#the iron quill writes

[the-iron-tipped-quill]

Cyber Angel Cynthia

cw for: torture mostly theres a lot of that in both part one and two

anyways heres some dark ass cyberpunk stuff i wrote for a character ill be playing in a ttrpg

anyways i do have a model design for the cyber angel ill post it at the bottom

(divider credits to: samspenandsword for the big one and saradika for the smaller one)

people to tag: @chevcore @bluebeepboop @aliceslimegirlsupreme @steamfunkoo7 @spookychan360

writing under the cut! please take the warning seriously and enjoy the writing!

I started the stream, I watched out of the corner of my eye as the numbers ticked higher and higher. I took a breath as I let my persona take hold over me. The model coming into full view as the tracking points adjusted to my body once more. 

“Cyber Angel Cynthia has arrived for you all! Shall we redeem someone today or shall we let them fall to dust?” I asked, giggling as I entered the room I held my victim for today in. 

He sat there, shaking in fear as I entered. I smiled as I walked closer to him, getting a good look at him. 

“What is our verdict everyone? Will he be redeemed or will we let him fall?” I asked, watching as all the messages flooded in. 

“The verdict is in,” I said grabbing the jaw of the man in front of me. “You’ll be reduced to dust tonight. Now the question remains? Where do we start?” 

I watched as the requests began pouring in, watching as they kept donating with messages containing the some of the most sadistic requests I’ve ever seen. 

“Let’s start with a simple one tonight. I want to draw this out as long as possible. 

As the requests poured in, the more I just kept torturing this man. 

“What a rough condition you’ve all put him in. I can only imagine what a story he’s gonna have.” 

The man in front of me was bruised, bleeding, and barely breathing at this point.

“The timer has hit 5 hours everyone! It’s time for the ending of it all!” I said cheerfully, crushing his skull into the ground. Brain, blood and bits of bone getting all over the room. 

“That’s all for tonight! Goodbye everyone. Come up with some fun requests for me to do next time!” I said cheerfully as I closed out the stream and sighed. What a cleaning nightmare this would be. 

“Hey J, someone’s here for you.” My roommate said, motioning to the guy in the living room. 

“Cyber Angel? I didn’t expect you to be-“ 

“A 6’0 trans man? Yeah you wouldn’t be the first. Nobody expects it.” I said walking over to him before sitting down balancing my head on my knee. 

“Why do you stream your killings?” He asked me, looking at me slightly concerned with how little of a care I gave to the question.

“There’s an audience for everything, you just need to find the right people. Shockingly it’s not that difficult to do so.” I said, laughing to myself. Watching him get more concerned over how little I seemed to care about my victims. 

“How much of what you do to those you kill is based on your audience, and how much of it is yourself?” He asked

“What is this, an interview?” I said staring him down.

“Not exactly. I want to be one of your victims. I just want some answers from you before I let you and your audience torture me.”

“You want to be judged by the cyber angel?” I asked sitting up, slightly more interested now. “But to answer the question, most of it is my audience. Occasionally I’ll do something of my own request, but it’s usually the audience who makes those choices.” 

“Interesting…” he mused, “But yes I would like you to be the one to judge me. I’ve been a viewer of your streams for a long time, and I’ve been friends with your roommate for even longer.” 

“I’ve never had someone come to me specifically for judgement before. But I’ll take the opportunity.“ I said smiling, “Could mess with the viewer count a bit. Could you imagine how many people would be watching knowing I am judging someone who was once one of them?” I said considering the possibilities.

“It would drive everything sky high. That’s not even factoring in how much you would make from requests.”

“Let the judgement of the angel commence then.” I said standing up and having him follow me downstairs. 

“It’s really just a little room in your basement? That’s where you stream from?”

“Yep, I have an augment to make myself appear to the victim as Cynthia and one that tracks the model as well.” I explained, pushing the doors open. “Any augments I can salvage off your body before I prepare you?”

“A handful, two in my arms and two in my legs. You got a station to take them out?” 

“Yep, before I do that, you got a name for me to call you by?” I asked.

“Just call me Ace, don’t attach yourself to me.” 

“Alrighty, get on the table, I’ll get your augments out and I’ll take them for myself.  That or I’ll sell them.” I said, motioning for Ace to lie down on the table. 

I pulled out the augments, no pain and in relatively good condition, just in need of a little cleaning. I set them off to the side, before motioning him to follow me to the room he would be judged in. 

