glancing back down to the rose in her hand, to the way it twirled, the sunlight bouncing off each petal. “I wish Y/N was here.”

Lucien blinked slowly. “Me too.”

“She loves you. You know?” Her words were so quiet, almost a whisper, barely audible above the gentle breeze that rustled the leaves above. Lucien wondered, for a second, if the words were being uttered without her permission or forethought.

“I know,” he replied as gently as he could.

“She’s lucky.” He watched as Feyre tossed the rose back into the bush, turning in her seat to stare at him intently. “Don’t let her forget how important she is.”

Lucien opened his mouth to speak, but before he had the chance, she was rising to her feet and floating back down the gravel toward the manor in eerie silence.

Lucien didn’t stop her.

Taglist

Complete: | @loveshineslikethesky | @elleclairez | @lostpirateinwonderland |

Lucien Vanserra: | @luna-foxglove |

[thedreamlessnights]

Accismus - pt. 3

{previous chapter} || {next chapter}

Geralt of Rivia x gn!reader (Eventual NSFW)

Synopsis: The path to Novigrad proves dangerous as you and Geralt are forced to shelter in a cave. You learn more about the man behind the ballads.

Warnings: Mentions of blood, corpses and death, and retching. Graphic descriptions of a monster death, fire and smoke, and being choked (not in a sexual way). Lots of sexual tension, though.

Word Count: 11.8k

A/N: Sorry for the long wait in between chapters, this bastard chapter simply would not end. Apparently, this fic has also decided to be really long, seeing as it's now over 20k and barely into the story. Anyway, hope you enjoy. Comments and reblogs are incredibly appreciated!

You don’t remember how you got here - this decaying old house.

You don’t recognize it. It’s drafty and creaking and smells of rot, and yet… you know it, somehow. There’s an old fireplace in the kitchen. Molding food sits on the table. Something at the back of your mind is screaming for you to leave, but where will you go? It’s snowing, after all. Can it really be winter already? 

Your knees bend of their own accord to tend to the flame, the way you have for years. In this place, your body has a mind of its own, seeking your survival.

Warmth, that’s what you need. A full belly and a warm place to sleep. But there’s no kindling in the fireplace - only a long, heavy knife resting in the old, grey ash. You stow the knife on your belt. It’s bound to come in handy later. 

A shame about the fire, though. Any wood from the snow will be soaked through. Your knees creak as you rise. It seems you haven’t stood in years.

You open the door to find that everything outside is covered in a layer of white, but the smell of it is all wrong. Snow is crisp and clean and good. This is… bitter. Fermented. Putrefied.

The substance crunches under your feet, but the sound is wrong, too. It crackles - akin to dead leaves at the end of autumn. The thick heaviness of snow, trodden into the soles of boots - it is simply not there. 

On impulse and nothing else, you reach down and brush the tips of your fingers to it. It’s hot to the touch. 

Something is so very wrong about this place, but you can’t decipher exactly what it is. Everything is off and crooked and distorted from where it should be, but your memory is a fuzz and you can’t remember what things are right.

You really should get back inside now. 

Which way did you come from again? You can’t recall. Nothing looks familiar. Everything is just white. You close your eyes for a moment and breathe. The bitter fragrance of the false snow is still there, coating the inside of your mouth like soot. 

There’s no wind. No sound. Stillness, emptiness - that’s all this place is. You open your eyes again ever-so-slowly, as if what you might see is better left unseen. But there’s nothing. 

Nothing but a house directly behind you - how could possibly you have missed it? It’s not the one you just came from, though. This is your house, with the warm sheets you’d saved up so long for, and warm, fresh bread on the table, and smoke so thick it chokes your breath.

This is your house, and it’s on fire. Your hands are burning, but you don’t know how. You’ve kept them close to you all this time, haven’t you? Haven’t you? 

An answer never comes. Smoke is now your world, and it’s starved. Smoke eats away the air, and your lungs, and your flesh. It takes your bones, your body, your still-pounding heart. It chokes you, scalds your throat, chars your esophagus all the way down to your stomach. 

Smoke is indigestible. Your stomach won’t take it. It retches it back out and you choke up bile alone. Tears burn at your eyes.

You can’t see, and you can barely hear. The world is just heat and smoke and hunger and gasping breaths and your damaged airway, and the smoke can only do what it knows how to do: consume.

Hands are around your neck, cold and cruel. A knife is heavy in your hand. A man is choking on his blood. A woman is still in your arms, and it’s your fault. You loved her, but you can’t remember her name. 

And all of the world is just smoke. You’ll join it, soon. You’ve spent so long trying to get out, but you’re so tired now. Your muscles have gone to dust. Your bones have crumbled. Everything is so dark…

Your hands. Your hands are burning.

Your eyes shoot open with a start, and you inhale clean, good air through working lungs. When the blur of sleep fades, you find nothing but the golden glow of soft light through cracks in the wood. 

No smoke. No fire. No snow, even. Just a dream, like all the others. 

Another terrible fucking dream.

The memories seem cursed to follow you forever. They give you no mercy in your sleep. Your hands are stinging again - it must have been what woke you up. 

Little by little, the fears and pain begin to dull. 

The inn. Slowly, it becomes a silent mantra for yourself. You’re at the inn. You’d slept here, and now you’re awake again, and there was no fire, or smoke, or ash. Even the flame that once roared in the fireplace last night is gone, orange embers flickering in its absence. The room is still warm, though. 

You turn to look for Geralt’s sleeping form, but find nothing in his place. The bed next to you is empty. Geralt is nowhere to be found. 

Panic jolts through you like ice through your veins. No, no, no, you think. Your eyes dart around the room over and over, as if he might appear out of nowhere. But he’s not sitting at the table. He’s not in the bath. He’s not in the bed. Even his things are gone. 

You don’t know what to do. You numbly sit up and stare blankly around the room, pondering whether or not you’re still dreaming. But no, this is no dream. Your skin stings when you pinch it, and your mind is alert and responsive - this is all much too real. 

How’d he gotten past the djinn’s protective field? Had he found something on djinns in his reading, and somehow managed to break the wish? But why wouldn’t he have woken you? That’s the thing you can’t get past. Why had he left you sleeping and alone? Even after a day, it doesn’t seem like him. 

Gods, what now?

Should you stay in town, attempt to make a living somehow? That money won’t last forever. You could take your horse and look for someplace to go, but where? You have no home to return to. No friends, no family. All your possessions are with you - coin, some clothes, and food. 

No, something must be wrong. Surely Geralt would have told you he was leaving. He hadn’t even said goodbye. Did something happen? Was there a struggle? Is he—

You suddenly bolt to your feet, bracing yourself for the sight of blood, or worse - but find something else entirely: Geralt. 

Alive and well, from what you can see, and asleep on the floor. 

Your breath escapes you in a burst of sheer relief. Of course. It should have been your first guess, but… well, your mind isn’t fully awake yet, and you’re far more accustomed to things going wrong than them going right. Why’s he on the floor, anyway? Had he fallen off?

You can really only see his legs from where you’re standing: his trousers, instantly recognizable. But despite everything logically telling you otherwise, you’re still scared he’s somehow gone - so you risk a careful step further to take in his sleeping form.

Geralt’s eyes are closed and he’s laying on his side, left arm tucked underneath his head. Some of his hair is loose around his face, stray strands disrupted by his sleep. The rise and fall of his chest is soft and even, and he looks much younger while asleep, more relaxed. You’d wager that most people do. Maybe even you. 

He’s next to a scattering of papers and his armor. His boots sit on the floor at the front of the bed, along with the rest of his things.

You can’t help watching him for a moment, taking in his features in a way you’d never be able to do when he’s awake.

There are some scars on his right arm, lines of raised skin that aren’t covered by his shirt. He must have more. How many? 

You picture what it would be like to run your fingers over them, lazily tracing along each line. Your cheeks slowly heat with guilt, but his skin looks so very soft. You know from the experience of his touch that his hands are callused, but the rest of his skin looks velvety and smooth. 

His hair, too. In the wake of last night’s bath, it’s clean and shiny. You’d like to run your hands through it. You’d like to trace down, over his cheeks, following the scar above his brow. The small one on his nose.

You’d… you’d like him to touch you, too. To study the feel of your skin, and gently graze his knuckles against your cheek. To lean in, and cup your jaw, and –

Enough. You shouldn’t want that. You shouldn’t be thinking about that. Why is Geralt on the floor?

Another glance at him reveals the sight of a blanket tossed over his lower half - one of the soft, fur blankets from the inn’s bed.

He hadn’t fallen off, you realize with a sudden pang in your chest. He’d slept on the floor on purpose.

The familiar feeling of guilt returns, clenching in your chest. Had you talked in your sleep? Kicked him? As far as you know, you don’t do either of those things. Or… you haven’t done it before, at least. Had he simply felt uncomfortable sharing the bed? In that case, you would have gladly taken the floor, and wouldn’t have minded it a single bit.

As quietly as you can, you sneak back into the bed, lay down, and close your eyes.

Sleep doesn’t come again, and you don’t search for it. Time passes - an hour, maybe more? Your mind races over and over, wishing that you could go back in time, that Geralt hadn’t slept on the floor, that you’d offered to do so first. Your hands are stinging something fierce.

When he finally stirs: the sound of a long inhale, the shifting of the blanket - you stay where you are, eyes closed, rolled onto your side with your back toward him. He sits down on the bed and starts putting his armor on again. You can tell he’s trying to be quiet.

So a moment later, you let yourself move, faking the dregs of sleep, and Geralt pauses for a moment.

“Morning,” he says. His voice is hoarse with drowsiness, making heat flutter under your skin. He resumes the donning of his armor, slightly turning his head toward you as he speaks. “How’d you sleep?” 

“Fine,” you murmur. “You?”

“Can’t complain,” he says. 

Liar, you think, almost smugly. Really, you’re glad you aren’t the only one.

“Better head out soon if we want to get you those gloves,” he continues. “Market’ll start crowding up before long.” His voice is soft, and the remnants of sleep have faded from it. Once he’s got his chest armor on, he stands, moving to the front of the bed for his boots.

You watch him for a moment, then give a nod he doesn’t see. “Alright.” 

It doesn’t take you very long to get ready. You don’t have much. A little food in your satchel, your clean and dirty clothes, your coin. You’re ready to go before he is.

When he’s finished, you swing your satchel over your shoulder and the two of you head out. You can only hope it won’t be as bad as it was yesterday.

The market is crowded, even this early, and you’re downright elated to leave this town - though you’ll surely miss the comforts of the inn. People won’t stop giving Geralt strange looks and jabbering out insults they don’t even bother to soften. Some of them look downright hostile at the very sight of him being there. He pays them no mind, but you find yourself antsy and scrambling from place to place in an effort to get out sooner. More food, more drink, and better gloves - they’re not hard to find. 

Then comes more riding.

The pain is less than yesterday, and the pace is slower. You feel much more comfortable around Geralt than you had - knowing him more, knowing he’s patient. All of that is better. 

But it’s hot, even more than it had been. There’s a mugginess to the air, brought on by dark clouds that seem to endlessly border the sky, blocking out the sun but not the heat. 

Sweat trickles down your neck and forehead and back, and you have to fight to avoid giving a groan - at this rate, your clothes will be just as filthy as they were yesterday.

The riding gloves you’d bought at the market bring huge amounts of relief from the torture that was yesterday’s ride, and it’s much better to give your horse more rein like Geralt had suggested - but the wounds still hurt. The bandages make your hands stiff, too, and it’s harder to grip anything.

Then it starts to rain.

It comes on slowly at first, a soft drizzle, barely noticeable. It’s even pleasant as it continues, cool and sweet on your skin against the terrible heat of the sun. You start to hope it’ll rain for the rest of the day.

Your wish unfortunately seems to be granted, because it gradually begins to pour. Droplets hit your head and slowly dampen your clothes. Water starts to trickle down your face. It doesn’t stop, and it doesn’t slow - it continues until it’s soaked you and Geralt through, down to the very bone. Your thighs begin to chafe against the saddle, painful friction from the wet fabric of your clothes against leather.

The sky darkens until everything is grey. The combination of the wind and rain becomes painful, stinging against your skin as it hits. The dirt beneath Mead’s hooves becomes mud, slick enough that she’s slipping, and Roach is, too. Geralt mutters soft words of comfort to keep her calm. You don’t trust yourself to speak. You just pat Mead’s neck and hope she won’t buck you off.

As the rain relentlessly comes down, Geralt’s pace - and subsequently, yours - becomes nothing more than a canter, then a light trot. Any faster, and you’ll both end up in six inches of mud. 

You can’t stop shivering, teeth clenched as you ride. But there’s nowhere around here to stop, nowhere for shelter, so the two of you are forced to go on.

Geralt checks in on you every so often, asking if you’re alright. If you weren’t feeling the need to lie through your teeth, you might appreciate it. You aren’t alright, but there really is nothing Geralt can do about that. He’s undoubtedly in the same boat that you are: drenched, miserable, and hungry.

Just as it’s starting to thunder and spook the horses, the two of you come upon a cave. The sight of it seems like a miracle. The sky is only getting darker, Roach and Mead are only getting more anxious, and the rain is so thick you can barely see Geralt in front of you. But you know what he’s thinking when he stops, eyes raking over the cave, hesitantly stalling his hands on the reins. 

The two of you have no idea what’s in that place. If any danger comes, you’ll have to be within ten paces of him. You’re no witcher, you’re unarmed, and in there, there could be bandits, trolls, drowners - or worse. 

“Gotta get out of this rain,” Geralt finally decides. “The horses won’t take much more.”

And so, the two of you head off the road. 

The ground at the entrance is flat, making for a good place to bring Mead and Roach in for shelter. The cave’s beginning consists of a large, open cavern, and nothing inside seems to be alive, aside from a few patches of puffballs. Some animal skeletons lay on the ground, but they look well-aged. Nothing recent. No rotting carcasses.

Somehow, that fact doesn’t comfort you. 

Further in is a tunnel - one neither you nor Geralt seems particularly eager to go near. Instead, you make camp where you are. 

There’s no wood in here, and the pieces you’ve brought in from outside are soaked through. You gather some loose moss for kindling, but all it’ll do is smoke. 

For a moment, your dream flashes in front of your eyes. You shut them and shake your head, willing the image to vanish. After all that’s happened, it isn’t the flame that scares you. It’s the thick, heavy smoke that once choked your lungs. That seared from the inside out.

Ignoring the echoes of memories, you stack some wet logs and attempt to light them. They don’t take. Fuck, you think. No fire. A damp, freezing cave, no bed or blankets, and no fire. At least you’re alive.

But Geralt comes up from behind you, simply flicks his fingers in the direction of the logs, and a roaring orange flame starts in the small pit you’d made. 

You can’t help staring at him in awe. Magic. It has to be. You weren’t aware witchers used magic. Or maybe they don’t, and it’s just him? In any case, you cozy up to the warmth, and Geralt does too, taking a seat across from you and resting his hands on his thighs. 

The shadows of the flame paint him with harshness and distortion - hollowing out the bones under his eyes, under his nose and cheeks, sharpening and accentuating his features. It only makes you want to stare at him more. 

Everything does. Every small detail.

You look away, but there’s not much to look at in here, and your eyes eventually roam back to him. He seems lost in thought, gaze intently focused on absolutely nothing. Hesitantly, you allow yourself to take in a little more.

He’s soaked to the bone. Stray strands of his hair cling against his forehead. In the light, his eyes are almost molten - even more gold than usual, reflecting the dancing flames in front of him. They stay solely aimed at the fire, at first. 

Then they slowly move up to your face. 

You’re staring. 

With a jolt, you look away and start rummaging through your bag for some food. Geralt doesn’t move, doesn’t even look away. He just stares at you, waiting. You can feel his gaze scanning over your features.

When your resolve finally breaks and you meet his eyes again, he lifts a brow. Does he know? Does your face give that much away?

“I didn’t know witchers could start fires,” you say. A feeble attempt to cover for your actions.

“Igni,” he says. “Basic magic. Every young witcher is taught to use it.”

“Handy.”

He hums in agreement, and his eyes finally leave your face as he turns toward his things.

It’s not cold enough for hypothermia, but it is cold enough to be very uncomfortable, and you’d be a fool not to appreciate Geralt’s fire. You take off your gloves and wet boots and socks, try to rub warmth into your feet, then try to warm your clothes by sitting in front of the flame. Your shivering lessens. Your clothes become damp instead of soaked through. 

Geralt, meanwhile, pulls out some supplies and starts to make some sort of potion over the fire. You don’t recognize it. An unidentified spirit, some berbercane fruit, and mysterious bits of some form of tissue. From what you can see, you’d guess it’s a tongue, but it definitely isn’t human. Too long. Differently colored. From what species, then? 

You decide halfway through watching him that you don’t want to know. 

When he’s finished, he pours the liquid into a vial and hooks it onto his belt. Is it you, or is it getting colder? 

“Better get some sleep while you can,” Geralt says. “I’ll keep watch.”

But you don’t want to sleep. You’re sore and wet and cold, and you know what you’ll see and what you’ll feel. You’re exhausted to the bone and ache from head to toe, but you’d still rather drag yourself around like a heavy sack than go through those nightmares again.

“I’m not tired,” you murmur. “You can sleep, though. I’ll keep watch, wake you if anything-”

Your words cut off as Geralt suddenly goes tense, muscles drawing tight as he freezes in place. His eyes focus on a point behind you, and his head turns the slightest bit to the side, as if he’s honing his hearing in on a distant sound. 

After a long, anxious moment on your part, he moves. His hand slowly reaches behind him - fuck, he’s grabbing for his blade, should you start moving? But instead of drawing it, he keeps his hand still on the handle, eyes darkened and narrowed.

When you muster up the courage to turn around, heart thumping so much it seems to crash against your ribs, you see nothing. Just the cave, and the long, dark tunnel.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, voice barely over a whisper.

“Something’s coming.”

He stays still a moment longer. Then his sword slides out of its sheath with a hiss of metal - a fluid motion, faster than you can blink. 

You’re on your feet immediately, still barefoot, hands empty. Anxious to do something, anything. You find yourself moving behind Geralt, feeling frustrated and antsy, hair standing up from the nape of your neck down to the skin on your arms. 

“Know how to use a crossbow?” he asks.

“No.”

His brows rise - more for himself than you. “Huh. Hope you’re a fast learner. Should’ve taught you sooner, really.”

Surely he must be joking, he can’t really want you to shoot, but - no, he’s serious: pulling the bow off his back, loading it up in a flash, and shoving it in your hands. They’re better than yesterday, but they still hurt.

“Trigger’s here, at the bottom,” Geralt says. “Only use it if you have no other choice. Aim first, then press the trigger.”

You gawk at him, but he’s already turned away from you. “Any other useful tips?” 

“Sure. Don’t point it at me.” 

“Thanks. Very helpful.”

He hums in response, but the sound is distracted. His fingers tighten around the hilt of his sword as he rolls his shoulders.

It’s definitely colder now. You’ve started shivering again. The horses buck and whinny as fog starts to roll into the cave. Thunder crashes overhead, shaking the ground, and the crossbow feels slick in your hands. 

“Geralt?”

“Yeah?” 

His voice is tense and distant: distracted.

“Don’t die.”

He huffs, smiling a little. “Not planning on it.”

More fog is rolling into the cave - a grey, dirty fog accompanied by a terrible, inhuman snarling. 