Before I knew it, I was Cyber Angel again. The stream had started, Ace was tied up to be judged and the requests were flowing in at an absurd rate. The fact of one who was once of the audience members was being judged quadrupled my numbers, requests and cash were flowing in. 

Ace had been whipped, had multiple of his bones broken and shattered, he was bruised and bleeding. He was barely clinging to what little life he still had. 

“Do you have a message for the audience you were once apart of?” I asked Ace, surveying the damage done to him. I pulled his gag out and I saw the chat go crazy with excitement. 

“I’m glad you are my demise Cyber Angel. I think the clock has finally hit 5 hours, is it my time for final judgement?” Ace said, smiling hazily as he looked at me. 

“Yes, that it is.” I responded, smiling sweetly at him as I beat his skull in with a metal pipe. 

if you read this far yayyy please let me know what you think of it

anyways here is the cyber angel! im so happy with how she turned out!

[averagewriter-inthedark]

The Muse 🖌️| Ameond Tagaryen Headcanon

GOT/HOTD Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen marrying a noble who sketches/paints would look like:

To no surprise, your union to Aemond was a political alliance between your houses. Therefore you put on a brave face, accepted your duty, and courted the Prince for a short time before the wedding. In that time you learned a few things about Aemond, as he was rather reserved in the beginning, and you were the same. Civilized conversations, setting boundaries and expectations of the marriage, and promising not to cross the others line. 

Having fell in love with art at a young age, you were always sketching in your notebook when alone--as your father discouraged your hobbies and expected you act like the rest of the people in court. So, hidden behind the walls of your chambers or in an empty courtyard with a quill or charcoal in hand, you sketched the beauties around you. The Godswood, the Blackwater Bay. The Septa Baelor and the Red Keep. Committing the image of the Iron Throne to memory, you inked a page with the mighty chair. 

Beneath your bed you kept a trunk filled with oil paints, brushes, canvases, and other supplies you'd manage to accumulate by sneaking out to Flea Bottom with the one maid you trusted. (Not to mention you paid her a descent coin to keep your secret). All you sketched in your notebook soon took claim to a canvas. Capturing the beautiful scenery of King's Landing, you painted ships sailing in with a dragon flying in the background. Standing for hours from your bedchamber balcony, taking days or even weeks to finish the masterpiece. 

With each finished portrait, you yearned for the next. Spending all your coin and pawning off materialist things given on namedays to rather buy supplies. Soon the only person besides your maid who knew of your secret hobby/talent was Helaena. You'd often spend time with the Princess and her children that one day, when asked about things that made you happy, you told her about your art. She instantly became intrigued, requesting to see the sketches/paintings and after thinking about it you eventually did show her. 

Helaena was in awe of your work. "I've seen many paintings in the castle, and none have captured the King's Landing the way you do. You have an eye for beauty---I think you'd paint the family portraits better than the man they always hire." Soon your meetings evolved to you sitting by the windowsill sketching while Helaena focused on her embroidery while the children played. As a surprise nameday present for the Princess, you gifted her a portrait of her and the twins flying upon Dreamfyre. "This is the most thoughtful gift I've ever received. I shall cherish it forever and pass it on to my daughter when she's older." 

Around this time, you and Aemond's relationship progressed. You two went on walks, talked more and more with each day, and accompanied him to tourneys and banquets. Your admirations for him grew, turning into genuine love roughly four moons into your marriage. Long hours in the library, watching him train, and waiting for the other to arrive at the table before diving into your meal. Quality time became the thing you both valued in your relationship. Growing to compliments and light kisses to the cheek. 

Aemond had no idea of your talent. Yet he did often wonder where you'd disappear to for hours. He'd see the ink on your hands and assume you were writing letters back home. Then he noticed charcoal stains and oils on your clothes. Since your chambers were still separate, he had no knowledge of your supplies hidden under your bed or how there was an easel on the balcony where you often painted. 

It wasn't until he caught sight of the painting in the nursery that Aemond discovered your knack for the arts. Helaena had been embroidering while the children played, and you were having tea with the Queen, when Aemond asked his sister where she got the painting commissioned. Not realizing you hadn't told her brother, Helaena responded with, "Your spouse surprised me with it on my nameday. They painted it themself---Isn't it lovely?" To say he was stunned was an understatement. Aemond's jaw had dropped, scanning over the canvas with intensity, muttering so low Helaena barely heard him, "It is...exceptional."