“Shit,” Geralt says. “A foglet. Stay back as much as you can.” 

You back away from him in horror. That fucking djinn couldn’t have allowed you twenty steps instead of ten? What kind of shitty protection puts you in more danger?

The snarling finally comes closer, and Geralt makes a movement with his fingers. A purple circle of light forms on the ground beneath him. More magic.

Your heart pounds so fiercely that you feel it might take a year off your life.

Then, to your left, comes a vicious growl as a creature appears out of the mist. It moves too fast for you to get a good look, but it’s clearly not there to have a friendly chat. It creeps toward Geralt, hops behind him, and swipes.

Geralt smoothly dodges the attack, disrupting the fog as he takes a defensive stance with his blade, circling around the foglet. It swipes at him again, and again, he dodges. Your vision fuzzes. He’s too far. You take a couple steps closer, and the feeling fades.

Geralt is fast: ridiculously so. Faster than your mind can truly take in, darting from one place to the next. Each step the foglet takes, Geralt is with it - jumping out of the way, calculated, graceful movements that you can barely follow. Every so often, the wish pulls at you and you’re forced to follow, tense but fascinated.

The foglet snarls, striking out and missing as Geralt dodges then counter-attacks, flitting in close. His sword comes down in a glint of silver and strikes the creature’s shoulder. Blood splatters near your feet. 

The creature howls in pain, then it’s… it’s gone. 

Wait, - no, not gone. Invisible. There’s still movement. The fog follows where it goes, and Geralt is tracking its actions with his eyes, waiting. A predator, tensing for his prey.

Then, just as the foglet reappears, Geralt dodges. It’s jumped at him again, but in missing, made a misstep and landed straight in the middle of the purple circle Geralt made earlier. 

Lavender light wraps around the monster like a cocoon, trapping it in place. It snarls and hollers and lashes out in vain, but doesn’t seem able to leave the circle.

Thank Melitele. 

Geralt goes to hit it again. Your whole body goes tense. Half of you wants to turn away and the other half of you is completely unable to do so. You’re frozen.

But in terrible luck, the circle dissolves just as Geralt moves, fading away into dust. The creature instantly goes invisible again.

“Shit,” Geralt says, slightly panting. 

The hair on your neck stands up. A cloud of fog is spreading again, and this time it’s not coming toward Geralt. This time, it’s headed for you. 

Your instincts kick in like you’ve been struck; your feet start moving, skidding away from that thing as fast as you possibly can and toward Geralt, careful not to press down on the crossbow’s trigger because Melitele forbid you accidentally shoot him right now. 

The foglet reappears in a flash and follows behind you with surprising speed, but it’s wounded and bleeding and just barely slower than you are, hissing in either anger or pain.

The moment you’re behind him, Geralt’s fingers thrust out toward the foglet, this time in the shape of a different sign - one that shoves the creature backward like it’s been hit with an invisible force. Ripples of leftover air carry over to you, and the magic disturbs the fog enough for you to see the foglet knocked to the floor. 

Geralt stalks over to where it lays and strikes down without hesitation - a single, powerful jab into the abdomen. It lets out a last growl, then goes still.

The fog slowly begins to dissipate. Your heart rate returns to normal. You let the crossbow point down toward the ground, panting.

There’s foglet blood splattered on your feet. It doesn’t even phase you.

As you catch your breath, you watch with a muted fascination as Geralt removes his sword from the foglet and wipes it down, sliding it back into his sheathe. Then, you step closer to the corpse.

As it turns out, monsters bleed like anything else. 

Dark liquid pools out from the deep gashes Geralt left, diffusing a metallic note into the air. When you inch closer, wrinkling your nose at the putrid stench of it, you find a gaping maw in the foglet’s chest - and not one put there by a sword.

The rib cage is open and exposed. The abdomen is hollowed out all the way to the sacral vertebrae.

The thing is, it’s not bleeding. The two sword wounds are, but not the exposed inner tissue - which should be bleeding. A lot.

No, you realize, recalling how it’d looked as it ran toward you, the rib cage was open the whole time - as if it wasn’t an injury, but designed to be open. 

Medically speaking, having the entire spinal column exposed is asking for all kinds of trouble. But then again, the thing has no visceral organs and had sprinted around even with a large, bleeding hole in its shoulder, so… clearly, it has different capabilities than a human. 

Gods, what are you doing? Trying to judge a monster’s design on the basis of human anatomy - you’re wasting your time.

Making your way back to your things, you gently set the crossbow down with the bolt pointed away from anything but rock, and wipe the blood off your feet with a loose rag from your belongings.

Geralt is watching you. You can feel those eyes on the back of your neck, as hot as the memory of his touch. When you turn to look at him, he’s staring at you - an unreadable expression on his face.

“What?” you ask

“Dunno,” he says with a shrug, shaking his head. “People aren’t usually this calm after being chased by a monster. Or eager to analyze them.”

A chill runs down your back, and you shiver.

“I’ve met a lot of monsters out there,” you say, settling next to the fire again - away from Geralt’s burning gaze, which seems to be endlessly fixed on you. You squeeze your eyes closed, then give a small shake of your head. “That thing wasn’t so bad.”

With agonizingly slow steps, Geralt approaches from behind and sits down right next to you, resting his hands on his knees as he looks at you expectantly. 

“Ever gonna tell me how you got that djinn?” he asks. 

He’s too close. Too close to you. You can practically feel the heat radiating off his skin from where his knee almost brushes yours. 

And you can smell the forest on him. Earthy, sharp, fragrant… bark from the trees, the tang of leather, mud and rain. A hint of the herbal soap from the inn last night. It makes you want to bury your face in his shirt and breathe him in. Damn him. 

You used to be a good liar. A great one, actually - habitually mixing half-truths into conversations to avoid what you didn’t want to discuss. It was rare for you to ever have the lower hand in a conversation. 

If you wanted people to tire of you and leave, they would. If you wanted people to notice you, you’d flash a smile their way and draw them in with a charismatic hook. If you wanted them to lose their round of Gwent, you’d twist your face to look like you were nervous, get them to waste their cards - then, afterward, lay out your winning hand with a shocked, almost guilty face.

I won? Really? I was so sure I’d lose!

And maybe… maybe you’re still able to do all those things. Maybe, if you went out into that rain and found someone else to talk to, you’d be able to lie as easily as you breathe. 

The problem is Geralt. 

Geralt - with his deep, endearing voice, his ridiculously attractive face, and bright, attentive eyes that don’t miss even the smallest of details. The problem is that he has heightened senses, while around him you seem to have only a weakened disposition.

You hate handsome men. Not the random pretty face on the street, but someone truly handsome, someone like Geralt, whom you can barely look away from. Someone who fills your thoughts with foolish scenarios that you know will never come true but never get driven away by any amount of logic or reasoning.

Handsome men drive you weak in the knees, dull the sharpness of your wit, exploit every chink in the armor you’ve so painstakingly put up.

If he were anyone else, and if you didn’t want him the way you do: if he didn’t crowd up your mind with thoughts of the way it’d feel to touch him, to lean forward now and kiss him… well, you’d bet all your coin that you’d be able to lie circles around him, and he’d never even know.

But he knows now; sees right through you and your excuses, and doesn’t seem to have any issue with calling you on it.

Ever gonna tell me how you got that djinn? 

His expression is so damn smug that it makes you angry - makes you want to make him angry, too, or at the very least, frustrated. You might be a bad liar around him, but your resolve remains solid as steel.

“I already told you how I got the djinn,” you reply. “Don’t you remember?” You cross your arms and wait to see how much he’ll press you. Maybe he doesn’t even remember your words.

“Yeah,” he replies gruffly. “Said it was given to you.” He raises a brow - gazes at you pointedly. “Not exactly a common gift. Never, actually. Don’t know anyone willing to give up three wishes of their own accord.”

Your heart starts pounding. “Are you asking me if I stole it?”

“Can’t say I’m not.”

His eyes aren’t accusatory. They’re warm and curious, fixed on your every move. You hesitate in your response, fingers stiffly curling into loose fists, then releasing. A nervous habit, hindered by the bandages on your fingers. 

Gods, he smells good. He’s so close. You can barely think, much less decide what to say.

“I took from someone who took from me,” you finally answer. “But - I’m not a thief.”

Your words turn his curiosity into mirth - the barest hint of a smile, the crinkling of his eyes. “Worried I’ll report you to the guards?” he asks.

“Not unless you intend on serving the sentence, too,” comes your retort. “Can’t exactly get away from me, can you? And I imagine you don’t want to go to prison.”

Geralt shakes his head. “Not really.” 

“So, no,” you say with a shrug. “I’m not worried about you reporting me. I guess….” You pause, weighing the words of your thoughts on your tongue, then finally letting them fall. “I guess I just didn’t want you to read me the wrong way. You don’t know me very well, and I think we both know you don't exactly have the best things to go on.”

It’s become hard to meet his gaze again.

“Pretty harsh on yourself,” he says softly.

“I have to be. I’m the whole reason you’re here, aren’t I? I - I can’t act like it didn’t just put both of us in danger. It keeps you from contracts, and your friends, and...”

You almost bite off your tongue trying not to say Yennefer.

“Everything,” you finally manage. “You’re wet and trapped in a cave in the middle of Velen, and it’s my fault.”

He shakes his head. “Doesn’t mean you have to punish yourself, though. You’re stuck here, too.”

You give a lighthearted scoff. “This conversation is hardly punishment, Geralt.”

“Not what I meant,” Geralt says. His eyes trail down to the bandages on your hands. Your cheeks go hot in shame. 

“That wasn’t punishment,” you immediately insist. “It was just…” You can’t find the word, and it doesn’t help that Geralt is waiting for your answer. “It was rationality,” you finally decide on. “I knew we needed to ride, and I knew there was nothing you could do to change the situation. Any breaks only would have prolonged the pain. I was just being rational.”

There’s a long pause where Geralt just sits and stares at you, and you attempt to meet his eyes but quickly fail. Your gaze turns over to a nearby patch of mushrooms. 

Useful things, puffballs. You’d once used them to dye your clothes. More often than not, though, they were used to supplement meals. At least Oxenfurt taught you something useful - edible plants.

“Do something for me,” Geralt asks, finally breaking the silence.

When he doesn’t continue, you hesitantly glance up at him. “What?”

“Act as if I’m on a contract. You’re paying me to be here. I’m here of my own free will.”

“I can work with that,” you say, fumbling for your bag. “How much would you charge for something like this? Finding a djinn?”

“Hold on,” he says, holding up a hand. “Not gonna take any more of your money.”

“No,” you say instantly. “I won’t accept it, then.”

“Can’t force me.”

You stare at him then, in a blinded sort of defiance - trying to think of some way he’s wrong. But you can’t. He’s stronger and faster and almost certainly smarter than you, and he’s right. You can’t force him. 

So, after a long moment, you turn to another method - your best attempt at a pleading moue. 

“C’mon. Don’t give me that look,” he says, but his expression is pained. “Won’t change my mind. Listen - already told you, you aren’t forcing me to be here. Don’t blame you for that, so stop blaming yourself. Don’t need to impress me, either.”

“Impress you? I’m not trying to.”

He gives you a look.

“I’m serious. You’d know if I was.”

“Let me guess,” he says dryly. “You’d steal a djinn from me.”

You shoot him a glare, anger and attraction flaring in your chest and mixing so much you can barely tell them apart. This damned wish is suffocating you. You can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t relax. Can’t even decide what you want. 

You want him to stop looking at you like that, but you also want him to keep doing it so much that your chest aches. You want to make him angry, but you also want to press your lips against his - see if those stories about him and his vicious appetite are true. 

“Funny,” you snap. “Very funny. You should tell your bard friend that he forgot to put your sense of humor into his famous ballads.”

“Already tried. Dandelion has a flair for the dramatic.”

You ignore his words and continue staring pointedly at a rock near the cave’s entrance. 

Geralt shifts. “Sorry,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Wasn’t serious. Didn’t mean to upset you.”

To his credit, he does sound genuinely remorseful. Unfortunately, that just makes you feel worse. It’s not his fault you’re feeling like this - even you don’t know why you’re really upset. 

Maybe it’s the mention of the djinn. You can barely think about that djinn without feeling nauseous, much less laugh about taking it.

“It’s fine,” you murmur. “Don’t worry about it.”

When you look back at him, his expression has gone solemn. He’s studying you.

 “Djinns are pretty valuable,” he says. “The person you stole from - are they after you? That why you wished for protection?”

“No.” The word is harsh and pained, tearing through your throat without a second’s thought. You swallow hard, turning your face away. “I… I didn’t - it wasn’t… No. Who I stole from, he won’t be coming after me. Ever.”

You’ve said too much. Your chest heaves with emotion before you exhale it out, trying your best to mask your expression. There’s a pause as Geralt observes you. He’s searching your face again. His gaze suddenly sharpens.

“You were pretty damn calm seeing that blood,” he murmurs. His words are slow and careful - bordering on hesitant. 

The weight of his statement sits heavy in the air. Your hands begin to shake. 

“If you don’t mind,” you say curtly, reaching for your bag, “I think I’ll take that sleep after all.” 

“Hey,” he says. His tone has turned soft, reassuring. “Don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. Not judging you. Just curious.”

You swallow hard, closing your eyes. Your voice is shaky when you speak.

“Does it make a difference if I tell you he deserved it? That he didn’t give me much of a choice?” 

“Yeah. Figured as much,” he replies, leaning forward and resting a hand on his thigh.  

You try very hard not to stare at that hand. His gaze hasn’t let up on your face. 

“What you said at Crow’s Perch,” he continues. “Just doesn’t seem like the words of a cold-blooded killer.”

You don’t know what to think about that. You want to take his reassurance, bask in it, tell yourself you aren’t awful. But Geralt doesn’t know the whole story. Surely he’d hate you if he did.

The two of you sit in silence for a long while, listening to the patter of the rain outside. After you’ve tired yourself out with your own thoughts, your gaze flicks back to the foglet corpse. It’ll start stinking soon. What if there are more of them?

“What you said about the crossbow…” you say. 

Geralt’s attention perks up, and you continue. 

“Did you mean it? Are you really going to teach me?”

“I should,” he replies. “Be safer if you learn.” 

He stands, stretching, then nods for you to join him.

“Not so sure about that being safer,” you mutter under your breath. Your mind won’t stop supplying you with visions of you accidentally shooting Geralt in the back. Then again, maybe he’d take pity on you if you shot him and finally let you pay him.

“Heard that. C’mon, up.”

Getting to your feet, you flex your fingers and wince. The effect of the celandine has long since faded, and your hands feel raw and painful.

“Hang on,” Geralt says, taking a step closer. “Better change your bandages before we start.”

The thought of his hands gently tending to you again is far too much to take. You want it so badly that you can’t possibly let yourself accept it.

“It’s fine,” you say quickly. “They don’t hurt.”

He stares at you, unimpressed. “Pretty bad liar, you know that?”

Only around you, you think.

“No, I’m not.” 

He takes a step closer. “Heartbeat gets faster when you lie,” he says. “Dead giveaway.”

The blood drains from your face.

“You - you can hear my heart?”

“Yep.” 

Your heart, already pounding, speeds up. Geralt raises a brow as if to emphasize his point. “Part of the witcher mutations,” he says. “Heightened senses.”

You know that. He’d heard the foglet coming when you hadn’t heard a thing, and you’d known then that it was because of his mutations - but what your brain had failed to consider was the fact that he could hear more than monsters: he could hear you. 

Melitele, your heart speeds up every time he touches you. No wonder he seems to see straight through you. You don’t trust yourself to get any closer to him when he’s looking at you like that. 

“You couldn’t have told me that sooner, or - I don’t know, given me a warning?” you ask.

He gives a light shrug. “Sorry. Thought you already knew. Wasn’t expecting you to be a compulsive liar, either.” 

 The ghost of a smile he wears tells you that he’s teasing you, but you shoot him another glare.

You start to think of - well, everything, and dread pools in your lungs. Every moment you’d thought you had some sort of shield for your emotions, your heart had given you away. Hiding your face hadn’t even helped, not even a little, not when he could hear your heart pounding in your chest like an admission of guilt.

“Alright,” you mutter, swallowing hard. “I’m a bad liar. My hands do hurt. How’s that?”

“Real enthusiastic, aren’t you?” His tone is practically dripping with sardonicism. “Now sit down.” 

He gestures toward a nearby rock that’s about half your height. You hesitate, trying to think of some way to get out of this, but when nothing comes to mind, you give in and take a seat. As you watch him prepare the bandages again, you try your best to keep your heart rate slow.

Deep breaths, that’s all it is. And he’ll just think you’re breathing like that because it hurts. 

But his touch is as gentle and warm as you remember. He carefully peels the old bandages away, pausing for a moment when you wince, then continuing on. Your heart rate wanes and rises over and over like a wave, and all you can do is breathe through your nose and try not to think. 

Most of the blisters have popped now. All that’s left is of them itchy, dead skin and the seeping rawness of the healing wounds below. Your hands jerk when Geralt touches them - an automatic spasm, more itch than pain - and he simply holds them still and continues on. 

That hold is so firm you couldn’t squeeze out of it if you tried, and he’s barely applying any pressure. Is this the work of mutations, or is it a developed strength from years of swordwork? Perhaps a mix of both? 

How ironic that someone called the Butcher of Blaviken is bandaging your hands so delicately. How strange that it was him assigned to you, and not someone else - someone that might have been crueler, might have been impatient. Another witcher. Another being. Why Geralt, of all people? Why is he here with you? 

Despite your best efforts, the erratic rhythm of your pulse won’t soothe. Heat builds in your skin and spreads lower and lower. You desperately try to push the image of Geralt away. His scars. The way he looked when he was asleep. The way he’s kneeling in front of you now, brows furrowed as he concentrates. Oh, gods…

Trying to find any way out of your current train of thought - anywhere but here and now - your mind frantically turns back to the ballads. To his dozens of names. Anywhere but here and now. Dandelion. Roach. Yennefer. 

That’s right, Yennefer. The thought of her takes you out of danger for the present moment. You think of her with fierce intent. You mull over The Last Wish.

Dandelion’s tales have always been a sort of guilty pleasure for you - ways to pass the time in between everything else. Some of them seemed too far-fetched to ever be possible, but others rang with an element of truth that seemed hard to deny. 

But Geralt isn’t like you’d pictured him. The Butcher of Blaviken hardly seems appropriate for a man so… morally bound. Everything about him reflects someone with real emotions, someone who’s known real consequences - the kind that weighs down on his shoulders in quiet moments.

Not that you don’t know the story of Blaviken: how he’d apparently massacred innocents in the street and fled. But you can’t imagine him doing a thing like that. Ever. Maybe it was just as fanciful of a tale as every other falsity. 

You ache to ask him about it, but a certain fact halts your tongue: despite everything, aside from his mention of killing the guards at Crow’s Perch, Geralt’s hardly told you anything about himself. His words are never focused on personal matters. 

You, on the other hand, have told him far too much, and not wanted to. 

But would he tell you if you asked? You want to know - not only about Blaviken, but about why he calls his horse Roach, and whether all those ballads are true. You want to know about Dandelion, and Yennefer, and if Geralt really bound himself to her on the first day they’d met. 

You want to know why he was in Skellige, if it’s true that he killed Foltest, and if he also had a hand in killing Radovid like they’ve been saying on the street.