On a mission to find you, Aemond hurried the halls with haste, now aware why you always had stains on your clothes and ink on your hands. Why you spent hours in the gardens and looked tired at breakfast. When he did eventually find you, Aemond simply said, "Why did you never tell me you liked to draw and paint?" Of course you were caught off guard, becoming nervous and shrunk under his gaze, "I did not think it was important. I was always told arts and music was not for someone of noble rank like us. I feared you'd be disappointed with me." 

Aemond was a little hurt you kept your love for art hidden but understood. And from then on he made it his goal to learn everything he could about the subject. Trading gifts of jewelry for oils, charcoals, and inks. Making sure you had enough parchment and canvases. Aemond never pressured you to show him your work, knowing how personal it is for an artist, and instead asked about your progress. Beaming at the way you instantly light up and spoke with pride. 

He had a feeling you sketched him in your notebook. Catching you glancing up at him multiple times when he reads in the library, your hand scattering across the page with ease. Aemond would purposefully maintain his position even when he's finished the book, as to not move and make you mess up. Smiling at the charcoal staining your fingers and silently hoping one day you'd allow him to see what inked your parchment. 

Completely unaware he became your source of inspiration. Your muse. You not only sketched Aemond reading, but him training in the yard. Him speaking to his mother, his brother. Aemond with the twins. Aemond watching Vhagar patrol the skies and feeding his horse. You were mesmerized with everything about him. The Prince who conquered obstacles that made you feel like you were the only person on the planet. Aemond was your heart and soul. He was your muse. 

And so on your 1-year anniversary, you surprised your husband with a gift he never would've expected. A painting of him and Vhagar. The one-eyed prince, known for his stoic nature, was nearly reduced to tears by the emotion consuming his entire being. His finger trailing over the scales of his dragon, the details of his riding gear and scar. How you managed to make it look like they were flying in the sky. You pressed a kiss to his cheek, "One day, if you allow me, I would love to have you sit for me for a portrait." 

And when that time came, Aemond sitting in his pristine clothes, bearing his sapphire eye to you as a proclamation of his love and trust for you, you brought out your finest oils and brushes. Painting the man you loved the way you saw him, a beauty in the eyes of the beholder. A muse to an artist. 

[mattyriddlesbitch]

heyyyy pookie!!! soo, I was the one that requested the "all yours" post, and first, I loveeeeee it never expect anything less of you!!! Secondly, i was wondering if you could do something like that, where y/n is not from Britain and English isn't her first language. Y/n is shy, so when she doesn't know a word she doesn't know how to say it and then her words end up being a whole jumble up. also, can it be just like a bunch of fluffiness and if u want a little bit of fun time?

ps y is this actually me

pps sorry if I'm asking so much and you don't understand, I just love mothers writing and English ain't my first language :)

Super short, but I hope you like it! And are you calling me mother?

😭😭😭 It's just ironic if you are bc I am one lmaooooo. Anyways, love you, pookie!

It Started With A Quill

Mattheo Riddle x Reader

Warnings: Cussing, that's about it

When you first met Mattheo, you were still struggling with English a little. You didn’t know or you forgot some words. It made going to a school in Britain, where everyone speaks English, a little hard. So, you were super shy when you met him in one of your classes and he sat down next to you.

“Ah, fuck.” He muttered to himself when he was looking through his bag. He sighed and turned to you. “Do you have a quill I could borrow? I forgot mine.” He asked.

“Quill.” You repeated the word, furrowing your eyebrows as you looked at him.

“Yeah. A quill.” He nodded, not understanding you didn’t understand him.

“Uh…” You shrugged, a little embarrassed and awkward about the situation. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Now he was looking at you curiously. “A quill. To write with.” He said, making a gesture with his hand, mimicking writing.

“Oh!” You nodded, piecing together what he meant and handed him an extra quill from your bag. “Sorry, I’m not the best with English.” You said with a sheepish smile.

“Oh, English isn’t your first language?” Mattheo asked, tilting his head as he leaned back in his seat.

You nodded in response.

“How’s school for you then?” He asked curiously.

“School is…” You knew the word you wanted to say, but couldn’t remember it in English. “It can be hard at times. Like I don’t always…” You clicked your tongue, trying to recall the word.

“Understand?” He offered.

“Yes! Understand!” You nodded. “I don’t always understand the teachers. The words get mixed in my head.” You said.

“Sounds frustrating.” He sighed sympathetically.

“Um, what’s your…what do I call you?” You asked.

“My name? Mattheo. What’s yours?” He smiled ever so slightly, seeming to enjoy your struggle with words.

“(Y/N).” You answered. “Nice to greet you.”