You want to know all of these things and a hundred more, but by the time the courage starts to come to ask him, Geralt’s already done bandaging your hands.

“There,” he says. “Ready? Not hiding anything else?”

You shoot him a glare. “For example?”

“Dunno. Blisters in your boots, maybe?”

You rise to your feet and pray you won’t shoot him - accidentally or on purpose.

“No.”

“Good. C’mere.” He grabs the crossbow off the ground where you’d left it, still cocked. “That patch of moss on the rock. See it?” 

You do. It’s almost a perfect circle.

With practiced hands, Geralt aims the bow forward and shoots. It hits the moss dead center.

Showoff, you think.

“Your turn. Show me what you’ve got.”

He hands you back the bow, then steps behind you - placing a bolt in your empty hand. 

He’s close. Close enough you can feel the warmth of his chest brushing against your back. The smell of him is driving you mad. Leather, bergamot, sandalwood. A hint of herbs. Resinous. Addictive. Dangerous. You’re in so much danger from your own actions that you’re trembling.

“Gotta hold it away from you, always,” he starts. “Don’t load it until you need to.” 

You can feel the warmth of his breath against your neck. You shiver and grip the bow and try not to think at all. 

Geralt pauses. “You’re shivering. Heart’s pounding. Sure you’re alright?” 

“Just… cold and nervous. I’ve never shot a crossbow before. I’ll be fine - keep going.” 

It’s a miracle your words come out sounding believable, even if they have truth mixed into them.

“Alright,” he says. “Pull the string back until it’s locked on the catch.”

Your bandaged fingers don’t have much dexterity, but you manage to do as he says. Your heart is still pounding, but Geralt doesn’t mention it.

“Bolt goes in the groove, there,” he says, coaxing your hand into the right place. Your lungs run out of oxygen. You can’t seem to breathe.

“Now,” he continues, “raise it and aim. Don’t rush, though. When you’re ready, press the trigger.”

Your hands are still shaking. Your mind is too polluted with Geralt to concentrate - the heady smell of him, the pleasant heat of his body, the sharp handsomeness of his face, his rough, callused hands, his gentle, burning touch. You raise the crossbow to your eye, aim, hold your breath, and shoot, and—

Well… completely miss the target. The bolt strikes the rock wall and pitifully clatters to the ground.

“Not bad for a first shot,” Geralt praises. “Try again. Remember to breathe. Make the shot while you’re breathing out - you’ll think clearly that way.”

Not bad? you think. He really is just as much of a liar as you are. Who would’ve thought the White Wolf had such a bleeding heart? You’d taken forever to load up the bolt, taken even longer to aim, and still hadn’t even gotten close to the target. 

Practice makes perfect, though. You hadn’t been expecting to hit it anyway. This time, you really do want to make the shot - not only because it’s humiliating to miss, but because knowing how to use a crossbow is a pretty damn useful skill. 

At this point, it’s almost a guarantee that the two of you will come across something dangerous again - and next time, it might not go as smoothly as the foglet had. You need to learn to shoot.

You breathe steadily and stare at the patch of moss - the one that still has Geralt’s arrow in it. You can do this. 

Hands a little steadier than before, you tug the string back into the catch. Then, trying to keep your mind on nothing but the weight of the bow in your hands, you slide a bolt into the groove.

Geralt is silent behind you, but if you know him in any way, shape, or form, you know he’s watching you. Catching every detail.

It feels more natural to raise the bow to eye level this time. You breathe in. Focus on the target. Carefully, you ready your hand on the trigger. Exhale. 

Shoot.

The arrow pierces the target - not quite in the center like Geralt’s, but you’ll take it.

“Good,” Geralt says. “Try it again.”

Don’t get cocky, you instruct yourself. You aim as carefully as you had before, breathing in deeply. Something inside you seems to click. The hair on your arms rises in anticipation, and there’s a sudden stillness to your thoughts that feels almost like you’re underwater. You keep that feeling in your lungs, your hands, your every move. Then, you press the trigger again.

The bolt pierces straight through Geralt’s arrow. 

You stare at it in complete and utter shock, so stunned you’re unable to move. Then you blink, thinking your eyes are playing tricks on you. Was that… some kind of freakish beginner’s luck? 

Biting back a smile, you turn to look at Geralt. There’s something in his face you can’t identify, something quizzical and… warm. He studies you for a long moment, the way he seems to do constantly these days, then raises his brows.

“Again,” he instructs.

Your next shot misses the center arrow by a mere inch. Not bad for your third try. Your parents had always talked about finding things, hidden talents that just came naturally to them, and you’ve had a few things like that yourself. Maybe this is another one of yours.

“Don’t go celebrating just yet,” Geralt says, interrupting your thoughts. “Moss is one thing - a moving target is another.”

He’s right, of course. No sentient creature is going to stand unmoving while a crossbow is being aimed at them.

“Alright,” you say with a shrug. “What are you going to do about that, then? Throw a piece of wood and get me to hit it mid-air?”

“Not a bad idea,” Geralt says. “Get ready.”

“You have to be joking,” you say quickly. “You can’t - you can’t think I’ll hit that?”

Geralt, who is squatting down to grab a piece of wood, tilts his head. “Got a better plan?”

“Yes, I do. Don’t die or pass out. Then I won’t have to use the crossbow.”

He rises to his feet, lightly tossing the wood into the air. His hand comes up in a graceful flash to catch it again. Somehow, he manages to make all of this look effortless. 

“I can’t guarantee that I’ll be able to defend you at all times,” he says softly. “That’s the preferred scenario, sure, but I can’t guarantee it. Besides - thought you wanted me to teach you.”

“I do,” you sigh. “But not - like this. Not by throwing pieces of wood and having me shoot at them.” 

“This isn’t Kaer Morhen,” he chides. “Wish it was, but it isn’t. Gotta use what we have. Don’t trust me?”

 “I do trust you, but… I - oh, Geralt! I’ll look ridiculous.” 

He smiles impishly. “Got something better to do?”

“Yes. Sleep.”

“Funny. You told me you weren’t tired,” he reminds you. “I know you’re stalling. C’mon. Get ready to shoot.”

“Unbelievable,” you grumble, but you pull back the string and ready another arrow. Geralt waits for your signal, then throws.

The wood passes and hits the ground before you’ve even pulled the trigger.

“That was too fast,” you protest. “How am I supposed to hit that?”

“Think a drowner is gonna stand still to let you shoot it? A bandit? A ghoul? Try again.”

Another block of wood flies past. Your arrow is much, much too late.

Geralt must throw those blocks of wood fifty times, and you still don’t even come close to hitting any of them. So much for a hidden talent of yours. 

Halfway through, you have to start reusing bolts. Luckily, a large majority of the ones you used are undamaged, but even then, you continue to hit nothing. Your patience begins to wear thin.

“This isn’t doing me any good,” you eventually insist, letting the bow go slack in your hand. “Any monster or human is a much bigger target than a piece of wood.”

Geralt squats down to grab one of the fallen blocks. “Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we haven’t got any practice dummies here. You’re learning to follow the movement, anticipating where it’ll end up. Useful skill.”

You give him an exasperated look.

“What? Doubting my training?” he asks.

“Have you actually trained anyone before, Geralt?”

Your words are meant as a joke, but something deepens in his gaze - the slightest shift in expression, the faintest falter in his composure. Not anger. Something else: maybe some kind of aching, or regret, or grief. 

The look on his face: it’s how you feel every time you think about home. 

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I have. Had a little help, but… yeah.” 

You open your mouth, to apologize, maybe - but with a small shake of his head, your mistake is gone. Geralt is smiling. 

Completely lost in thought, but smiling. Not a faint smile, either, like the ones he gives for your jokes, but a full, fond smile as he thinks about something, or… someone. 

“Can’t take much credit, though,” he says. “She always wanted to learn. Couldn’t have stopped her from training if I tried.”

He clearly isn’t talking about Yennefer.

You watch him for a moment and decide you’ve told him enough about you that you can finally press just a little, a single word that slips from your lips before you can regret it. 

“Who?”

Geralt finally looks up at you, brows furrowed. His lips part and he hesitates, clearly trying to think of what to say. 

Shit. You shouldn’t have asked.

“Sorry,” you blurt. “None of my business, you don’t have to -”

He gently cuts you off with another shake of his head. “Her name’s Ciri. She’s my…” He pauses for a moment. “She’s like a daughter to me. I raised her by choice, trained her at Kaer Morhen.”

Geralt has a daughter? 

That’s news to you. The fondness in his gaze when he’d thought of her - he clearly cares about her, clearly misses her. Was that what he was doing in Skellige? Had you ripped him away from her?

Gods, you very well might have separated him from his family, and… you’re sitting in a cave, complaining about the way he’s training you - something you’d asked for. Trying to keep the both of you safe.

For a terrible moment, emotion almost overwhelms you. You swallow it down and breathe. Geralt might be able to hear your heart, but he can’t read your mind. 

“Thank you,” you say, taking a seat on a rock a few feet across from him and setting the bow down next to you.

Your words seem to catch him off guard. His expression flashes with quizzicality, then settles on a slight sort of trepidation. “For what?” he asks.

“For… telling me about Ciri, and bandaging my hands. And the crossbow training, of course.”

The wariness in his face melts away. “Don’t need to thank me for any of that.” 

“Well, I am. Can’t force me not to.” 

He huffs, letting out a low, grumbling noise deep in his chest. You give him a small smile in response. A brief, comfortable sort of silence falls over the two of you, and you bask in it for a moment. 

The rain is still pattering outside, but it sounds a little lighter. Hopefully, by tomorrow the two of you will be out of here. It must be nightfall by now - it seems even darker out there.

“Out of curiosity,” you say suddenly, “can Ciri shoot a piece of wood mid-air with a crossbow?”

Geralt’s brows pinch as he thinks about it. “Don’t know, actually. Witchers - not really ones for crossbows, usually prefer swords. Didn’t exactly teach her.”

“Is it even possible?”

His gaze falls to the bow. “Huh. Asking to see me do it?”

You give a shrug, feigning indifference. “Well, if you can’t, I definitely can’t.”

He rises and takes the bow from you. “Gotta throw a piece of wood for me, though. High and straight, no cheating.”

“Me, cheat?” you ask. “Never.”

You briefly consider giving him an awful throw, but ultimately decide against it. You want to see if he can actually do something like this.

Grabbing a block, you carefully step out of the way of the bow and prepare to throw. When he nods that he’s ready, you give it your best toss. 

You almost can’t believe it after all of your failed attempts, but Geralt hits it. The arrow pierces the block in a flash of silver and it roughly impacts against the wall, splintering into pieces. 

In one try. Lightning-fast.

You stare at him, stunned. “That’s… impressive,” you manage to say. “Have you ever done anything like that before?” 

Even after pulling off something like that, he somehow manages to look humble. “Shot a lot of drowners underwater,” he says, setting the bow down. “Sirens, too. Once, uh, shot apples off someone.”

“Shot - what do you mean, off someone?”

Geralt rubs the back of his neck, suddenly looking extremely bashful. “Well…”

The sight of this famous witcher, looking so incredibly embarrassed about this apple-shooting event, draws a sharp, surprised laugh from your chest.

Geralt’s face softens. “You laughing at me?”

“Only with good reason,” you tease. “You should see your face. Let me take a guess: you were drunk?”

“Nope.”

“Then… you did it as a dare?”

He shakes his head.

You take a seat a few feet away from him and give him an expectant look. “Alright, I’m intrigued.”

“Not much of a story, honestly,” he says. “Probably disappointing.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

Geralt huffs again, seeming to mull it over before he gives a light shrug. “Can’t hurt.”

Bringing your knees to your chest, you lean in closer, and you don’t miss the brief, lovely flash of a smile that crosses his face. Then he hesitates, brows furrowing.

“Don’t even know where to start.” He thinks for a moment, sitting forward and propping his hand on his thigh. “Was, uh… recruiting people… had to get into this - place. Needed people with certain skills.”

You scowl at him. “You know, you can just say you were planning a heist, Geralt.”

His shoulders slump in defeat. “Astute of you,” he says. His brows lift. “Sure you aren’t a thief?”

You narrow your eyes. “And here I thought you could tell when I was lying. What’s my heartbeat saying, master witcher? As I’ve already told you - I’m no thief. The djinn was a special circumstance. Go on?”

 His expression turns sullen. “Gonna have to stop talking if you’re gonna keep using my words against me.”

“Why? You’ve done the same thing to me. Fair’s fair.”

The two of you stare at each other for a long moment. You cross your arms. He does the same. 

“Pretty stubborn, aren’t you?” he finally says. “Figures. Yeah, it was a heist. Sounds stupid, but I didn’t have a choice - needed something that was locked up in an auction house. Long story short, I found someone who had a plan to get in, but we needed some extra help to execute it. I went out to recruit a girl named Eveline - a circus performer. She agreed to help. Needed me to help her first.” 

He glances at you to see that you’re following, then continues. 

“Turned out, the man who was the last act in her show had gone blind. Already spent all the money from the tickets, though - couldn’t refund them - so she asked me to stand in for him. Her business partner balanced apples on his head, a leg, and his arms. I, uh, shot them off of him. Surprised I didn’t hit him, actually. I wasn’t sure if he’d come out alright.”

The thought of Geralt using his crossbow to shoot apples off a stranger is so entirely bizarre and ridiculous that you find yourself laughing again. 

“A very good story,” you tell him. “I see now why Dandelion uses you for his ballads.”

He tilts his head. “Why’s that?”

“Well,” you drawl, “from what I hear, you seem to find yourself in very interesting situations. Frequently.”

He huffs. “That’s one way to put it.”

“What would you call it, then?”

His gaze stalls on a point behind you. All at once, he looks a thousand miles away. Run-down. Exhausted.

“Guess I’d say I’ve never been drawn to things that are comfortable,” he murmurs. He shifts, looking down at a rock near his boots. “Got a tendency for getting into trouble. Following people into it, too.”

“Like Dandelion?”

His eyes crinkle. “Yeah, gotten into a fair amount with him. The stories are exaggerated, though.”

“I figured they might be,” you admit. “Some were… a little outlandish.”

He nods. “Like I said, Dandelion’s got a flair for the dramatic. Changes details, shifts things around to make himself look better, or….” He pauses, letting out a slow breath. “He makes things sound simple, easy. They’re never that way. Not for a witcher.”

His tone is pensive and somber. You wonder which one of the stories he’s thinking about.

“I see what you mean,” you tell him. “You don’t like Dandelion’s ballads, then?”

“Wouldn’t say that, exactly,” he responds. “It’s… strange, having people recognize you, know things about you that are better left private. If it were up to me - I’d rather not have everyone know the intimate details.”

You can’t imagine what it would be like to be recognized by people you don’t even know. To have them hear about your relationships, your experiences. To have them be shifted for the sake of a better lyric.

A part of you feels guilty for having read those ballads so eagerly. You’ve spent hours with him in silence, wondering about things and people and details of his life he hadn’t even mentioned to you. You’d always assumed the stories were told with complete permission, but looking at it now, it feels, well… like an invasion of his privacy. 

Not to mention, not everyone views him as positively as you do now. You’d thought him a brute before you met him. People at the inn spat at his feet. Called him a freak, a mutant. People at the market had made a point to show he was unwelcome there, loudly blathering about how witchers are a curse of nature.

All of that must be incredibly exhausting.

“I’m sorry, Geralt,” you eventually tell him.

“Gotta stop saying that,” he says. “It’s not your fault.”

His words don’t stop the twisting sensation that’s coiling in your gut. Silence falls again, and you wring your hands in your shirt as you try to think of something to say. Nothing comes.

After a long while, Geralt straightens up.

“Rain’s stopped.”

Sure enough, the patter of the rain on the mouth of the cave has gone quiet. Does he plan on riding again? You wouldn’t be opposed to starting off now - in fact, you hope for it. No sun to scorch your skin. Cool wind against your cheeks. Stars as your view.

You’re both exhausted, but… still. You could rest at the next inn, get away from the heat of the day.

“How far are we from another town, do you think?” you ask.

“Couple hours, maybe,” he says. “Can’t ride tonight, though. Too much mud.”

You swallow hard. “Oh.”

“Don’t worry,” he says. He leans back against the rock wall of the cave, settling his hands behind his head. “It’s not much longer to Novigrad. Hopefully, we’ll find a good lead, but… odds are, we’ll spend a few days there at the least, get some rest.”

You give a sharp nod. “And you’re sure this friend of yours won’t mind having us?”

“This friend of mine happens to be Dandelion,” Geralt ruefully informs you. “Saved him more times than I can count. Doubt he’ll begrudge us a room.”

“Wait - we’re… we’re meeting with Dandelion?”

Geralt smiles wryly. “Starstruck?”

“No, no,” you say quickly. “Just surprised.”

“That’s good. His ego’s big enough as it is.”

You hum softly in response, distracted by your thoughts. 

Every time you think of Novigrad, you get a pit in your stomach - and for good reason. It’ll be the determinator for a number of things; questions you haven’t dared asked, questions even Geralt doesn’t know the answer to. 

Neither of you have brought it up, but surely he must be thinking about it - the odds of you two finding another djinn are simply not in your favor. Djinns are incredibly rare and incredibly valuable. Who knows if you’ll be able to find one, much less make it there safely. 

And if you don’t find one…

You try to brush away the thought. There must be some way.

Giving a glance to Geralt, you find him still in his laid-back position, eyes closed now. Good - hopefully he’ll sleep for a while. It’ll give you some time to think in peace.

You’ve never been to Novigrad before - never strayed very far from the university when you were attending. In the remnants of the war, you’re hesitant to enter the city. You’ve heard that the witch hunters were burning mages and non-humans, and you’re not very keen to see what’s left of that in the aftermath. 

Maybe it won’t be all terrible, though. Soon you’ll sleep in a warm bed. Not to mention, you’ll be meeting one of Geralt’s best friends (or at least, you think he’s one of Geralt’s best friends). You aren’t quite sure what to make of Dandelion from what you’ve heard, and you haven’t the slightest clue how he’ll view you.

Oh, gods - how will you ever explain the situation to him? Traveling with just the two of you isn’t so bad, but what will Dandelion say when you and Geralt have to share a room? And what about Yennefer, will she be in Novigrad as well? 

The more you think about Geralt’s friends and family, the uneasier you feel. You’ll be so incredibly out of place among them. These are the kind of people who end up in ballads and on Gwent cards. You hadn’t even managed to graduate from Oxenfurt. 

And once it’s over, you’ll likely never see Geralt again.

A familiar ache settles in your chest. In between everything that’s happened lately, you’ve grown completely careless. You’ve allowed yourself to make too many mistakes, to grow too relaxed here. You’ve told Geralt too much about you - enough that he was able to derive one of your biggest secrets in the span of just two days. Once this djinn business is done, you’ll go your separate ways.

No more, you tell yourself. You’ll be friendly with him, but no more soul-baring. No more asking him questions. No more facts about yourself.

“Hey,” Geralt says suddenly. You’re so startled by the sound of his voice that you jump, heart racing as you turn to look at him. His eyes are open again, and he’s sitting forward with his hand placed on his thigh.

“Sorry,” he says. “Just realized - I don’t know something about you. Something pretty important.”

I can’t tell you, you think, but you don’t know how to word that in any decent way. You swallow hard and stare at him instead.

“How important?”

“Very.”

Is he going to ask you about the djinn again? Oxenfurt? You can’t tell him about those - you won’t.