“Meet. It’s nice to meet you.” He smiled as he corrected you.

You sighed, blushing in embarrassment. “Right. Sorry. Nice to meet you.”

“That’s cute.” He said, leaning forward to rest his head on his hand on the desk as he still smiled at you. “You get embarrassed so easily. You know it’s not a big deal, right?”

“I know. Still…” You shrugged, looking away. “People make jokes about it.”

“How about you teach me your language and you can make fun of me?” He said, looking over you now that you weren’t looking at him.

“You want to learn my language?” You asked curiously as you looked back at him.

He shrugged. “I've always wanted to learn another language anyways. This way I can get a personal tutor.” He said with a sweet smile, looking back in your eyes.

“Tutor.” You repeated the word. “Would you help me too?”

“I guess I can.” He said, turning his attention to the teacher as they started class.

That was how you met Mattheo and how he got you to give him private lessons in your language.

Taglist:

Let's see if this works this time

@jeannie-beannie @yourenogoodforme @mixvchelle @helendeath @evaslytherpuff

@ireallyneed-somesleep @soaked4abby @hpnsfwaddict @mayamonroem @motherfing-stargirl

@dracoslovergirl @littlemadamred @i-like-pandas5

[lilithofpenandbook]

So they say Snape's the moody emo of the staffroom (or at least that's what I expect most people would think)

Snape? Severus Snape? Severus "you want me to kill you now or should I write a lil speech about you first" "bows to Umbridge ironically" " 'ghosts are transparent' " Snape?

No. No no no no no. He's not the emo!

He's the life of the staffroom!

Things were all normal before Snape showed up. Youngest professor ever. Was a death eater last week. Way too small for his height. Just lost the person he wanted to protect. Has a lot of bitterness and trauma he hides with sarcasm.

Of course at first some were wary, some kind. Soon he integrated. And he's the life of the staffroom.

His reaction to Dumbledore telling him to kill him was a sarcastic, sassy lil joke! You think the man that bowed to Umbridge after being deliberately unhelpful, the man who pops up behind people in corridors, the man who waited for the perfect moment to address Harry and Ron after the two crashed in in Harry's second year, you think he's gonna be the silent one?

He is absolutely not the silent one. He's probably the liveliest of the group. He's sassy, he's sneaky. He's the one who walks in completely silently, right up behind one of the others, and whispers "boo" in their ear. He's the one who pulls faces behind someone's back or mimics them. He's the one who keeps a deadpan expression while ruining the song someone else is listening to by singing along in a serious voice with his own "lyrics" that are incredibly rude or incredibly stupid, or who walks in bobbing his head like a demented turkey, legs all bent, deadpan face, while someone else is trying to listen to music. He's the one who offers to bring Coke to staff parties and when McGonagall says they are not having childish fizzy drinks that are chock full of sugar and all the way from a muggle store he clarifies that he meant Cocaine and cackles at her annoyed face. He's the one who deliberately can't find something just to make someone mad. He's the one who pretends to have no idea what someone is talking about just for a laugh. He's the one who butts into conversations with a sarcastic joke. He's the one who gives people damaged quills and giggles when they get mad at it for not working. He's the one who won't sit properly in a chair and instead leans all the way back just because it makes McGonagall's eye twitch. He's the one who makes unhelpful statements which are technically true but still unhelpful and clearly trolling.

He's the one who makes everyone so mad, he's such a nuisance.

He's the one who makes them laugh so hard, he's so ridiculous.

He's the life of the staffroom.

[syndrossi]

October Trick or Treat #7: Consummation babies

Aka "what if Rhea and Daemon had conceived the twins on their wedding night" aka "Regnal AU."

x~x~x

“I am pregnant.”

His lady wife had announced the news in the very tone she had used earlier in the day when issuing judgment on two squabbling farmers who’d brought a dispute before her, and she was looking at him now as though he were the farmer on the losing end of it.

Daemon could only stare at her. When he had been summoned to her solar by the maester, he had assumed it was for yet another narrow-eyed lecture on his conduct in town, where he had gotten riotously drunk last night in a desperate bid to stave off the boredom of life as the Lady of Runestone’s unwanted husband.

“You are certain?” he asked, recognizing the question as stupid the moment it left his mouth.

“I waited for the quickening,” she said, hand straying toward her stomach before she seemed to realize, pulling it back to rest at her side.

Daemon’s gaze dropped to her midsection, marking what might be a small bump beneath the fabric of a loose dress. They had lain together no more than thrice in their four moons of marriage, one of those their wedding night, and had happily kept to their personal bedchambers since. For her to be so far along already, the babe must have been conceived that very night.

“That is good,” he said stiffly, in part because she seemed to expect the opposite sentiment from him. “You have my congratulations, my lady.”

She did not frown at him for once, though neither did she smile. “Should not half the congratulations be yours?”

Nothing about this marriage is mine. Certainly not his choice. It had been his grandmother’s scheming and his grandfather’s command, carried out over his every protest. His own father had escorted him to the wedding ceremony at Runestone as though he were his aunt Saera being marched to join the Silent Sisters.

And the very moment Runestone had passed to Rhea at her father’s death, not a moon into their marriage, it had been made abundantly clear to him from every quarter that nothing about Runestone was his, either. She was the lady, he was her consort, and he was to entertain himself with mindless pursuits in a castle whose walls felt smaller by the day.

One year, he had told himself. He only had to endure for one year, long enough to put in a showing that his grandfather would accept, and then he would be free to return to King’s Landing, and fly off on Caraxes wherever he liked, and find someone to fuck who didn’t stare at him throughout with frigid disdain. It had been clear to him from the very beginning that he was nothing more than a duty to her, an inconvenience to be suffered.

A duty, as though he were not the son of the Prince of Dragonstone, the next ruler of the Iron Throne. A dragonrider of pure Valyrian descent, the blood of Aegon the Conqueror singing in his veins. Dark Sister moldered in her sheath, hungry for blood and glory, and he—

He had been just another marriage alliance to his grandfather, like Aemma’s mother before her. A political maneuver by House Targaryen to gain a powerful seat in the Vale through his eventual children, as though their house were not capable of seizing whatever they wished by force.

And now I am trapped.

A babe tied him fully to his wife, to this damp, miserable castle, because he could not abandon a child of his blood to suffer the cold and joyless fate he sought to flee.

For once, Daemon was grateful for every lesson of courtly etiquette that had been drilled into him. It allowed him to act on instinct, even as his mind was elsewhere. He gave his wife’s cheek a stilted kiss, murmured the appropriate words, and then begged leave to write to his family with the happy news.

It was Viserys who he addressed it to, fingers pinching the quill hard enough by the end to snap it, sending a spatter of ink from its tip across the parchment. He did not bother rewriting it, steps quick as he brought it to the rookery, to the raven he could have raced on Caraxes with the news if his grandfather’s command would have let him.

And with quicker steps still, he sought Caraxes and what little air he was permitted.

x~x~x

“Did our father send you?” Daemon murmured as he embraced his brother. It would not surprise him; he seemed to know them at least as well as they did themselves.

“He might have suggested it,” Viserys said, pulling back with a grin before moving to greet Rhea with a brotherly kiss to the cheek.

Daemon turned to Aemma, who held his young niece by the hand. Rhaenyra would be nearly three, and she gazed up at him shyly.

“Your company is most welcome,” Daemon said to his cousin as he kissed her cheek. “As is your experience in these matters.”

There was a teasing glint in her eyes as Aemma smiled at him. “And I am sure you will heed all offered advice, as always.”

Daemon rolled his eyes at her in response, then crouched down. “Are you excited for a baby cousin, Rhaenyra?”

“Maybe,” his niece said, which about summed up his own feelings on the matter.

He picked her up then and sprang to his feet, tossing her up—to an audible wince from Aemma—and catching her. His niece giggled with delight as she settled in his arm, where she spotted Dark Sister and turned her attention to the sword.

Daemon transferred her to his other side, well away from the hilt. “Let us not alarm your mother any further.”

“I shall believe it when I see it,” Aemma told him, standing on tiptoes to kiss his cheek in turn and steal her daughter back.

In truth, he was relieved at their presence, after six moons being surrounded by only Royce retainers and stern Valemen. It was no small distance from Runestone to King’s Landing, either—a week at least by ship, though at least the waters were calm in summer. It was but a two-day ride on dragonback, but Viserys had shown no interest in claiming a new mount since Balerion’s death by old age, which baffled Daemon to no end.

I shall have to take him up on Caraxes while he is here, so that he can be reminded of the thrill of dragonriding. There was a particular stretch of mountain he enjoyed flying over, near the Royce summer manse, that still had snow flecking the tops of the peaks, even this deep into summer.

Aemma greeted his wife warmly, and Daemon recalled that they had known one another as girls. His cousin had tried to reassure him before his departure for Runestone that Rhea Royce was a spirited, adventurous woman. Daemon had seen very little evidence of either, though he supposed a pregnancy was a fair enough reason to avoid adventure.