“What is it?” Your heart is racing again. 

He raises a brow. “Your name,” he says. “Never told me your name.”

His gaze is warm and expectant on your face, and a strange sort of heat flutters in your gut. He gives you a small smile.

Your name.

Well, you think. Maybe you’ll tell him just this one thing.

tags: @henryownsme @madamemelancholysstuff @fullmoonshadowwrites @darkscrossfire @beforethepen

[newspropaganda]

Welcome back to Roasting 101: Today’s subject—fake Yu-Gi-Oh! fans who don’t know the first thing about being real. This clown keeps crawling back like he has something to prove, but the only thing he’s proven is that he’s stuck in a loop of stupidity. I already know who he is—just another troll running the same tired playbook. You can tell from his posts he's probably got some messed up agenda. But here’s the thing: he milks the hate like it's going to make him matter. Newsflash, I’ve been hating this fandom’s nonsense since 2015, and nothing you’ve said has ever phased me. I’m the original OG, like Andrew Tate is to masculinity, while you’re just screaming into the void with your social justice warrior nonsense.

5D’s is peak fiction, and your whiny comments don’t change that. Over time, real Yu-Gi-Oh! fans will wake up to the greatness of 5D’s, but you? You’ll still be stuck in your echo chamber, crying about things you’ll never understand. 5D’s is the bread and butter of this franchise—more relevant than anything mainstream media throws at us because it’s a flawless show. You’ve clearly never appreciated it, and if you’d been around in 2014, you would’ve been booted from this fandom faster than that joke ScarlightCipher, who tried and failed to make a name for himself. Yeah, I crossed paths with him back in 2015—and believe me, I roasted him so bad, he never recovered.

You just got roasted, son. 5D's fans are on a whole different level, and your weak pity posts can’t touch us. There’s a reason I’m the WW5D’s champion when it comes to roasting. People like you fold under pressure while I’m out here on a higher level, making you cry with every word. Step your game up, or step aside, because 5D’s isn’t just a show—it’s a legacy. And you? You're just another footnote in it.

I bet 100 bucks he’ll be back under a week, trying to troll again. That’s why I blocked him—he’s too soft to respect 5D's legacy. Sure, it's a card game adventure, but unlike that Bleach trash, he can’t tell me anything. 2025 is going to be the year of 5D's, where fake fans crumble, and real ones like me rise from the ashes to reclaim our fandom. And don’t get me started on Zexal fans—they think they’re the ambassadors of the community, but it’s the first three Yu-Gi-Oh! shows that put in the work, week after week, to build this legacy. These newer gens don’t know the meaning of respect.

But hey, if you think you can roast me back, go ahead and reblog this post. Tell me why I’m wrong without being a coward. There are plenty of reasons you can try, but instead, you’re busy whining under some virtue-signaling post like that’s going to get you anywhere. This isn’t Twitter, where people hide behind fake maturity. I’m a Facebook guy—over there, we handle things like men. Here, it’s WWE Champion vs. Jobber, and guess what? You’re the jobber. I’m the heavyweight champion of the Yu-Gi-Oh! community.

Real men, like Andrew Tate, always said, 'Beta males like him are exactly why we need toxic masculinity back.' He'd probably throw in something like, 'Your lack of backbone is why the world’s getting softer—you need to wake up, hit the gym, and stop crying on the internet. Real men handle business, not feelings.

You see, this is why I can’t stand America when it comes to Yu-Gi-Oh!. It’s not just politics and BS—it’s the fact that people here are so spoiled. Andrew Tate was right all along: people are getting softer. I roast the community because they attacked my show, and yeah, I admit I’m a little sensitive about it. I’m probably a '1% beta male' when it comes to other things, but when it’s about my shows, I stand my ground. It’s not all anger, though—I learned that it’s better to love a show than to support its fandom. I put my content out there, and people can decide for themselves if it’s good or not. It’s their choice to block, ignore, or support me. Personally, I love 5D’s, GX, OCG Stories, Pyramid of Light, and Bonds Beyond Time, but Zexal, The Dark Side of Dimensions, and the Rush Era? Total garbage. They just don’t compare.

And let me make one thing clear: I don’t support what anyone else says. They’ve talked trash about me, my show, and why they can’t respect me—but guess what? They’re the beta males, not me. Why do you think VoicesOfChaos, a Zexal fan, turned into a trans person? Because Zexal was like the American government, telling them what to do. Zexal is like a system that makes people feel stupid instead of giving them hope. That’s why I’ve always hated it. As for The Dark Side of Dimensions, it was just overhyped by clowns who thought it was good. I’ll take Bonds Beyond Time any day—it was more human, more real than Dark Side of Dimensions could ever be.

#Roasted

[lizard-shifter-noms]

Broken Bloodlines Epilogue

——————————————————————————

and were to the end! an epilogue to this chaos!

wellp, time to work on arc 3 now! (that means Hiatus for a while)

have fun reading!

and as always reblogs are appreciated! (Also ASK’s are open so feel free to bother me!)

AO3 Link for those that prefer the layout there; https://archiveofourown.org/works/44627188

——————————————————————————————————

During the following three days I would have nightmares every time I went to sleep, so I ditched napping at the lookout rock like I usually did in favor of helping people during the day.

In the night though…

It wasn't pretty, while I didn't toss or turn like most people would have simply because not moving while sleeping had been so ingrained in my time as a street Bastard.

Being plagued with reruns of people dying in front of me wasn't nice, even if I hadn't known anyone who died, well Oakley kinda died?

That was another constant piece in those nightly horrors,  Oakley burning to nothing but ash, again and again and again.

After the first one I woke up to see Fable had moved to sleep beside me instead of the loft.

Seeing that calmed me at least somewhat from the rising panic and let me calm down a little.

Knowing Fable was there helped remind me that the battle was over and there was no danger anymore,  and that my friends were okay now, well, most of them at least.

Barsen’s Funeral had been crowded, very much so,  It almost looked like the entire castle was there.

Maybe it had been the entire castle, I didn't know many people still.

That was also another part of my nightmares, finding the corpse of Barsen.

Sometimes the nightmares drifted from what had actually happened to a kaleidoscope of horrifying injuries, corpses and a blood stained  riverbank that fell into itself.

After The third day of that repeating horror I went to Oakley,  just wanting something that would at least not make my entire nervous system feel like it was about to explode.

That and I wanted to ask for a compass, I'd trade it somehow.

Though of course I didn't tell Fable about the compass, as far as he knew I was just going to get a sleeping aid that wasn't alcohol.

“So you want something to stop the nightmares? 

AND a gift for your brother who is going to leave in like two days?”

I sheepishly rubbed the back of my neck, yeah that might be asking a little much of him, but if he didn't want to help that was fine!

It was his stuff after all, and he had already helped a great deal with everything so he had no obligation to do more.

He whipped me gently on the head with some old scroll.

“Say that earlier next time! If he's leaving in two days you shoulda asked that sooner you dumbass! Now let's first see what I can give you for sleeping and then we can talk about the compass thing!”

I looked at him surprised, he really was an enigma, but at least he was still willing to help.

Even if I didn't quite always understand the things he criticized about what I did, and when I did them.

Though i could understand the time issue thing, i should have asked sooner but i didn't really get a chance to do so as Fable was around me a lot, and when he wasn't it was someone else.

In the end he gave me something that consisted of a thing called valerian root extract and was supposed to calm down.

After instructing me on how much to take and when we moved on to the compass gift idea.

“So what exactly do you want to do? Just give him a plain old compass?”

I shook my head at the winged man.

“I thought about painting it, like green with pastel blue flowers”

Oakley tilted his head in that Birdlike manner of his and then marched to one of the walls where three chests were set up next to each other.

“I'll look what i can find, as for you, you can go and get me an eighth of a kilo of copper, i'll need that later”

Copper? What? And what did he need that for?”

“Copper? Where am I supposed to get that?”

He just shrugged while halfway into one of the chests.

“Ask Rikaad, i bet the royal treasure chamber has at least some of it,  or go dig a mine and be really lucky”

I rolled my eyes at him even if he didn't see it.

“Alright ill as Rikaad, if he says no i'll ask for a shovel instead”

Finding Rikaad was easy, he was still busy with paperwork,  paperwork that at least had been somewhat sorted now.

After explaining what I needed it for he readily gave me what I needed, saying something along the lines of it being the least he could give me after I helped him so much.

I confusedly hid it in one of my pockets, at least I knew for a fact Rikaad would keep his mouth shut about the surprise.

Going back to Oakley I handed him the copper which was a little more than he needed but whatever.

Then he told me to look at the table and pick a design.

While I was gone he had apparently whipped up ten different designs for how to paint the compass.

From all the flowers depicted I only recognized two, a Blue Flax flower and Forget me not.

I ended up choosing the forget me not design, i liked the shape of them a little more.

Also, Forget me not as in forget me not after you leave.

Then he kicked me out and told me to come back after dinner time.

What the fuck.

Things really never made sense if Oakley was involved,  Then again he was some sort of Semi immortal magic wielder who just didn't use his powers very much.

Why the hell was I even questioning what he did anymore? 

Either it made sense or it didn't but that wasn't my problem.

The rest of the day was pleasantly boring. 

We helped rebuild a barnhouse that had gotten hit by a trebuchet and I had to heave a new support beam two stories up while in Ardua form.

I still didn't dare go around as a Giant simply because I knew that would scare a lot of people.

Fable was also there and helped,  by making more of those light bubbles so we could work on the roof even as the sunlight didn't quite reach that side of the barn.

That of course derailed the entire thing for a good hour simply because people wanted to see an Elf perform magic.

I was secretly very glad a lot of guards had come with us,  including Nea who proceeded to whack anyone who even looked mean at me or Fable with a willow stick.

Those hurt a lot, I knew from experience.

She also informed everyone she could that the Fae ban wasn't really in place anymore and the rest was just paperwork waiting for approval.

I did appreciate her even if she was needlessly violent a good part of the time.

After the sun was about to begin to set we headed back home and ate some sort of potato mash thing with stew.

Walking back to the shed I told Fable to go ahead and that I wanted to ask Oakley again on how much of that valerian stuff to take just to be sure and not overdose or something.

That was only partially true,  I would ask him again while I was there just to be safe of course.

But the actual reason for going there was something else entirely.

I really hoped Oakley was good at painting metal,  he was on paper sure, but metal was a little different than that.

Knocking carefully on the door so as not to startle him I patiently waited till he opened it and beckoned me inside.

Looking around I saw that he had shoved almost everything off the table in the middle of the room, literally, there was stuff in a heap on the floor.

The only thing still on it was a piece of fabric that clearly had something underneath it.

I could guess what that was, also Oakley really liked theatrics huh.

Eh, if he wanted to he could, it wasn't bothering anyone.

He walked over and around the table to stand behind it.

Then with a dramatic swing of his wing arm ripped the cloth from it.

“Tadaa!”

I stared at what Oakley had done with the compass, when he said he needed the copper I hadn't expected him to actually SCULPT with it!

Yes, Sculpt, on the compass he added leaves and flowers like I had asked for, but not only painted like I had thought.

The three dimensional ornaments looked beautiful and whatever paint Oakley got completely masked any trace of metal.

“You good? Or did your brain stop working?”

I blinked and looked back at oakley.

“Uh, i really thought you'd just paint it and not,  I don't even know how to describe it but I love it!”

It really was beautiful, and each of the forget me not was painted with an ethereal sort of shading.

“Yeah i can tell, your pupils are big”

“What?”

I looked at Oakley confused at the weird statement.

“Oh didn't you know? When people look at something they like,  their pupils get bigger! Quite an endearing thing really!”

I hadn't known that, well i doubted that was common knowledge or else people would fight about that as well.

“Uh well then i don't even have to say anything huh?

But really, thank you so much!”

I meant it, he had no reason to help me,  but he always did anyway even if i had no idea why.

He nabbed it from the Table and shoved it into my hands.

“Yeah yeah, you owe me a favor! 

Now scram i need to pile my stuff back on the table!”

I laughed a little at his clearly theatrical grumpiness.

It was very clear he didn't intend anything mean about that.

“I will, i will don't worry, but uh just to be sure,  and so I have something I can tell Fable, 

how much of the Valerian thing am I supposed to be taking?”

He flapped his three fingers against his forehead for a moment before telling me and then shoving me out of the door.

Oakley really was an enigma sometimes, but a likable one.

So now it was time to walk back to the castle in the dark.

I hated that part, I was fine with darkness but I wasn't exactly fond of being alone outside while there could be who knew what.

Luckily after only a few paces I heard a familiar meow and the cat appeared.

She walked all the way back with me and then kept walking in the direction of the kitchen.

I briefly wondered if she just didn't want to walk alone as well.

Making sure to hide the compass properly on myself before stepping inside, I quietly opened the door.

Slinking in, I closed it as silently as I could and walked over to the corner with my stuff.

Fable seemed to be already asleep so I went quietly to avoid waking him up.

Taking off my shoes I also hid the compass under some freshly washed spare shirts, to avoid it getting scratched I put it on the second last one and then put the other, identical, shirts back over it.

There, now there wouldn't even be a suspicious sound should I drag the cloth a bit too much while taking a new one.

Yeah that would work, and tomorrow I'd get a nice wrapping for it and the day after that I'd give it to Fable.

Two days, well technically only one and maybe a half,  and then he would leave.

I wasn't exactly happy about that,  In the past week I had grown to really like him, sure he was my brother but that didn't set in stone that we would get along.

But we did get along great actually,  especially now that he had control over his own brain again.

But I guess he was right, if he felt like he couldn't figure out what type of person he was here in Kamerasca then staying didn't make much sense.

I'd just wish he'd at least stayed for a month instead of a week.

Taking the Valerian stuff Oakley gave me and checking twice that i got the right measurement in the cup i drank it like i had seen people do shots at the bars in the city.

Surprisingly it didn't taste as awful as I had thought,  but it still wasn't on my list of liked things.

Shifting back to Ardua form I yanked some of the blankets that were strewn about closer to me and settled down to sleep.

The stuff Oakley gave me actually worked, there still were some nightmares but not as many and definitely not as severe as before.

What a relief.

The next morning I felt at least a little bit well rested so while it wasn't a hundred percent effective it did help a lot already.

The day was then over way too fast for my liking,  but I did spend the remaining time with Fable and Robin.

Arthur and Rikaad were busy with paperwork again.

During the day I also managed to get a pretty little bag in a lovely red hue.

This would be perfect for the compass!

And it was, it fit perfectly inside of it and I tied it with a neat little bow while Fable got comfy on the loft for one last time.

And way too soon the day of departure had come.

I took the hidden gift out of its stash and put it in my pocket to give it to him later.

Fable himself was currently in the Kitchen getting provisions and I didn't doubt that the kitchen staff would shove at least some sweets into his hands.

Well, this was it, Fable was going to leave.

He promised not to go without saying bye to everyone so he would wait on the other side of the protective wall of the castle.

At this point he had to be there now so I'd better hurry along.

It would feel weird to have the shed to myself again, 

though I didn't doubt that Robin would stay overnight a lot of the time.

The walk over to the gate felt weirdly long,  even though it wasn't actually that far from my place.

The oversized entrance itself was wide open, allowing for easier back and forth as I saw some other people talk to Fable.

Including Nea and Norrin as well as Arthur who hadn't really liked him at the start.

Nice to see that changed enough for Arthur to come say something as well.

Walking through the gate I was joined by Robin who sprinted after me and only narrowly avoided collision.

We then turned to Fable, who was standing in the sunlight and got a ‘friendly’ shoulder punch from Nea.

Nea then left, walking past us and waving at him while dragging a not so happy looking Norrin with her.

So that left only me Robin and Arthur to speak with Fable.

My mind blanked, what could I say?

Luckily I was given a little bit of time to think of something as first Arthur said his grumpy goodbyes and then Robin his more positive ones.

They both left then to give us some space.

“I- uh, i got something for you before leave”

I pulled the little red bag out of my pocket and held it out for him.

He carefully took it and started untying the string with only barely hidden curiosity.

“I know it's not a lot but i thought it would be nice to give you something to remember me by, even if that sounds a bit cliche”

Man i sounded absolutely stupid, this was the last time i would be able to talk to him! And I was butchering it!

Just like the day he appeared at the castle, heh.

By now he had managed to open the clumsily tied bag and pulled out the compass.

He held it like a coin in his fingers and turned it so the sun shone on every facet.

For a split second I saw his pupils get bigger, and if Oakley was right, which he surely was, Fable liked what he saw.

He turned to me.

“This is beautiful, how did you get your hands on this?

The only other compass I have is old and cracked, which is why I navigate by stars most of the time.

But I can't exactly do that at day or when the weather is bad,  so this is perfect.

Thank you”

He moved a step forward and hugged me, I immediately hugged back, almost not wanting to let go as that meant he would leave.

But there was no way I could hold on forever so eventually I let go.

I was sure Fable was about to turn away and walk off when he got distracted by a mewling sound.

The cat! What the hell?

Fable turned the other way again and bent down to pet her.

“Hello Gloxinia, here to wish me goodbye too?”

What.

Don't tell me he actually managed to find a name the cat liked.

“You named her??? Wait, how did you find a name she liked,  and what does Gloxinia even mean?”

Fable stood up again, this time holding the cat, and looked at me.

“One time I was reading a botany book and the cat decided to sit on top of the pages, a page depicting a flower whose name is also Gloxinia.

So i just tried to call her that and it worked”

I was done trying to understand anything pertaining to cat,  and Oakley, forever now.

Why even try when the answer just made it more confusing.

Fable put the cat- Gloxinia on the ground again and turned to face me.

“Well, i cant say ive ever been good at saying goodbyes,  so i guess, this is it?”

At least I wasn't the only awkward one here.

“I guess so? I'm not good at this either but I do wish you luck and safe travels! And if you get the chance, try to write me a letter?”

He nodded.

“Of course, i'll even try to send some souvenirs,  though i cant promise they wont get stolen during the delivery”

That sounded nice, just not the stealing part.

I was about to say something more when I heard someone shout from up above.

Looking up I saw Oakley, well who else did I know that could fly?

He landed a few feet away from us to avoid blasting us with the dust his wings disturbed.

“Wait just one second! I got something for the both of you! 

And I assure you you'll find it highly practical!”

What was he talking about? Well he'd say that in a minute but it probably had to do with whatever was in the big satchel at his side.

He walked the few feet left towards us and pulled out two nearly identical books.

The only difference between the two was that one was decorated with blood red poppies and the other one with sunshine yellow Dandelions.

I could guess that one was for me and one for Fable.

I was proven right when Oakley shoved the one decorated with poppies into my hands and the other one into Fables.

I curiously opened the book only to find that all of the pages were empty.

I looked confused to Oakley who by now had fished a feather and some ink out of the satchel.

“Thanks? I think, what are these for?”

Oakley just tilted his head to the side like an owl.

“Well if you open the first empty page of both of your Logos books i can show you!”

Logos book? Was this something magical? 

I still did as he said though, and so did Fable.

He dipped the sharp end of the feather into the ink and then wrote in simple letters hello in the middle of my book.

I was confused for a second before I noticed that the words had appeared on Fables pages as well.

Ohhh so definitely magic!

Wait if what was written in my book showed up in his then he didn't even have to send a letter! He could just write to me using these books!

“Oakley, this is genius! Thank you so much!”

Fable also agreed with me though he did have one question about it.