“You must take poor Fallow out hawking in my stead,” Rhea was saying to Aemma. “I was too sick the first few weeks, and too large now.”

She had grown considerably over the past two moons, and Rhaenyra stretched her arms upward to place them on his wife’s swollen belly. “It moved!” she exclaimed.

“Yes, the babe is quite active,” Rhea agreed, leaning to kiss Rhaenyra on the crown of her head, then straightening slowly, a hand to her back.

Daemon cleared his throat. “Shall we move to the solar?”

“An excellent idea,” Aemma said, her smile at him warm with approval. She took Rhea’s elbow and they started for the holdfast, with Rhaenyra grabbing for his wife’s other hand.

Viserys remained at the rear of the procession with Daemon. “What do you think?” his brother asked. “A son or a daughter?”

His voice was light-hearted, but Daemon could hear the strain beneath it. His brother’s quest for a son had been fruitless thus far, with Aemma suffering two miscarriages prior to Rhaenyra’s birth and two since. Their grandfather had sternly reminded Daemon of his own duty, and that misfortune could befall the king’s heir at any time, as their uncle’s death had painfully demonstrated. Their father was a second son, and now in line for the throne. If Viserys were to struggle to provide the realm with a son, and their own father refused to remarry, then it fell upon Daemon to produce the necessary spares.

Daemon’s gaze went to Rhaenyra’s small form at Rhea’s side, hand swinging as she walked with her, hair long and pale. He imagined a child of his own holding her hand, but the details shifted constantly. Long hair, then short. Light, then dark.

“I do not know,” he said.

“Rhaenyra will love any daughter of yours like a sister,” Viserys said confidently. “And if you should have a boy, then we may have a match in the future.”

Daemon grimaced. He had not even begun to think so far ahead as matches. The one consolation was that their grandfather would surely no longer be around to wrest the decision from him. Their father would not force an unhappy pairing, though he could not imagine his children and his brother’s not growing close.

“How long do you intend to stay?” Daemon asked.

“So eager to be rid of my company?” his brother teased. But then his voice grew serious. “For as long as you like. I am sorry that I could not attend the wedding.”

“Do not be. It was a grim affair.”

And Aemma had been recovering from her last miscarriage.

His brother slung an arm around his shoulder. “You do not seem quite as miserable as I feared from your letter. Are you warming to the thought of fatherhood?”

Daemon bit back a grimace, recalling the letter he had sent. The news had unbalanced him at the time, and he had poured far more into it than he had intended. If Viserys had shared his words with their father, it was no small wonder that he had urged Viserys to visit. He had likely sounded on the verge of fleeing in the night.

“Perhaps.”

He and Rhea had gone from wholly avoiding one another’s company to taking suppers together now in her solar. They had been stilted affairs at first, and he had felt like someone playing a part in a mummer’s show. The first conversations that had not been pure torture had pertained to preparations for the babe. Ensuring the nursery was ready, beginning the search for an experienced wetnurse. Daemon had taken one look at the rickety cradle that had last been used by Rhea’s younger half-sister, Elys, and demanded a new one, which she had deferred to him.

The duties had begun piling on after that. He had resented them initially, viewing them as more bars being added to the cage, or even demeaning—he, a prince of the realm and a dragonrider, seeing to tasks ordinarily left to a lord’s wife. Rather than filling his nights with revelry, however, he had found himself thinking beyond the present. Would his child be allowed an egg in the cradle? When would it be safe to make the journey on dragonback to King’s Landing to present their babe to king and court?

His saddle was already modified to seat two, but he would need something of his own to hold the babe secure. He’d spent more time speaking with the craftsmen of Runestone in the past moon than he had in the air on Caraxes. It was tradition for House Royce to present newborns with a bronze medallion etched with runes to protect them from illness and injury, and it had fallen to him to arrange that as well.

His wife’s castle was laden with history and tradition for her house, and he had none on hand for his own, so he had chanced a trip to Dragonstone, poring over the volumes there for any ancient customs that had fallen out of practice in his own family, finding one at last wherein damaged and shed dragon scales from the mounts of the infant’s parents were carved up and set into a bowl of silver or gold.

Caraxes had been willing enough to make a few donations to the intrigued smith who had forged the Royce medallion, and the end result reminded Daemon almost of a mosaic, with darker and lighter patches of red arranged in a pattern not unlike flame within the gold.