“What happens when the books are full? 

And we don't have any empty pages left?”

That was a very good question actually, would he have to come back from who knew where to get a new one?

Oakley gently took Fable's book again,  and then poured some of the ink all over the page.

Of course it appeared in my book too and both of us exclaimed in confusion.

Oakley just waved that off.

“Relax, i'm just gonna show you what to do when you ant to get rid of the old writings”

Oh, that made a lot more sense.

He closed the book and held it over the inkpot again who he had wrapped into his tail to free his hands.

Then he ran his hand along the spine of the book and tapped the cover twice.

All of the previously spilled ink dripped out into the inkpot and when he opened the pages they were empty once again.

Oakley really was a master at magic, or at the very least really creative with it.

“Ohhh, that's actually awesome! And you get the ink back as well!”

Though various kinds of Ink might mix weirdly.

The winged man nodded.

“Yes! Just don't hold it over yourself while doing that or you're gonna stain your stuff!”

Well that one was rather obvious.

“Thank you so much Oakley! 

I think that's the most useful thing I've ever been given!”

It was, also i never received that many gifts anyway so that wasn't hard to do.

Fable nodded as well.

“That will make communicating a lot easier, thank you”

Oakley made a weird salute and then flapped up into the sky once again.

“Well, see ya sometime I hope! And good journey you pale Elfling!”

With those words he was gone, he really was extra sometimes.

So now we were alone again.

What now? 

He turned to me.

“Is anyone else planning on randomly appearing?”

“Not that i know, but Oakley is Oakley so he was probably the only one”

At least I hoped so,  this had completely derailed what we were actually doing.

To be fair whatever that was it was awkward as hell.

Since I really doubted anyone else was going to appear that meant Fable was going to leave now.

Like right now right now.

“Well, i wish you the best on your journey,  and that you find whatever you are looking for”

There wasn't much to say anymore, and even if we forgot something we now had the books so it wasn't a problem.

He smiled, for real this time.

Slightly crooked with his teeth partially showing.

He hugged me again and for a moment we both just froze.

He squeezed me for a moment, which put my ear next to his mouth, And then he whispered in my ear.

“My actual name is Andariel”

Just that and nothing more, but my eyes went wide at the sign of trust he had just given me.

For a true member of the Feyfolk do not give their names out lightly, if at all.

But he trusted me enough to tell me his real name, one I knew I'd never speak out loud or write down.

For a single moment i squeezed back, vowing silently to never ever tell anyone what He had just told me.

“Thank you for trusting me, i will keep my lips sealed about it forever”

Was all i could say as my mind blanked otherwise from this immense show of absolute trust.

He stopped squeezing me so hard, but still didn't let go yet.

“I'm going to miss you little brother”

“So do i, but at least we now have those Logos books as Oakley called them”

“That man is definitely not sane”

I couldn't agree more with that, but Oakley was still an alright, 

if sometimes over the top guy.

I just nodded into his shoulder and he let go for one last time.

“I promise when i found what i'm looking for i'll come back here to visit”

That sounded nice, and until then we had the books.

I continued to stand there till long after Fable had disappeared behind the treeline and it started to get dark.

I stood there long enough for Robin to have to come and drag me back to the shed.

When I told him Fable had successfully named the cat he pouted.

But he did like the name she had been given.

It was weird to be alone in the shed, thus far almost always someone had been here, mostly Robin or Fable.

But now it was silent, and that didn't help with the nightmares.

Despite the stuff from Oakley they came back to haunt me worse than the previous nights.

A knock on the door woke me up.

“Uhh‽ whasgoin on?”

There was another knock on the door, a much more timid one this time.

Since I was in the Ardua form I couldn't really open the door, and I didn't feel like shifting.

“S’not locked”

I yawned and the door slowly opened to reveal a familiar redhead.

“...umm i just…i dunno make sure you're okay? Now that Fable is gone”

It didn't sound like that's what he originally came here for but it was appreciated nonetheless.

“mhm , im fine, space just feels empty now”

It did, and it was strangely quiet, not sure if I liked that any.

Robin just stood there awkwardly and fiddled with his nails.

“Don't keep standing in the doorway,  c'mere and tell me why you're actually up this late”

He looked to the ground for a second and then closed the door behind him before making his way over to me.

He flopped against my side face first and stayed like that for a few seconds before he answered.

“I had a nightmare”

It was quiet and muffled against my fur but still plenty understandable.

Ah, so that's why.

Well, misery loves company or however that saying goes.

“You're not the only one, you actually woke me up from one”

He looked at me.

“I did? Umm well, can I stay here? Just- just till tomorrow?”

“Sure! I don't mind, it's a bit too quiet now anyway”

He clambered over to my head and settled in the bend of my arm,  like he'd done many times before.

I wouldn't ask what the nightmare was about, but I could guess.

Since he had been at the castle during the battle the only really horrible thing he had seen was Barsens corpse.

It didn't take a genius to figure out it had been that.

“Thank you”

He curled up where he was and I settled down as well.

It wasn't that much later when I heard quiet sniffling.

Looking at the redhead I could see he had curled up as small as he possibly could and was almost silently crying.

“...I miss him, why'd he have to go like that? 

He didn't even say what he was gonna do.

And who's gonna take care of the plants now?”

He mumbled into the fur of my arm.

So I had been right then, it was about Barsen.

“I miss him too, i think everyone does, as for the plants, i don't know”

At some point a new gardener would be hired,  had to be as everything would go unkempt and wild otherwise.

Robin shuffled closer to where my shoulder connected with my neck and tried to burrow himself in there.

“...i don't wanna sleep, what if i get more nightmares?”

I could understand that, before I asked Oakley for help I had trouble not just staying awake as well.

“I don't think you'll have nightmares every time you'll sleep,  but we could go ask Oakley for help tomorrow?

He did help me with that so i'm sure he'll find something”

I tried to reassure him.

He just tried to burrow even deeper into my mane as if it was a forcefield that would keep bad dreams away.

“It's too quiet, in my room i mean, i'm used to have other people around me when i sleep and now everytime i wake up and it's silent i have a moment of horror where i think everyone else in the room is dead”

Oh, so it wasn't only the nightmares.

Right, he'd lived in the dorms of the Guard academy which he shared with Rikaad and Arthur.

It was actually very unlikely he'd ever been alone for so long so I could imagine having the quiet be weird to him.

“Well, now that's Fable not here anymore you could just have the loft? 

I don't really use it aside from looking out the window when it rains”

That and then maybe my own nightmares would also get better, even if just to have the reassurance that my friends are alive and well.

“...You sure? It's your place”

I nodded.

“Yeah, now that Fable’s gone it's gonna be lonely so i wont mind don't worry”

He hmm-ed and detangled himself only a little from my mane.

“Okay, … hey  can you uhh, i don't wanna be- im cold and i don't want to wake up to silence again, so could you-?”

The sentence was horribly jumbled and it took my tired brain a good bit to catch on,  well while I tried to decipher what he said he did move one of his hands to softly poke the corner of my mouth,  the only thing he could reach from where he was.

Ah, so like after the celebration party or during the thunderstorm then.

“Like during the storm? But only if you're sure”

He nodded, having moved to now be more next to my head.

“Mhm, i can hear your heart like that so i know i wont wake up thinking people died again”

That did make some sense in an admittedly weird way.

If he was tucked away like that there would be no way for him to wake up alone.

“Alright, shoes off though who knows what you stepped in”

He obliged and tossed them towards the door where they landed in the middle of the floor two meters apart from each other.

Yeah, sure, that worked, but I wasn't gonna put them away now he could do that himself tomorrow.

“Alright then, ready?”

I asked him tiredly and he nodded while tripping over himself to get more in front of me instead of next to my shoulder.

I bent down and took his entire upper half into my mouth before he even had a chance to completely right himself up again.

He seemed confused for half a second but then gave an amused sound.

It was late and I didn't want to take forever so I quickly tilted my head back a little and let the ginger slide all the way in.

I paused for a moment in case of the small chance that he didn't want to anymore.

No protest came which didn't surprise me since he was always strangely okay with this.

Well i was partly to blame considering i kept enabling him,  but as long as he didn't get the same idea should he ever stand in front of a Dragon or whatever it was fine.

I softly swallowed and he slid halfway into my throat.

For a moment he made a strange movement and I stopped confusedly.

But after a second I noticed he was not in distress and instead was trying to tickle me,  probably as revenge for nabbing him up from the floor like that.

It was largely ineffective, if anything it just felt a little funny, so I swallowed again and he was now completely squished into my throat.

Another swallow and he was fully inside the storage pouch where he slipped around a bit to get upright again.

“Are you alright?”

He stopped moving for a moment.

“Hm? Yeah i'm fine, a little upside down, but-  uhh thank you,  i just- i didn't want to be alone so thanks”

I could practically see in my mind how he was fiddling awkwardly with his hands as he said that, but it was nice to know he was alright.

Maybe now we could both get some sleep without any unwanted disturbances.

“Good to hear, I think we should both sleep now,  if anythings wrong you can just wake me okay?”

He sleepily agreed after turning ‘upright’ and then settled down.

He must have been really tired, well so was i.

Laying down and using the arm without the bracelet as a pillow I closed my eyes.

Shortly before falling asleep I hear Robin mumble something that I could just barely translate to ‘you're warm’ before I joined the dreaming world.

For the first time since the battle there were no nightmares as I slept, 

just a small and protective warmth.

———————————————————————————

PREVIOUS / OVERSIGHT

ARC 3

[system-reset]

An open letter to Phoenix

[Please, if you have something kind to say to her, feel free to add it in a reblog. We love them and I know you do too.]

The story of the phoenix says that it rises from it's own ashes. But to rise from your ashes, you must first allow yourself to fall into them. To heal, both yourself and those around you, you must first let yourself feel. You may rest now, Nyx, I will keep the abyss at bay in your absence. The world will not crumble without you. I promise. I love you. Go now, sit for a while in the ashes, so you may come back infinitely stronger. We'll be here when you return.

Sincerely, Ren.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Blessed Are The Meek 3

Summary: you are trapped in an awkward circumstance with a widowed commander. (Handmaid AU)

Warning: this series will contain violence, dystopian aspects, rape and noncon, blood, coercion, sterility, and other dark elements. Please read these warnings and beware.

Character: Tommy Shelby

Note: thank you for following along. I’m sure yall didn’t expect to write Tommy again but here we are. Also feedback and comments if you dont mind. Maybe a reblog. 💕💕💕💕

You place the Commander’s bag in the trunk. Then, a thermos and a wrapped croissant for the drive. It’s a small consideration, you don’t know why you even thought of it. You just know that the drive will be long and tedious. You do not relish his return after the journey and the presence of similarly willful men.

You kick off your boots before you enter the house again. You shiver and lean a hand on the wall, lifting your foot to untie the laces. The commander’s footsteps come slow and deliberate down the stairs. You put your sole to the floor and face him, dipping your head.

As he approaches, you take his coat from the rack and offer it to him. Before, there would be another, the long blue jacket his wife so treasured, with its big rosette buttons and round collar. All blue had been buried away or burned to ash.

He lets you lift it onto his shoulder, barely acknowledging you as he pulls on a pair of black leather gloves. He slides out a pair of round glasses and puts them on. The sort he wears to read or tend to some smaller detail. He checks his watch.

“Do not dawdle” he girds as he approaches the door.

You furrow your brow and watch him pull it open. What does he mean? He pauses and lets out an exhale.

“Far be it from me to concern myself, but a coat would be in order,” he bids.

You still don’t understand. Surely he can’t mean you’re going with him.

“Commander?”

“You will sit in the backseat and keep your head down. A toe out of line and there will be more than enough Eyes to have you shipped out to a colony.”

You push your chapped lips together and nod. You don’t expect it and you are unprepared. He’d spoiled the rare moment of escape that tugged at your mind. A day without him and his temper lurking.

“I will get my coat, commander.”

He carries on and you march away. Your coat is in your room with all else that is allotted to you. Not much, enough to exist. A spare dress and apron, shoes for the summer, stockings, and a second shift. You snatch your coat and pull it on, flapping back through the halls to the front door.

As you come out, the car blows exhaust into the air. You get in the back seat and do as he said. You put your head down and don’t say a word. He has his foot on the pedal before you can even shut the door.

He drives with the radio on. A dour voice recites verses as you stare at the back of the front seat. The grey sky ripples, both dimming and paling to create and ebb and flow of light. 

There is a soft clunk as the commander steers with one hand. The props the thermos in the cupholder and unscrews the cap. You quickly put your eyes to your lap. The smell of breakfast tea pervades the closed space.

You do not close your eyes. You could fall asleep right there but you don’t dare. Sloth is a sin, deadly as they say. You focus on keeping awake as the tires roll on.

The gates of the capital rise before you. You give only a brief peek as the commander stops to give his identity. He’s waved inside with a panicky sort of deference. Inside, you sense the sudden flurry around you but do not look up. You don’t expect many marthas come around here.

He pulls up to a building of stained white brick. You tilt your head slightly and try to figure where you are. He keeps the engine running as he gets out, greeted by another.

“Commander.”

“Take my car to the residence,” Shelby demands.

“Sir.” There’s a lull as footsteps click around the hood, “and the martha?”

“You may take her too,” Shelby says flippantly, “she will hang my clothes, as is her duty.”

The guardian doesn’t wait for another order. He gets in the front seat as you huddle lower in your seat. It isn’t unusually to be spoken as nothing more than a thing, but it is humiliating even so. The man fixes the mirror as you sense the tension of his unasked questions. It must be a strange situation, yet he cannot question a commander.

He shifts into drive and eases onto the gas. You clasp your hands tight in the silence. It does not seem as if you will return to the house that night and that worries you.

What could it mean? Hansen’s words echo in your head. Would the commander leave with a new wife at the order of the Committee? If there was to be a new wife, could she survive the widower’s grief?

[iveneverbeenmorestressedinmylife]

Hello, there! I'm Lynn, it's a pleasure to meet you. I had a small question out of curiosity.

"When did you start to become a fan of Miles Edgeworth?"

I think for me it was the end of Turnabout Samurai. 💖

Kdksks hii 😭 honestly i went pretty backwards about it. Let me explain.

First of all ive only been an ace attorney fan for a few months now? Like im not a fandom veteran by any means. It was a cold December evening (i think). A mutual of mine rebloged some edgeworth fanart (for the life of me i cannot remember what it was or why it made my brain click in such a way. Maybe it was dl6 related? It would explain why it broke me in such a dramatic way) and it caught my interest.

Before i knew it i went and read my boys miles entire fanwiki and well. You know what i found there. I was already hooked just by seeing fanart of him but there was no going back to normal after that point. I went on some insane fanart rebloging sprees like i usually do when i go insane over a character. I read a ridiculous amount of fanfic before even touching the games 😭😭 and i am not ashamed to admit it!! And god one of the first things i read had a lot of magatama fuckery and i had no idea what that was at the time but did i let that stop me? Nooooo.

In my defense (ha) it was exam season and I didn't have the time to actually play the games (but apparently had no problem with spending hours of my day reading fanfic :•] Clown behaviour). Plus i have a pretty lousy video game record (i usually drop most games before finishing them rip) but at some point three months into this latest hyperfixation of mine i caved ans finally downloaded the trilogy games on my laptop. Woohoo! You go me.

So yeah i went into the games having already bookmarked literally hundreds of aa fanfics on ao3 and 100% biased. I have almost no memory of playing the first two cases but the moment edgeworth showed up i literally started clapping. I finished turnabout goodbyes a few weeks ago (GOD what a case) and now im in the middle of rising from the ashes but i haven't really touched it in a while... might actually play a bit now. I still have a long road ahead of me 😭 hopefully i will be up to the challenge i really want to actually play the trilogy to its entirety and maybe the investigations games because as we've already established im not subtle about my favouritism <3 and wow this got real long. Thanks for the ask <3 its always a pleasure to talk about That Man.

[dragonheartftherpays]

I'm reblogging this again actually to rant to you and anyone who'll listen about how much I adore this game, because I've been playing this game for over three hours (hello?? where'd that time go) and am absolutely obsessed and have already started drafting multiple pieces of fanart. Do you know how long it's been since I found a piece of media that made me want to draw fanart for it within an hour of me encountering it? Because I don't!

I'm just..... aaaaaaaaaaaaaa. The themes! The feelings!!! The hopelessness of being an archetype locked into a role, one you might be able to escape in theory, but - well, character is fate. It's the terror of trying to divorce yourself from that role and losing yourself in the process, leading to the absolute conviction that change is impossible in order to excuse yourself from the need to confront that fear, only to end up having that refusal-turned-inability to change be the death of you, because life is change. The hero being an exemplar of the fact that you must face failure in order to improve yourself - and not only facing it, but embracing it, sometimes willingly letting an attack kill them in order to see what it does so they know how to counter it next time! "But do you remember what comes next? Go on. Feed me with failure." - are you fucking kidding me??? I want that line embroidered on my wall. It's the queen's conviction that she is, must be, perfect, all she was made to be, because to try to be more would be to face the possibility of failure, in direct contrast to the hero's downright enthusiasm to face failing and failing and failing and getting back up again every time. It's "What are you, that you're able to get back up even after death?" "Huh? I don't know. It never occurred to me that I shouldn't try to."

It's the tragedy of being so locked to your role that you can't even leave your throne room, and of having convinced yourself that you want it that way, why would you want anything else? What could be better than this? And if you do win the fight, outlast the survivor - it's nothing but cold eternity of sameness, and how agonizing for it to be, after seeing the faintest taste of what change can bring? It's the amount of personality these two have, the dynamics they can develop one way or another, the reluctant respect that often builds between them. It's the gentleness with which the hero ends the fight. I want so badly to see the queen break the cycle, step outside her throne room - but the fact that she won't, can't, won't is the entire point; character is fate, fear creates self-fulfilling prophecies, change is life and life without change is meaningless. If you believe change is impossible, and you thus refuse to try to change, then that is when it does, in fact, become impossible.

It's the heartbreak of "Would you teach me? How to rise from the ashes?" "You've seen me. I don't know what else to tell you." "...Come at me, then. Burn for me, one more time.", of finally working up the courage to ask how to change and being slapped in the face with the fact that you ultimately have to figure it out for yourself. Of not knowing whether she figures it out in the end, in the timelines where she's come to want to.

I hope she does. I hope she gets to become something new. I hope I don't start crying over this damn game, fuck. I'm going to be thinking about this story for weeks. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.

Anyway. Thanks! I'm obsessed!

You are the Dark Queen—the most powerful being of your entire universe. Your lair is breached by an aspiring hero—a pitiful thing, easily crushed.

Except they keep coming back.

PLAY ON ITCH.IO

[kckt88]

Wings of Departure.

Summary:

'I would rather share one lifetime with you than face all the ages of this world alone' - J. R R Tolkien

She simultaneously loved him and hated him in equal measure, but in the deep recesses of her mind, Vaena wondered if she could truly stand by and allow her husband to die, to stand there and watch as he was executed or worse to face him in the skies and fight to the death on dragon back.

It made her feel sick to her stomach-

But sooner or later she knew that she would have to make a choice.

Warning(s): Angst, Swearing, Family Drama, O.C Is Sick of Her Mother's B.S, Mild Violence, Referenced Character Deaths, Plots, Eavesdropping, Alicent Selling Out Her Own Sons, Dragons, Uncle/Niece Incest, Smut, Kissing, Oral Sex (M & F Recieving), P in V.

AEMOND x O.C

Word Count: 11K

A.N - Aemond and O.C say FUCK THIS SHIT!!

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon or Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated.

Tag List - @jasminecosmic99 @kaelatargaryen @yesterdayfeelings-blog @immyowndefender @0eessirk8 @darylandbethfanforever9

Princess Vaena Targaryen stood by the Painted Table on Dragonstone, her fingers tracing the intricate details of the carved map.

The ancient table, depicting the entirety of Westeros, seemed to throb with a life of its own under the flickering torchlight. Beside her stood brother Jacaerys, his youthful face set in a determined scowl as he leaned forward, his hands planted firmly on the table's edge.

Their mother, Queen Rhaenyra, stood with her advisors in deep discussion. The room was thick with the weight of recent losses and grim prospects. Princess Rhaenys, the Queen Who Never Was, had fallen at Rook's Rest, her dragon Meleys dead alongside her.

The greens had suffered too; as Aegon lay grievously injured, and his dragon Sunfyre was unlikely to survive. Yet, the cost to Rhaenyra’s own cause had been steep, and the morale within Dragonstone had been shaken.

Jacaerys broke away from the table, his voice clear and insistent as he addressed their mother. "We must press our advantage now. Vhagar is no doubt injured from her fight with Meleys. She is vulnerable. We should take Cannibal, Syrax, and Vermax and descend on the hoary old bitch. She might be the largest dragon in the world, but not even she could withstand a combined attack from three dragons. Without Vhagar, the greens’ position would be greatly weakened."

Rhaenyra, her face pale and drawn, shook her head slowly. Her eyes, filled with sorrow and fatigue, met her son’s fiery gaze. "No, Jace. I do not wish to unleash the dragons on King's Landing. I do not wish to rule over ash and bone”

Vaena watched the exchange, feeling the tension in the room rise. The thought of further destruction, of turning King's Landing into a charred ruin, filled her with dread. Yet, she could see the logic in Jacaerys’ words.

"Mother-" Vaena said softly, stepping closer to Rhaenyra. "Jace has a point. Vhagar is a significant threat, and if we could neutralize her, it would tip the scales in our favour. We don't have to attack King's Landing directly. We can find Vhagar while she is weak and take her down."

“Vaena-” muttered Rhaenyra, her fingers moving across the edge of the painted table.

"Mother, your inaction is only going to end with more losses. You should have listened to Daemon when the greens first usurped the throne, but you chose not to act."

Rhaenyra's face tightened with a mix of sorrow and fatigue, but before she could respond, Vaena pressed on. "Look what's happened because of it! Luke is dead, Daemon is lost to Harrenhal, Rhaenys is dead, and we've lost Duskendale and Rook’s Rest to the greens. And now, when we have a chance to strike at Vhagar while she's vulnerable, you refuse to act again!"

The Queen’s eyes filled with pain, but she maintained her composure. "I do not wish to rule over ash and bone, Vaena. The cost of this war has already been too high."

Vaena's eyes flashed with anger and frustration. "And it will only get higher if you continue to hesitate”.

Rhaenyra took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. "I understand your frustration, Vaena. However, since the claiming of Seasmoke-I am considering a plan to have anyone with Valyrian blood attempt to claim the riderless dragons that currently reside in the dragon mount”

“To what end?” asked Vaena pursing her lips.

“I’m hoping that having more dragons on my side may act as a deterrent-”

"-That’s ludicrous!" Vaena shouted. "How can you consider letting just anyone try to claim a dragon? It’s dangerous! Loyalty is fickle, and people can be easily swayed. We cannot risk the dragons falling into the wrong hands."

Rhaenyra's voice was firm but tinged with desperation. "I have no other option available to me”

“Surely my Cannibal is enough”

“As fearsome as your dragon is, Cannibal is but one dragon, we stand a better chance with Vermithor, Grey Ghost and Silver-” replied Rhaenyra.

Vaena's face flushed with anger, her fists clenched at her sides. "-You promised that when Aerion was old enough, he would be given the chance to claim Silverwing”

Rhaenyra's expression softened, but she did not waver. "I have not forgotten my promise. But we are in desperate times, and desperate measures are required”

Vaena’s anger surged, her amethyst eyes blazing with fury as she faced her mother. "You promised me that Aerion would have a chance to claim Silverwing when he was old enough. Now, you’re going back on your word. You say you mourn our losses, but I don’t believe you. You seem more bothered by Daemon’s involvement in the assassination of Jaehaerys than by the death of your own son”.

Rhaenyra's face darkened, her own anger flaring. "-It was your own husband that killed  Luke!"

The words hung in the air, sharp and painful. Vaena’s face flushed with rage, and she stepped closer to her mother, the anger and frustration boiling to the surface.

"All of this is your fault. Maybe if you had remained in King’s Landing and actually spent time solidifying your position as heir to the Iron Throne, then it wouldn’t have been so easy to usurp you. Maybe if you had bonded with your siblings instead of scorning them, our family be so divided. And maybe if you had made Luke apologize for slashing out Aemond’s eye, he might still be alive."

Rhaenyra’s eyes blazed with fury, but there was also a flicker of hurt in them. "You dare challenge my authority? Everything I’ve done has been for the sake of our family, for the Targaryen legacy. I have lost as much as you, Vaena. Do not presume to understand the burdens I carry."

Vaena’s voice was raw with emotion. "I do understand, Mother. I understand that your inaction has cost us dearly. I understand that your decisions—or lack thereof—have led to the deaths of our loved ones. And I understand that if we continue down this path, more will die."

Rhaenyra’s expression hardened, and she took a step back, her eyes narrowing. "You think you could do better? You think you could make the decisions that need to be made? This war is not as simple as you believe."

Vaena’s eyes met her mother’s, unyielding. "Maybe I could. Maybe someone needs to. Because right now, all I see is a Queen too afraid to act, and a realm falling apart because of it."

Rhaenyra's eyes blazed with fury, her voice sharp and commanding. "How dare you speak to me in such a manner? I am not only your mother, but your Queen!"

Vaena laughed bitterly, the sound harsh and mocking. "Daemon had the right idea—get as far away from you as possible."

Rhaenyra's face contorted with rage, her voice rising to a shout. "Get out of my sight! NOW!"

Vaena's eyes flashed with defiance as she turned on her heel. "Gladly”

She stormed towards the door, her steps quick and angry. Jace moved to intercept her, his face pleading. "Vaena, wait! Please, don't go-”

Vaena shook her head, her voice cold. "-If things carry on as they are, we’re all going to die."

With that, she pushed past him, and left the room, the echoes of her footsteps fading down the corridor.

Vaena stormed down the dimly lit corridors of Dragonstone, her mind a whirlwind of anger and frustration. She reached her chambers and pushed the door open with more force than she intended, startling the maid who was attending to her three-year-old son, Aerion.

"Leave us," Vaena said curtly, and the maid, sensing her mood, quickly curtsied and exited the room without a word.

As soon as the door shut, Vaena's gaze softened, shifting to Aerion, who was sitting on the floor surrounded by his toys. The little boy looked up at her with wide, innocent eyes. "Mummy sad," he said, his voice filled with concern.

Vaena managed a slight nod, her heart aching at the purity of his concern. She moved to sit on the floor beside him, trying to push the tumultuous argument with her mother from her mind.

Aerion reached out with one of his toys, a small wooden dragon, and offered it to her. "Mummy play," he said, his face lighting up with a hopeful smile.

Vaena's lips curved into a tender smile as she took the toy from him. "Thank you, my sweet boy."

Aerion giggled, his joy infectious, and for a moment, Vaena felt the heavy weight of her anger and sorrow lift.

Vaena stood on the stone balcony of Dragonstone. Her gaze was fixed on the boats approaching the shore, each one carrying hopeful souls eager for the chance to claim a dragon.

Since the argument, Vaena had not spoken to her mother. They had taken to avoiding each other, a silence that was more painful than any confrontation.

A knock on the door pulled her from her thoughts. She turned to see Jace entering the room, his presence a welcome distraction. Aerion, who was playing with his toys on the floor, looked up with a bright smile.

"Jace!"

Jace grinned as he ruffled the boy’s silver hair affectionately. "Hello, little one," he said, his voice warm.

“Play dragons-”

“I’m a little busy at the moment-but I’ll play later” replied Jace.

“Ok-look Vhagar” exclaimed Aerion as he held up a wooden dragon figure.

“Very good” replied Jace softly.

“I miss daddy-” muttered Aerion sadly as he moved his dragon figurine through the air.

“I know you do sweet boy” said Vaena as she looked at Jace who ruffled Aerion’s hair again before standing up.

"Are you coming to witness the claiming of Vermithor?" asked Jace.

Vaena shook her head, her expression resolute. "No, I’m not."

Jace nodded, a shadow of understanding crossing his face. "Alright. I’ll see you later then."

As Jace moved towards the door, Vaena's voice stopped him. "It’s wrong. Letting common folk lay claim to the dragons—it weakens the Targaryen legacy."

Jace paused at the threshold, his hand on the door handle. He hesitated, looking back at her with a thoughtful expression. Then, with a nod, he opened the door and stepped out, leaving Vaena alone with Aerion.

A few hours later, the aftermath of the dragon claiming ceremony had left Dragonstone abuzz with a mixture of relief and tension. Vermithor had been claimed by Hugh Hammer, and Grey Ghost had found a new rider in Ulf.

Vaena had watched as Ulf, in his drunken stupor, had taken Grey Ghost on a flight towards King’s Landing.

Her heart had nearly stopped when Vhagar had appeared off the shore of Dragonstone, relentless in her pursuit.

Her husband was no doubt furious over the events that had transpired, the claiming of a dragon was supposed to be sacred, it was supposed to mean something. It was not something to be used at the whim of a drunken lout who didn’t know his arse from his elbow.

Seeing Vhagar and knowing Aemond was only a short distance away made her heart skip a beat, she was so angry with him, she was hurt and felt betrayed but part of her still longed for him.

Longed to hear his voice, to feel the warmth of his skin, the touch of his lips. To lay in the privacy of their chambers and shut the world out, where Aemond would whisper words of love as he sheathed his cock inside her, his grunts and groans of pleasure as he pounded inside her with deep measured thrusts.

But most of all she missed seeing him with Aerion, it was their duty to produce a child and Aemond was rather enthusiastic in that regard, as he would often spill his seed inside her, sometimes more than once a day, so it was no surprise really when she discovered that she was with child.

It was considered normal for men not to frequent the marriage bed once his wife was with child, but Aemond wasn’t most men-in fact seeing her grow round with his child made his sexual appetite grow ravenous.

When he wasn’t attending his regular duties, he was between her thighs endlessly worshipping her body, with his mouth, fingers and cock. Aegon would often tease him, saying that she was already with child, and he didn’t need to keep sticking it in her as often as he did.

But Vaena knew Aemond couldn’t help it, he was especially drawn to her rapidly growing breasts, he would press his face in between them and close his eye as she stroked his hair.

After she birthed their son, his attention to her breasts only increased. Especially when it was declared that she had healed from the birth and was ready to resume their physical intimacy.

Feeding their son often left her breasts swollen and sore and Aemond ever the attentive husband was willing and eager to help sooth her aches and pains, his lips wrapped around her rosy nipples as he suckled from her.

It was an unspoken level of intimacy between man and wife, one they never verbally recognised but knew that it was necessary.

She simultaneously loved him and hated him in equal measure, and in the deep recesses of her mind, Vaena wondered if she could truly stand by and allow her husband to die, to watch as he was executed or worse to face him in the skies and fight to the death on dragon back.

It made her feel sick to her stomach, and as she watched Aemond flee, she let out a relieved sigh, he would not meet the stranger today.

But sooner or later his days would be numbered, and she would have to make a choice.

Despite the discord between her and her mother, Vaena had been summoned to attend a dinner with the new dragon riders, as much as she wanted to refuse, the expectations of duty and the weight of family ties compelled her to attend.

She had dressed herself carefully, donning a gown of deep red, with black dragon scale patterns on the shoulders that shimmered in the low light. Her reflection in the looking glass was a mask of composed elegance, but beneath the surface, her emotions churned.

The dinner was to be held in one of Dragonstone’s grand halls, where the feast would mark the acceptance of the new dragon riders into their fold.

Before leaving, she turned to her young son, Aerion, who was playing quietly with Darna, her lady-in-waiting. The loyal maid had taken on the task of caring for Aerion with gentle efficiency, providing some measure of comfort to both mother and child.

“I’ll be back soon, Aerion,” Vaena said, kneeling to kiss her son’s forehead. “Darna will take good care of you while I’m away.”

Aerion looked up at her with innocent curiosity, his small hand reaching out to touch her cheek. “Mummy go?”

Vaena nodded, forcing a reassuring smile. “Yes, sweetheart. I’ll be back before you know it.”

With one last, lingering look at her son, Vaena straightened and made her way to the hall. The corridors of Dragonstone seemed to stretch endlessly, each step echoing her apprehension.

As she approached the hall, Vaena braced herself for the evening ahead, her mind still swirling with the day’s events and the fractured relationship with her mother.

Vaena entered the grand dining hall, her steps echoing softly against the polished stone. The room was illuminated by flickering candlelight, casting long shadows across the walls and creating a warm, yet tense atmosphere. The long table was set with an array of sumptuous dishes, but the air was thick with unspoken tension.

She approached her mother, who was seated at the head of the table, and offered a slight bow. “Your Grace.”

Rhaenyra looked up, her expression a mix of weariness and strained courtesy. “Vaena, I’m glad you could join us. Allow me to introduce you to our new dragon riders.”

Vaena nodded as her mother gestured to the men seated at the table. “This is Hugh Hammer,” Rhaenyra said.

Hugh Hammer rose from his seat and gave a respectful bow. His presence was imposing, and he offered a curt nod in acknowledgment.

Next, Rhaenyra indicated Addam of Hull, who also rose and bowed graciously. His demeanour was more reserved.

Finally, Rhaenyra introduced Ulf, who was hunched over a plate, stuffing his face with food. He looked up with a surprised expression, hastily wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

“Oh, one eye’s wife!” he declared loudly, a smirk playing on his lips.

Vaena's face tightened with anger at the derogatory nickname for her husband, her cheeks flushed with a mix of embarrassment and fury.

She took her seat next to Jace, who reached under the table to squeeze her hand gently. The small gesture of comfort was a balm to her frayed nerves.

As the meal progressed, the conversation around the table was strained and awkward. Rhaenyra discussed potential plans to attack the Greens’ strongholds, including Old Town and Lannisport. The room buzzed with conflicting opinions.

Baela, her voice firm, questioned the morality of targeting innocent civilians. “Is it right to attack innocent people just to break our enemies' will?”

Jace, his expression resolute, replied, “It is difficult, but it must be done. We have to ensure that our enemies understand the cost of their defiance.”

Rhaenyra nodded in agreement. “We must break their will. Only then will we secure our future.”

“What of Aemond, he will not sit idle as you attack Oldtown” asked Vaena.

Ulf, who had been quietly eating, suddenly interrupted with a poorly timed joke. “You needn’t worry about one eye, too busy in the brothels he is”

Vaena's face turned a deep red with rage as she looked at Ulf “W-What?”

Ulf, oblivious to the weight of his words, leaned forward with a smirk, his hand grasping at her wrist  “I heard he was caught in a brothel on the streets of Silk, discovered by his own brother, naked in the madam’s arms.”

The room fell silent, the comment hanging like a heavy shroud. Vaena's anger erupted; she snatched her hand away from Ulf, her voice trembling with fury. “Do not presume to touch me again! I am not one of your common lickspittles!”

“Apologise Princess-but it’s only fair that you knew what the kinslayer was up too, not sparing you a single thought as he sought out the madam, it’s an insult-betraying you in such a manner”

“You-” snarled Vaena as she seized a handful of Ulf’s grey hair and slammed his head down on the table with a resounding thud.

Ulf, taken aback, tried to recover his composure but found himself struggling against Vaena’s vice-like grip.

“Let him go, Vaena!” Rhaenyra commanded, her voice laced with a mix of shock and authority.

Vaena’s glare was a storm of betrayal and hurt. She held Ulf’s head down for a moment longer before releasing him. He slumped back into his chair, stunned and humiliated.

Leaning closer, Vaena’s voice was cold and menacing. “You a stain on the Targaryen legacy and if you so much as look in my direction again, I will have you fed to my Cannibal.”

With that, Vaena turned on her heel and stormed out of the dining hall, her heart pounding with a mix of anger and tears. The weight of Ulf’s vile comments about Aemond had struck a raw nerve, and the sting of his words lingered as she fled down the corridor.

Vaena entered her chambers, the heavy door closing behind her with a quiet thud. The room was dimly lit by the flickering light of a few candles, casting long shadows across the walls. She moved with a weary grace to the bedside, where Aerion lay fast asleep.

The sight of him, so peaceful and innocent, offered a fleeting moment of solace amid the chaos.

Darna, who had been tending to Aerion, stood by the door, ready to leave. Vaena gave her a nod. “Thank you, Darna. You may go now.”

The maid curtsied and exited the room, closing the door softly behind her. Vaena stood alone, her gaze drifting to the sleeping form of her son. The room felt suddenly heavy with the weight of her memories and her current turmoil.

Her mind wandered back to the last time she had seen Aemond. The memory was as vivid as if it had happened only yesterday. They had argued fiercely about his decision to support the usurpation of the throne from her mother.

Aemond had been adamant that Aegon was the rightful king, citing his status as the first-born son. “Viserys’ wishes mean nothing,” Aemond had said, his voice cold and resolute. “Aegon is the one who should rule.”

Vaena had countered with equal fervour. “But Mother was named heir by King Viserys himself! He upheld her claim steadfastly. This isn’t about bloodlines; it’s about honour and duty!”

Their argument had escalated, and in a desperate move, Aemond had locked her and Aerion in his chambers, preventing her from intervening in the crowning of Aegon. Vaena remembered the fear and helplessness she felt as the reality of their situation set in.

Luckily, Ser Erryk had managed to aid her and Rhaegar in their escape, but the reprieve was short-lived. Mere days later, Aemond’s actions had culminated in the death of her brother Luke.

Vaena sat on the edge of the bed, her eyes tracing the contours of Aerion’s sleeping face.

In the early days of her marriage to Aemond, their relationship had been marked by awkwardness and uncertainty, his ire towards Luke for the loss of his eye lingered beneath the surface, not for the act itself but the lack of apology, and the fact his father seemed more bothered about insults levied against his favourite child’s sons than his own son who had been permanently maimed.

At first Aemond had been stoic and reserved, his attention to her minimal, even their intimate encounters at first were awkward and stilted.

The emotional distance between them had been palpable, and it had felt as though they were two strangers bound by duty rather than affection.

But slowly, as time passed, they had found common ground. They had bonded over their shared love of Valyrian history, spending hours reading ancient texts and discussing their interpretations.

Their conversations had started to bridge the gap that once separated them. They had taken to flying their dragons together, the freedom of the skies offering a sanctuary from the constraints of their royal lives.

Through these moments of connection, Aemond had begun to lower his mask. Vaena had discovered that beneath his reserved exterior was a man who yearned for love and acceptance. It hadn’t been hard to fall in love with him as he revealed more of himself—his vulnerabilities, his hopes, and his dreams.