The smiths of Runestone, he was forced to admit, were quite skilled.

“Come,” Daemon said, suddenly eager to show it to his brother. “I have something for you to see.”

x~x~x

“It is too early,” Daemon repeated, mouth dry with fear as he stared at the door, listening to the moans of pain from within.

His father’s hand came down on his shoulder, pulling Daemon into his side. “It is not too early. Not every babe is willing to wait nine full moons in the womb, and it surprises me not at all that one of yours wishes to scream fury at the world sooner than late.”

Daemon leaned his head into his father’s shoulder, grateful that he had come nearly a full moon before the babe was due. Every nightmare scenario played in his mind, presented to him earlier by the maester. A dreaded breech birth. An ill-placed umbilical cord strangling his child. Unexpected trauma to mother or babe, killing one or both.

Rhea’s labor had started the better part of a day ago, and he had been in and out of the room as the maester allowed. His wife was a strong woman, he knew, loath to show weakness even among those she trusted, but she had long since stopped trying to mask her pain.

“It is taking too long,” Daemon said, his worry a wild thing, whipping from one fear to another.

“Shall we go back in?” his father asked.

He had been banished from her sight last time, but she barely seemed to notice their re-entry now. Since Daemon had been chided by the maester for hovering, he settled on the couch by the window, his father sitting beside him.

There were cloths upon cloths stained pink and red, buckets of water, implements he did not recognize. Daemon was grateful that the view was mostly shielded by the maester and his attendants, even as he agonized over their decision to have the birth here, rather than at the Red Keep, with the realm’s best maesters at their disposal.

He clutched the bronze medallion in his hand, thumb running over its runes. Rhea had insisted that he hold onto it, that it was for the babe and not her, but she and the babe were yet one and the same, and if it could afford either of them some protection—

Rhea cried out again, this one nearly a battle shout in volume, and the strain in it gave way at the end to something like relief. A second cry came, this one high in pitch, and Daemon stood up so fast he nearly collapsed, only his father’s steadying arm keeping him upright.

Past the maester, he glimpsed a pink, wriggling shape being handed to one of the maester’s assistants. There seemed to be no alarm as they worked on the babe, but he was waved back when he tried to approach.

“Not yet, my prince,” the maester said. “There is another.”

Another. Daemon stood a moment, uncomprehending of his words at first. Then— “Twins?”

“Yes, my prince.”

As Rhea panted, a sheen of sweat on her face, the first babe was cleaned, cord tied and then cut. Daemon was permitted to approach then, as the screaming babe was handed to her.

“A son, my lady, my prince. Small, but healthy.”

Daemon’s heart fluttered as he gazed upon the child in Rhea’s arms. He had a crown of dark hair, clearly taking after his mother, though with his eyes squeezed shut as he howled his fury, it was impossible to catch a glimpse of their color.

A son. A shout caught in his lungs, and he choked it back, because the birth was not yet over, but for now, his wife was alert if tired, coaxing their son to her breast. The wailing stopped once his mouth found the nipple, and Rhea’s head eased back into the pillow, eyes closing in obvious fatigue.

Daemon dared reach for her hand, and her eyelids fluttered open, gaze landing on him. She did not pull her hand back, and he squeezed lightly. They held one another’s stare for a time, then glanced as one at their son. Their firstborn.

The minutes slipped by, long enough for Daemon to wonder if something was wrong with the second babe, but Rhea tensed then, her grip tightening around his hand. Their son was taken from her breast and given to his father to hold as labor resumed.

The second birth was mercifully quick, the pain either lessened or dulled by all that had come before it. In less than half an hour, another small head emerged, then took to wailing, and Daemon felt himself relax at last at the sound.

The babe was cleaned, cord cut, and the second proclamation made. “Another healthy son, my lady.”

His firstborn was relinquished to him by his father, who had been gently rocking him on the couch, and Daemon in turn gave him to Rhea, who kissed his head, eyes bright with tears, and returned him to her breast. She reached eagerly for their second son, whose head was topped with tufts of pale silver, and he quickly latched onto her other breast.

Dark and light. The contrast as he looked between them felt right somehow. Two sons. I have two sons.

His firstborn, who had already suckled for nearly half an hour, pulled back, face scrunching up as though contemplating another wail, only for it to become a yawn. At Rhea’s nod, Daemon took him in his arms, staring into his face, taking in his impossibly delicate features. His hand wrapped around Daemon’s pinky finger, and he could see tiny fingernails.