The transformation had been even more profound with the birth of Aerion. Fatherhood had softened Aemond, revealing a side of him that was determined to be a better father than his own.

He had become attentive and loving, singing Valyrian lullabies to their son and whispering words of affection in the quiet of the night. Those moments of tenderness had forged a bond between them, a connection that was now a painful reminder of what they had lost.

Vaena’s heart raced as she summoned the courage to confront her mother. The weight of her conflicted feelings about Aemond and the looming possibility of battle were pressing heavily upon her.

She knew she needed to speak with her mother about her hesitancy in facing Aemond, even if their relationship was strained. With resolve, she pulled on a robe and ventured out of her chambers.

The night air was crisp, filled with the rhythmic crash of waves against the shore and the distant roars of dragons resting within Dragon mount. She approached her mother’s chambers and knocked gently on the door.

When there was no immediate response, Vaena hesitated, then slowly opened the door. To her surprise, the room was empty. She was about to turn away when she heard muffled voices coming from the corridor below. Curiosity and concern drove her to descend the steps quietly, her footsteps barely making a sound on the stone.

As she reached the lower level, she caught sight of her mother and Alicent Hightower engaged in a heated conversation. Vaena's heart sank as she ducked behind a large bookcase to listen discreetly. She covered her mouth to stifle a gasp of shock at the gravity of their discussion.

Alicent was speaking urgently. “I cannot bear the thought of losing Helaena and Jaehaera. I’m willing to offer Kings Landing to you-Aemond will soon leave for Harrenhal, in three days’ time you will come to Kings Landing, and I will have the guards throw down their weapons and you can take the Iron Throne without bloodshed”

Vaena’s breath caught in her throat. Alicent was negotiating her daughter’s and granddaughter’s lives, but not her sons.

Rhaenyra’s voice was cold and calculating. “What of Aegon? Does he not matter?”

Alicent’s voice trembled with emotion. “Aegon is broken beyond recognition. He lies in the dark, writhing in pain and terror. He is no longer fit to rule. If you want, I can make him bend the knee-”

Rhaenyra’s response was sharp. “-If I am to take the throne, then I must put an end to the opposition. I cannot afford to show mercy to him or Aemond. Their death’s must be public, I must take their heads for all to see. You must choose, Alicent. Will you remain on this course, or will you sacrifice your sons for the greater good?”

The room fell into a tense silence. Vaena’s heart pounded as she listened, horrified, to the weight of the decision being made. Alicent’s response was a reluctant acceptance. “I-I will m-make the sacrifice”

Vaena’s shock and revulsion were overwhelming. She could hardly believe what she had just heard. Her knees felt weak as she quietly retraced her steps, retreating from the scene.

The cold air of the night seemed to close in around her as she made her way back to her chambers, her mind reeling from the betrayal and the cruel choices being made.

Vaena was in a state of disbelief as she replayed the disturbing conversation she had just overheard. It was all wrong, a web of madness and betrayal that she could scarcely comprehend, a mother willingly sacrificing her own sons.

Then there was her own mother, again desperately clinging to her friendship with Alicent, a friendship that should no longer hold any meaning or significance.

They were on the precipice of war and these two were meeting up like lovers in the cover of darkness. Her mother was blind when it came to Alicent, and surely it would be their undoing.

Fire and Blood was sure to reign and still her mother stays her hand because her childhood companion pleads tearfully and whispers words of surrender.

They were all going to die, and Vaena would not subject her son to such horrors. No matter the cost, she had to protect him; there was no other choice. They had to leave, and they had to leave immediately.

After she had changed into her riding leathers she moved quickly, her heart pounding as she packed a small bag with essentials. The urgency of the situation pushed her to be efficient but thorough.

As she fastened the bag closed, she glanced at Aerion, still sound asleep in his bed. With a heavy heart, she gently woke him, pressing soft kisses to his forehead to soothe him from his slumber.

"We’re going flying, sweetheart," she whispered softly, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and determination. Aerion, barely awake, clung to her instinctively as she lifted him into her arms, his little face pressing into her neck for comfort.

Vaena carefully opened the door to her chambers and peeked into the corridor. It was clear. She moved swiftly through the castle, her steps as quiet as possible, and descended into the Dragon mount.

As she passed the entrance to Silverwing’s cavern, she hesitated.

After the successfully claims of Vermithor and Grey Ghost, she knew her mother still intended to have others try and claim Silverwing but given that Vermithor had killed the majority of the people who came to try their luck, it was unknown as to when anymore hopefuls would arrive, but Vaena didn’t want to take the chance.

The thought of seeing Silverwing being claimed by someone else was unbearable. So, she held Aerion close, took a deep breath and entered the cavern.

Silverwing, the majestic dragon once belonging to the revered Queen Alysanne, lay curled beside a newly laid clutch of eggs. The dragon’s enormous eyes opened slowly at the sound of her approach.

Vaena, speaking in a soothing tone, said, “Lykirī!” (Calm).

Silverwing’s gentle nature shone through as she moved forward and nuzzled Vaena, her massive snout sniffing at Aerion with curiosity.

Aerion looked at the dragon with wide, amethyst eyes full of wonder.

“Dokimarvose Silverwing” Vaena urged softly (Focus).

Aerion placed his small hand on Silverwing’s snout, and the dragon responded with an affectionate coo.

“īlon issi naejot Sōvegon” Vaena said firmly, her voice carrying the weight of her resolve. (We are to fly).

Silverwing tilted her head to the side as she listened.

“Nyke gaomagon daor jaelagon naejot henujagon ao” She looked at Silverwing with a plea in her eyes. (I do not wish to leave you).

The gentle dragon moved forward and nudged Vaena slightly, expelling warm air from her nostrils.

“Māzigon rūsīr issa hāedar” (Come with me, girl).

Silverwing rumbled softly in response, her attention divided between Vaena and her eggs.

Vaena carefully lowered Aerion to the ground and moved toward the dragon’s nest. She picked up a sharp rock and used it to break open the hardened, gelatinous sack encasing three precious eggs.

One by one, she wrapped each egg in a piece of clothing and carefully placed them into her bag.

Aerion held out his hand to Silverwing, who nuzzled it tenderly. “Kostilus māzigon, gēlenka” whispered Aerion (Please come, Silver).

Silverwing cooed in acceptance, sensing the urgency, as the beginnings of a bond began to form between the dragon and the child.

Vaena lifted Aerion back into her arms, her voice resolute “Gūrogon naejot se jēdar īlon jāhor sōvegon hēnkirī” (Take to the sky; we will fly together).

She watched as Silverwing lumbered forward and left the cavern, the dragon’s powerful wings spreading in preparation for flight. Vaena’s heart raced with a mixture of relief and apprehension.

The last step in her plan was to reach her Cannibal.

Vaena took a deep breath as she entered the cavern that housed Cannibal. The immense space was cloaked in shadow, the air thick with the scent of ash and sulphur.

Aerion, clinging tightly to her hand, looked up with wide, apprehensive eyes as Vaena called out, "Naejot Māzīs Cannibal" (Come forward).

The ground beneath her feet trembled as Cannibal’s massive scarred black form emerged from the darkness. His low, rumbling growls of recognition echoed through the cavern, creating a rhythm of sound that seemed both ominous and reassuring.

Vaena approached her dragon with a mixture of awe and relief, placing her head on Cannibal’s scaled flank. His presence, despite the gravity of their situation, was a calming balm for her troubled heart.

Holding Aerion close, Vaena climbed the rope ladder that was affixed to Cannibal’s saddle. The dragon had never been particularly fond of being saddled. In the early days, his dislike had been so fierce that several dragon keepers had met grim fates.

But time had tempered his hostility, and though he still displayed his displeasure, he now accepted the saddle as a necessary part of his existence.

Once she and Aerion were securely fastened into the saddle, Vaena paused.

Where could they possibly go? They had no money, just three dragon eggs, two dragons, and a bag of clothes mostly belonging to Aerion.

Harrenhal was not an option, given her anger towards her father for his role in Jaehaerys' death. And seeking refuge with her mother's allies was equally out of the question, as her mother would undoubtedly pursue them and demand her return.

The only viable destination was one she knew she shouldn’t consider, but with few options remaining, it was her only choice. She took a deep breath, steeling herself for what lay ahead.

With a determined resolve, she gave Cannibal the command to fly. The massive dragon lumbered out of his cavern, his powerful wings unfurling with a great rustle of scales.

Cannibal’s roar was thunderous as he ascended into the night sky, his presence casting a large shadow over the landscape.

As they soared upward, Silverwing, flying alongside them, approached with caution. Known for his fearsome nature, Cannibal was not a common companion in the skies, and Silverwing, despite her gentleness, remained wary.

Vaena spoke softly to her dragon. "Lykirī" (Be calm).

Cannibal responded with a rumbling purr, and then propelled himself forward, Vaena wrapped her cloak tighter around Aerion, to keep him warm as the air became colder.

As Dragonstone began to fade into the distance, Vaena steeled herself. She knew that their destination was fraught with its own risks and complications, but it was the only option left.

"To Kings Landing."

Aemond sat in his chambers, the weight of his decisions pressing heavily upon him.

He yearned for his wife and the comfort of her embrace, he missed his son and his sweet little voice.

They were lost to him now, because of what he’d done.

It was his own fault, all his wife had ever done was love him, and he only caused her pain in return.

His own mother had turned on him, his brother was broken and burnt and now his sweet sister refused to look at him.

Manhandling her had been wrong, he knew that now. But he was just so desperate. Their lives were in peril, and he was the only one fighting to save them.

He didn’t know what to do, not anymore.

Then the quiet of the evening was interrupted by the sudden entrance of a guard, who rushed in, his expression one of urgency.

"Your Grace, two large dragons have been spotted flying towards King's Landing!"

Aemond stood abruptly, striding over to the balcony with quick, determined steps.

"Shall we arm the scorpions?" the guard asked, his voice tight with concern.

"No. Stand down," Aemond commanded firmly. His sharp gaze scanned the horizon, and his heart skipped a beat as he recognized the familiar silhouette of Cannibal.

He would not have his wife's dragon shot out of the sky. "Send a number of guards to meet my wife and escort her to my chambers immediately."

The guard bowed deeply before hurrying off to carry out his orders. Aemond's eye remained fixed on the sky, watching as Cannibal and Silverwing circled the Red Keep, their roars echoing through the air before they descended to land where Vhagar was resting.

Aemond's mind raced with questions and emotions. Why had Vaena chosen to return and would Aerion be with her?

The last time they had seen each other, the memory of her angry, tear-streaked face haunted him. She had begged him not to go through with usurping the throne, struggling against him as he locked her and Aerion in his chambers.

Since her escape, Aemond had written countless letters, each one a blend of anger, desperation, and declarations of love, none of which he had the courage to send. Those letters now lay forgotten, stuffed in his desk drawer, mere relics of his turmoil.

As he waited for Vaena, Aemond began pacing his chambers, he was more nervous now than he had been on their wedding day and even the bedding.

But a lot had changed since then.

The sound of approaching footsteps and a knock on his door pulled Aemond from his reverie.

"Enter," he said, straightening up, his arms hanging by his sides.

The door opened, and Aemond was greeted with the sweetest of sounds. "Daddy!"

Aerion’s small figure rushed into the room; his little arms outstretched. Aemond caught his son in a tight embrace, lifting him up and holding him close.

"Aerion," Aemond whispered, his voice thick with emotion as he buried his face in his son's hair. The boy's familiar scent brought a rush of warmth and sorrow.

Vaena entered the room behind her son, her presence both a comfort and a reminder of the chasm that had grown between them. Aemond met her eyes, his heart aching with unspoken words.

"You've come back."

Vaena's eyes were wary, her expression a mix of relief and guardedness. "I had no other choice," she replied, her voice steady but laced with tension.

After a few precious moments of holding Aerion close, Aemond reluctantly pulled away. He summoned one of the maids, who appeared promptly at his door.

"Take care of him," Aemond instructed, his voice gentle yet firm. "Ensure that guards are posted inside the room and at the door to protect him."

Aerion looked up at his father, his small hand clutching Aemond's sleeve. "Do I have to go, Daddy?"

Aemond knelt down to his son's level, brushing a strand of silver hair from his face. "I promise, it won’t be for long-I just need to talk to your mother"

Aerion smiled, his reluctance easing. He allowed the maid to take his hand, and she led him into the room across from Aemond's chambers.

Aemond watched until the door shut behind them, his heart heavy.

Turning back to Vaena, he barely had time to register her movement before her fist collided with his nose.

He reeled backward, his hand instinctively going to his face to stem the flow of blood. "That was for Luke," she spat, her eyes blazing with fury.

Before he could recover, she punched him again, this time in the stomach.

Aemond doubled over, dropping to the floor as he wheezed in pain. "-And that was for Rhaenys," she declared, her voice cold and determined.

As he struggled to catch his breath, Vaena knelt in front of him, her expression softening. She took his face in her hands, her touch both tender and firm.

"This is for me," she whispered, before pressing her lips to his in a fierce, desperate kiss.

Aemond's mind swirled with the intensity of her actions, the pain of her blows mixing with the undeniable longing in her kiss. He responded, his hands reaching up to hold her, afraid she might slip away.

The kiss was a collision of anger, love, and regret, a tumultuous expression of the emotions that had built up between them.

When they finally pulled apart, Aemond looked into her eyes, his voice raw with emotion. "Vaena, I-" He struggled to find the words, the weight of his actions pressing heavily on his shoulders.

"Don't," she interrupted, her voice trembling. "Not yet-" tears glistened in her eyes.

Vaena helped Aemond to his feet, guiding him gently to sit on the bed. She inspected his nose with care, her touch both tender and clinical. "It's not broken," she declared, "but it will be sore for a while."

Aemond wrapped his arms around her, pressing his face into her chest and inhaling her familiar scent.

The comfort of her presence washed over him, and he closed his eye, savouring the moment. Vaena stroked his hair gently, but then she abruptly stopped and stepped away.

"Is it true?" she asked, her voice trembling.

Aemond opened his eye, confusion evident. "Is what true?"

Vaena's face contorted with anger and hurt. "Did you visit a brothel on the Streets of Silk?"

Aemond's heart sank. "How do you know about that?" he asked cautiously.

Vaena's eyes filled with tears. "So, it is true? You've bedded another woman? Betrayed our marriage vows?"

Aemond quickly shook his head. "I went to a brothel, yes. I sought comfort from the madam, but I was never intimate with her."

Vaena backed away, shaking her head as tears streamed down her face. Aemond got off the bed and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close despite her resistance.

"Vaena, please," he pleaded. "I never laid with her in that way. After you left with Aerion, after what happened with Luke, I was desperate. My mother was furious with me; she couldn't even look at me. I had no one else to turn to. Going back to Sylvi was wrong, but I couldn't help it. I just wanted to be held by someone who didn't hate me."

Vaena's body trembled in his arms, her tears soaking into his shirt.

Aemond gently cupped Vaena's face, wiping away the remaining tears. "How did you find out?" he asked softly, his voice tinged with concern and curiosity.

Vaena's expression hardened. "Ulf told me."

"Who is Ulf?" Aemond inquired, his brow furrowing.

"He's one of the common folk who claimed Grey Ghost," Vaena replied, her tone dripping with disdain. "He's a wretched cur with no manners, and it disgusts me that my mother has defiled our birthright by allowing commoners to claim dragons."

Aemond's frown deepened. "Who claimed Vermithor?"

"A man named Hugh Hammer," Vaena said, shaking her head in frustration. "My mother was hoping that Silverwing would be claimed too, but Vermithor killed all of the other dragon seeds."

Aemond's eye widened with surprise. "Vermithor killed them?"

Vaena nodded. "Yes, and my mother still wishes for someone to claim Silverwing. But I couldn't allow it. She had promised to let Aerion try to claim her when he was old enough, but she broke that promise."

Aemond's grip tightened on her shoulders, a mixture of anger and determination flickering in his eye. "So, you brought Silverwing with you?"

Vaena nodded again, her expression resolute. "Yes. I convinced Silverwing to come with me to King's Landing. I couldn't let my mother's broken promises endanger Aerion' birthright."

Aemond's gaze softened as he looked at Vaena, a mixture of pride and admiration shining through his concern. "You did the right thing," he said quietly. "You protected our son and our legacy”

Vaena sighed, her tension easing slightly as she leaned into Aemond's embrace. "I just want us to be safe," she whispered. "To find a way to end this madness."

Aemond held her close, his heart swelling with a renewed sense of purpose. "We will find a way," he promised. "Together."

Vaena took a deep breath, steeling herself for what she had to say next. "There's something else I need to tell you," she said, her voice trembling slightly.

Aemond looked at her, his eye narrowing with concern. "What is it?"

"Your mother-she's gone to Dragonstone."

Aemond's expression shifted from concern to anger and shock. "What?"

Vaena continued, her voice steady but filled with tension. "Alicent advocated for the lives of Helaena and Jaehaera in exchange for my mother successfully claiming the Iron Throne without bloodshed. She told her of your plan to travel to Harrenhal to meet Cole and his army. Alicent has arranged for my mother to come to King's Landing in three days. She will command the guards to lay down their weapons and open the gates."

Aemond went ballistic, his fury palpable as he paced the room, clenching and unclenching his fists. "My own mother-betraying us? How could she do this?" He stopped and turned to Vaena, his face twisted with rage. "Did she advocate for anyone else besides Helaena and Jaehaera?"

Vaena shook her head, her eyes filled with sadness. "No. She agreed my mother’s demand to have you and Aegon publicly executed, which will no doubt extend to Daeron as well"

Aemond's face contorted with a mixture of horror and fury. "She has sentenced not just one but all of her sons to death," he spat. "What madness possesses her?"

Vaena stepped closer, placing a hand on his arm in an attempt to calm him. "I don't know, Aemond. I was just as shocked as you when I heard it."

Aemond's eye blazed with anger. "She thinks she can protect Helaena and Jaehaera by sacrificing the rest of us? She's lost her mind."

Aemond's shoulders slumped as the weight of the revelations pressed down on him. "I'm alone," he said quietly, his voice filled with despair. "I thought what I was doing was right. It wasn't about the Iron Throne. It was about saving our lives. But after what I've just heard-what's the point? I give up. If my own mother won't even try, why should I? I've got nothing left."

Vaena stepped closer, placing her hands gently on his face, her eyes filled with love and determination. "You're not alone, Aemond. You have me and Aerion. We're your family, and we need you. We could leave Westeros, fly across the Narrow Sea, and get as far away from this war as possible. We could be happy, just the three of us. We could have more children, live in peace. We could be together."

“What if Rhaenyra comes after us?” asked Aemond.

“Then I will do what I must in order to save your life” replied Vaena.

Aemond looked at her, the hopelessness in his eye beginning to soften. "What of my mother-“

"Your mother has sold you and your brothers out," Vaena interrupted, her voice firm. "If my mother takes the Iron Throne, you will die. I don't want you to die, Aemond."

“I deserve it” muttered Aemond.

Vaena's voice broke, and she began to sob, clutching at him desperately. "Please don't leave me," she cried, her tears soaking his shirt. "I don't want you to die. Please, Aemond"

Aemond felt a pang of guilt and sorrow as he held her trembling form. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close and burying his face in her hair. "Vaena, I won’t leave you," he whispered, his own voice choked with emotion.

She looked up at him, her eyes red and puffy from crying. "Then let's leave," she said, her voice trembling. "Let's leave all of this behind. We can find a place where we can be happy, where we can raise Aerion in peace. Please, Aemond. Let's go."

Aemond held Vaena close, his arms wrapped tightly around her as she sobbed against his chest. He hushed her gently, his mind reeling with a sudden, profound realization.

What was the point of everything he had done? He had lost his eye, transformed himself into a capable swordsman and dragon rider, studied relentlessly, and attended to his duties with unwavering dedication.

He had strived to be the perfect son, and yet it was all for nothing. Despite always being told that Rhaenyra was the enemy, his mother was now clinging to her skirts, begging for scraps and bending the knee at the cost of her sons' lives.

Vaena was the only one who had ever seen him for who he truly was. She loved him, blessed him with a son, and yet he had done nothing to earn it. He had killed her brother and her grandmother, attacked his own brother at Rook’s Rest, and burned down Sharp Point, watching from the cliffside as people writhed and screamed in agony.

He had done all that, and yet here she was, crying for him, begging for his life, and offering him everything he had ever wanted—a family.

Aemond took a deep breath and gently took Vaena's face in his hands, lifting her tear-streaked gaze to meet his.

"Let's go," he whispered, his voice steady and filled with a newfound determination. "Let's leave it all behind."

Vaena's eyes widened in surprise, and for a moment, she searched his face as if trying to comprehend his words. "You mean it?" she asked, her voice trembling with hope and fear.

Aemond nodded, his grip on her tightening. "Yes, I mean it. We'll leave Westeros. We'll fly across the Narrow Sea and start a new life, just the three of us. We'll find peace and happiness away from this madness."

A sob of relief escaped Vaena's lips, and she threw her arms around his neck, holding him as if she would never let go. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice choked with emotion. "Thank you, Aemond."

He kissed her forehead tenderly, a sense of calm settling over him. "We'll make it through this," he promised, his voice filled with conviction. "Together."

As they stood there, wrapped in each other's embrace, Aemond felt a weightlifting from his shoulders. The path ahead was uncertain, but for the first time, he felt a glimmer of hope.

They would leave Westeros and all its chaos behind. They would build a new life, far away from the shadows of their past, and they would find happiness together.

"Let's get Aerion-” Vaena said softly, pulling back to look into his eye. "Let's leave tonight."

Aemond nodded, a sense of urgency mingling with his newfound resolve. "Yes, we’ll leave tonight-" he agreed.

As Vaena turned to leave the room, Aemond took hold of her, and pulled her close, kissing her with a fervour that took her breath away

His hands tangled in her hair, and he whispered against her lips, "We will leave but I need you, Vaena. It's been too long since I last felt your touch."

Vaena looked up into his eye, her heart pounding in her chest. "Yes," she breathed, her voice barely more than a whisper. "Yes, Aemond."

They began pulling at each other's clothes, their urgency growing with each passing second. Aemond's hands trembled as he undid the ties of her riding leathers, and Vaena's fingers fumbled with the fastenings of his tunic. The material fell away, piece by piece, until they stood before each other, bare and exposed.

Aemond's gaze roamed over her body, drinking in the sight of her. He backed her towards the bed, his hands never leaving her skin. "Gods, I've missed you," he murmured, his voice rough with longing.

Vaena reached up, her fingers brushing the scar over his eye, a reminder of the sacrifices they had both made. "I've missed you too," she replied, her voice thick with emotion.

As they reached the bed, Aemond lowered her onto the soft sheets, his body covering hers. Their mouths met again in a searing kiss,

Vaena smiled slightly as she hooked her fingers around her own small clothes and slowly pulled them down, Aemond could feel himself salivating as he stared at her cunny.

“Come here-” growled Aemond, as he reached out and tugged Vaena back on the bed.

“Let me take care of you” muttered Vaena as she placed kisses along Aemond jaw and then down his neck, making sure to gently nip and suck his skin as she went.

She carried on moving down, pausing as she reached his chest, she grinned as she took one of his nipples into her mouth, her tongue teasing it before she bit down.

“FUCK” moaned Aemond.

“Does issa Jorrāelagon like that?” asked Vaena as she moved across and gave his other nipple the same attention, (My love).

“Oh. Gods” whimpered Aemond as she moved further down his body, her tongue and teeth grazing his pale skin.

When she reached the trail of hair from his belly button down to his cock, she pressed her nose against him and giggled when she felt the hair tickle her skin.

“Kostilus” begged Aemond (Please).

“Ao līs umbagon issa zaldrīzes” replied Vaena (You must wait, my dragon).

Aemond lost his senses the moment Vaena’s warm, wet mouth quickly wrapped around the head of his swollen cock.

Her tongue gently moving around the tip – tracing the ridges and licking off that drops of pre-cum that had started to leak out.

“Fuck, Vaena!” groaned Aemond as he threaded his fingers through his wife’s silver hair.

Vaena ran the flat of her tongue along Aemond’s length, tracing every hard inch of him.

“Your taking me so well. Such a good girl” moaned Aemond.

Aemond knew it would push the limits of his control, but he did not care. He just had to watch his cock disappear into Vaena’s mouth and see it come back out, shining with her spit.

Her head moving back and forth, her perfect pink lips stretched around him.

“I’m not going to last if you carry on” Aemond admitted, though it pained him to do so.

Vaena smiled slightly and began moving faster, also using one of her hands in rhythm with her mouth. 

“It feels so good-that’s it” groaned Aemond.

Vaena responded to his statement by relaxing the back of her throat, and swallowing as much of her husband’s cock as she could, whilst her other hand cupped his stones.

“Shit-Vaena. I’m going to come. Oh, fuck, I’m coming!” shouted Aemond as he exploded.

His wife took every last drop, swallowing his warm seed and licking him clean.

When he recovered, Aemond saw Vaena’s self-satisfied smile.

“Was that to your liking husband?” asked Vaena.

“Y-Yes. Now get up here and ride my face until I’m ready again” gasped Aemond.

“But your nose” whispered Vaena concerned.

“I don’t care-get up here-now” ordered Aemond, his cock already twitching with interest.

Vaena hovered above Aemond’s face; her knees splayed on either side of his head.

“Such a pretty cunny" breathed Aemond as he ran the flat of his tongue along Vaena’s soaked slit, from bottom to the top, tasting her.

“Oh, my god” moaned Vaena her eyes rolling into the back of her head.

“That’s it Issa dōna. Let me hear you” (My sweet).

“YES. It feels so good” whimpered Vaena.

“FUCK” growled Aemond.

“Ooooh A-Aemond-just like that” shrieked Vaena.

"Delicious" purred Aemond as he began lapping at Vaena, running his tongue along every fold.

"More" panted Vaena "Please. I need more”.

Aemond inserted two fingers, sliding them in and out of her slick wet folds.

“Oh" whimpered Vaena; her chest heaving as she began to gently roll her hips against him.

“That’s it, ride my fucking face” groaned Aemond, his cock was so hard that it was boarding on painful.

Vaena was giving off a slew of loud swear words, moans, and pleas, that anyone passing his chambers would surely hear.

 Aemond’s fingers were soaking wet as they continued to pump in and out of her tight heat.

“I can’t wait to get my cock inside you. I don’t want to wait any longer, come for me baby, come for daddy” moaned Aemond.

Finally, he felt Vaena’s inner walls start to flutter around his fingers, squeezing them. Vaena’s back arched taut as a bow and she screamed her release.

Aemond pumped slowly and lapped at his wife’s centre as she came.

After a few minutes, Aemond gently urged his wife to move down, so she was hovering above his cock.

Her hand wrapped around him, running the head of his cock along her warm wet folds.

“Your such a tease” moaned Aemond as his hips jerked involuntarily.

“But it feels so good” replied Vaena as she slowly moved down on his cock, so only the tip of him was inside her.

“P-Please” whimpered Aemond.

“Uh-uh” said Vaena shaking her head from side to side.

After a few minutes Aemond couldn’t take it anymore and seized his wife’s hips, before surging up and ploughing his hard cock into her soaked cunt.

"AEMOND!" screamed Vaena.

"Gods. You feel so good-missed you-" rasped Aemond.

"Fuck me, Aemond" urged Vaena, her tone bordering on desperate as she rolled her hips against his.

Aemond started to thrust slowly, trying to prolong the feel of his wife squeezing his cock.

“P-Please. Husband” whined Vaena as Aemond began teasing her pearl with his thumb.

“That’s it-take all of me”

“OH-MY-“ shrieked Vaena Aemond began to move.

"Faster, please" begged Vaena.

“Like this?” replied Aemond as he gave a quick deep thrust.

“Yes, Aemond, just like that-" panted Vaena.

Her hands ran along his arms, over his shoulders and down his chest, digging her nails into his pale skin.

“Gods, Vaena" grunted Aemond, speeding up slightly.

"Fuck me, Aemond" whispered Vaena "Fuck me with that big, cock of yours. You feel so good inside me, filling me up. Give me what I need. Give me your seed. I want it”.

Aemond knew exactly what Vaena was doing, and he couldn’t help himself.

Vaena wanted faster and he was going much faster now, his feet planted on the bed to give him more leverage and his pace increased with every filthy word that dropped from his wife’s luscious lips as he pounded into her.

“Aemond-I’m going to come. Oh, fuck!” screamed Vaena; not caring if anyone could hear them.

Vaena always looked amazing when she came. Her head thrown back in pleasure, her amethyst eyes alive with lust, and her pale skin shining with sweat.

Aemond then withdrew, ignoring Vaena’s whimper of protest as he rolled her onto her back and quickly sheathed himself inside her again.

She wrapped her legs around Aemond’s waist, drawing him closer as he began to thrust inside her, his cock reaching deep inside.

“I-I’m going to give you my seed-” moaned Aemond.

“Yes-oh don’t stop-please Aemond” whined Vaena.

“I’m going to put another babe in you-See you full of milk-”

“Y-Yes A-Aemond-I want another. Give it to me” whined Vaena.

That, combined with how glorious Vaena felt, pushed Aemond over the edge, the heat shooting across his abdomen.

“-I love you-love you so fucking much-my wife-don’t leave me again” babbled Aemond as he exploded. His cock throbbing and twitching as he spilled his seed inside his wife’s wet heat.

After they had got dressed Aemond and Vaena worked quickly, their movements synchronized as they made the necessary preparations to leave. The tension and urgency of their situation lent them a sense of purpose and determination.

As they packed, Vaena presented Aemond with the bag containing Silverwing’s eggs.

“What do you want to do with these?” she asked, her eyes reflecting both the gravity of their situation and the love she had for him.

Aemond took the bag and laughed softly. “You truly are something special,” he murmured, marvelling at her brazenness not only had she absconded with a dragon that wasn’t hers, but three eggs as well “They need to be kept warm and safe.”

Vaena nodded, carefully wrapping the eggs back up. “We’ll protect them,” she promised.

Aemond then mentioned his plan to raid the treasury. “Most of the crown’s wealth has been divided and hidden, but whatever is left should be more than enough for us,” he said.

He left for the treasury, returning a short while later with a sack full of coins, along with some of his mother’s jewellery he had managed to steal, and a necklace that was pressed into his hands by Helaena who bid him farewell, he apologised to her for how he acted, but she simply smiled and told him that the eye of the gods was closed to him now.

He packed his weapons and anything else of value from his chambers.

Their dragons were large enough to carry what they needed, and they prepared Aerion for the journey, making sure he had something to eat and was well wrapped up.

They told him they were going on an adventure, and his face lit up with excitement.

Aemond then left the guards with simple instructions: “Guard the Red Keep until the Dowager Queen returns.”

After gathering all their bags and ensuring the ancient sword Blackfyre was securely attached to his waist, Aemond took Aerion’s hand, and the three of them made their way to the dragons.

Aerion eagerly wanted to fly with his father, and as they strapped themselves into the saddles, Aemond took one last look at the Red Keep, its imposing towers silhouetted against the sky. The only home he’d ever known was now lost to him, instead of sadness he felt a strange sense of relief, that finally for the first time in a long time, he could choose his own path, he could forge his own destiny.

He checked one last time that Aerion was secured safely in front of him and then he took a deep breath.

“Sōvēs” he commanded Vhagar, his voice steady and resolute (Fly).

Vhagar spread her massive wings and ascended into the clouds. Moments later, she was joined by Cannibal and Silverwing. The three dragons soaring together, leaving King’s Landing and everything else behind.

Alicent returned to the Red Keep from her meeting with Rhaenyra, her heart heavy with the weight of her decisions. She felt overwhelmed and heartbroken. The image of Rhaenyra’s cold determination haunted her, and the reality of what she had agreed to gnawed at her soul.

In three days, she would open the gates, command the guards to lower their weapons, and surrender the city to Rhaenyra.

Sacrifices would need to be made to regain peace, but she would be steadfast and see an end to this ceaseless war.

Upon reaching her chambers, Alicent immediately poured herself a cup of wine. She downed its contents in one gulp, hoping the liquid courage would steel her for the days to come.

She needed to appear as she always had done—composed, resolute, unwavering. But the turmoil inside her was relentless.

As the wine settled in her stomach, Alicent allowed herself a brief moment of vulnerability. She sank into a chair, the enormity of her decision washing over her. She had betrayed her own sons for the sake of peace.

Aemond would shortly be leaving for Harrenhal, unaware of the treachery she had committed. Aegon was broken beyond recognition, and both were to be sacrificed for the greater good.

She had chosen the lives of her daughter Helaena and granddaughter Jaehaera over the rest of her family, and the weight of that choice threatened to crush her.

Alicent’s mind raced with thoughts of Aemond. He had always been her strongest, her most determined child. She had seen his ambition and his anger and now she was about to betray him.

The pain of it was almost too much to bear, but she knew she had to. She had to put an end to the bloodshed, to the war that had torn their family and the realm apart.

She stood up, straightening her spine, and took a deep breath. She couldn’t afford to show weakness. She needed to be strong, for the sake of the realm, for the sake of those she loved. She brushed away the tears that threatened to fall and steeled herself for what she must now do.

Alicent walked to the looking glass and assessed her reflection. She adjusted her gown, smoothed her hair, and ensured her expression was one of calm determination.

She could not waver. The realm needed her to be strong, to be the Queen they had always known. With one final deep breath, she turned away and left her chambers, ready to face the consequences of her actions and the role she must play in the days to come.

She would not waver. She could not waver. The future of the realm depended on it.

Alicent approached Aemond's chambers, noticing with a sense of unease that there were no guards stationed outside. The absence was peculiar and unsettling.

She knocked on the door, but there was no answer. For a moment, she considered walking away, but a feeling of urgency pushed her to act. She took a deep breath and pushed the door open, calling out to Aemond.

But only silence greeted her.

Stepping inside, she glanced around the room. The wardrobe door stood ajar, drawing her attention. She walked over to it, intending to close it, but stopped short when she saw that it was empty.

A sinking feeling grew in her stomach as she moved to the drawers, pulling them open one by one, each revealing the same emptiness.

As she stood there, her foot brushed against something small on the floor. Bending down, she picked up a wooden dragon figurine, instantly recognizing it as belonging to her grandson, Aerion.

Just then, a maid entered the room. Alicent turned to her, a mixture of desperation and anger in her eyes.

"Where is the Prince Regent?" she demanded.

The maid looked at her calmly and simply replied, "Gone."

Alicent's heart raced. "What do you mean, gone?"

The maid explained, "The Prince Regent left the Red Keep some time ago in the company of Princess Vaena and their son, Prince Aerion."

Alicent was baffled by the maid’s admission. Instead of questioning her further, she turned and swiftly left the room, her mind reeling. She needed answers, and she knew where to find them.

She hurried to the council chambers, hoping to find someone who could shed light on what was happening. As she entered, she found only Jasper Wylde and Maester Orwyle engaged in quiet discussion.

"Where is Aemond?" she demanded, her voice sharp with anxiety.

Both Jasper and Orwyle looked up, surprised by her sudden entrance.

"Your Grace, we have just received word that the Prince Regent has left the Red Keep. We were about to send for you."

"Left?" Alicent echoed, feeling a mix of relief and fear. "Where has he gone? Why?"

Jasper cleared his throat. "Princess Vaena arrived earlier today and spent several hours with the Prince Regent in his chambers. It seems that after their time together, they departed from the Red Keep with their son”.

“T-To Harrenhal?” asked Alicent.

“No. Your Grace. His dragon was last spotted flying over the Kings Wood”

Alicent's mind raced, trying to piece together the implications. She could have sworn she had seen Vaena lurking on Dragonstone.

Then a  thought struck her like a blow—what if Vaena had overheard her conversation with Rhaenyra and had immediately flown to the Red Keep to warn Aemond?

Without another word, Alicent left the council chambers and hurried to see Helaena. She found her daughter sitting quietly in her room, gazing out of the window.

"Helaena-" Alicent asked urgently, "Have you seen Aemond?"

Slowly Helaena turned to her mother; her expression serene. "He has gone and taken his heart with him"

Alicent felt a pang of despair “He cannot just leave. H-He has d-duties to attend”

“Duties which no longer hold meaning” whispered Helaena, as she held out a scrap of parchment.

“W-What is this”

“He asked me to give it to you” replied Helaena softly.

‘Alicent,

I know of your treachery and your willingness to sacrifice the lives of your sons in favour of the pretender. For years now, I have suffered the indignity of being the second son and have been unwavering in my duty, but it was never good enough for you or Father.

I tried my best to keep us alive, but it seems my efforts are all for nothing. I have abandoned the throne, just as you have abandoned your sons, and I will no longer fight to save the undeserving.

My wife and son are all that matter to me now, and my future lies with them. I hope your efforts to secure the throne for your beloved Rhaenyra are worth it. Maybe now you can mourn me, Mother. I lost you, but I have gained so much more in doing so. At last, I am finally free.

Aemond’

Alicent collapsed into a chair and sat staring into the flames, Aemond's note clutched tightly in her trembling hands. The weight of what she had done settled heavily on her shoulders.

She had made arrangements with Rhaenyra, hoping to secure a fragile peace by offering the lives of her sons.

But now, Aemond had abandoned King's Landing, and her carefully laid plans were in ruins.

What would happen now? Rhaenyra would come, as promised, to take King's Landing. She would discover that Aemond had fled, and would accuse Alicent of aiding in his escape.

Alicent's heart pounded as she considered the consequences. Aemond was responsible for the death of Rhaenyra's son, and there was no way she would allow him to live his life free from the consequences of his actions. Not with her own daughter, Vaena, standing by his side.

Alicent felt a surge of panic. She had underestimated Rhaenyra's resolve and overestimated her ability to control the situation. The absurdity of her plan now struck her with full force.

She had hoped to protect her family by betraying her sons, but in the end, she had driven Aemond away and left herself vulnerable to Rhaenyra's wrath.

She rose from the chair and began pacing the room, her mind racing. She needed to think, to find a way to salvage the situation.

But what could she do? Aemond was gone, Vaena and Aerion with him. She had no leverage, no cards left to play.

Her thoughts turned to Helaena and Jaehaera. She had advocated for their lives, hoping to secure their safety. But now, with Aemond's departure, would Rhaenyra honour that agreement? Or would she see it as another betrayal?

As she pondered her next move, a sense of resignation washed over her. She had fought for so long, schemed and plotted to keep her family safe. But now, she realized, there was no way to win. The game was over, and she had lost.

All she could do now was try to minimize the damage and hope that, somehow, her children would survive the storm that was about to descend upon them.

Epilogue.