His son was staring up at him, his eyes a purple-hued grey, everything about him perfect. His frown, his nose, his dark eyelashes—

Another yawn broke his son’s steady contemplation, and Daemon yawned with him. His father murmured congratulations to them, praising Rhea’s fortitude as Daemon probably would have thought to do if he weren’t so exhausted. He couldn’t imagine having been the one actually giving birth.

Their younger son had finished his own first feeding just in time for the afterbirth. While Rhea was cleaned and the bed linens changed, Daemon cradled him in his other arm, as perfect in every way as his twin. His son’s sleepy eyes blinked at Daemon, a pale lilac that took his breath away when he saw it.

“Aemon,” his father whispered beside him, voice cracking midway through.

They need names. But that was a battle for tomorrow, when they had all slept at last. His son’s face scrunched up as he continued to stare at Daemon, a whimper that became a howling wail that woke his brother, who immediately began fussing.

“Here,” his father said, taking his younger son from him. He rocked him gently, murmuring soothingly at him, and the babe calmed, gazing up at him in a fierce study that was just like Aemon’s. His father smiled at the babe with a joy Daemon he had not seen in years and kissed his tiny cheek.

Rhea eased back onto the now-clean linens of her bed, and Daemon carried their eldest over to her, placing him in her arms. “They are perfect,” he said, because it was truth. The sweat had been wiped from her face, though her hair was still damp. She looked pale and exhausted, but her smile as she gazed at their son was unexpectedly radiant. Daemon took her free hand, squeezing it once more. “I am glad you are well.”

She gave an answering squeeze, understanding his meaning, then gazed about the room. “Where is our other son?”

Daemon glanced behind at his father, whose back was to them as he faced the window, which he was holding their youngest near to catch the last rays of sun.

“We may have to ensure my father doesn’t steal him back to King’s Landing.”

x~x~x

“If he is to inherit Runestone, he should have a Vale name,” Rhea said stubbornly.

It was an old argument, but this time Daemon had his father, heir to the Iron Throne, present to influence the matter, though he was distracted with both babes currently, a small bundle in each arm.

Their size still kept Daemon awake at night, and he had found himself sleeping in the nursery for the past three, soothed by the sounds of them stirring in their cradle—which was large enough to hold them both for now. Still, the maester checked them every day, and assured him that they were in as fine health as could be hoped for such tiny babes.

“He is my father’s eldest grandson,” Daemon countered. “And he is a prince of House Targaryen. Should anything happen to my brother, he could very well be king himself someday! He cannot be named Rodrik or Hubert.”

Rhea glared at him. “Or Jon—”

“Jon!” he exclaimed, throwing his arms up. “You cannot be in earnest.”

“We have two sons. It would be a sign of unity between House Targaryen and the Vale to name one each in the fashion of both their houses.”

Daemon managed to hold back his instinctive sneer at the suggestion, contenting himself with a frown instead. It was already settled that their younger son would be Aemon. It was a fitting tribute to his uncle, and his father would not hear otherwise. Thus Rhea was scheming to get her way with their eldest’s name instead, using that as leverage.

“Perhaps we should seek the king’s opinion on the matter,” Daemon said. “I am sure he will have one.”

Let his grandfather’s overbearing nature be of some benefit for once. Judging by the endless stream of ravens into the rookery today, they could very well hear from him today. With four days passed since the birth, the responses from his family in King’s Landing would just be arriving.

The king’s would be effusive in its praise, he knew, with a tone of unbearable self-satisfaction at such an outcome less than a year after the wedding.

“You could let the babe decide,” his father said, earning Daemon’s glare. Whose side are you on, Father?

“Baelon and Aemon,” Daemon said, irritated that his father refused to take either the compliment or the bait. “They are twins. That is a bond they will have their whole lives. What better bond to honor than yours and Uncle Aemon’s?”

“I recall Viserys saying you favored Aegon.”

He had, but that had been when Daemon had been expecting a single son or daughter. A grand name, to herald a grand legacy. But two sons who had shared the womb, who already seemed upset to be parted for too long—

There was only one bond like it that Daemon had known.

His father glanced down at Jon, who had woken from a nap to peer at him. “What are your thoughts, little dragon? Do you favor Aegon?” His dark-haired son frowned, almost as though in response. “No? And what of Rodrik?” A whimper this time. “Hubert” was met with a screaming rage that Daemon had to take him in arm to calm, pleased at his son’s good taste, until “Jon” received an alert blink and an excited flailing of limbs.

“Baelon,” Daemon suggested quickly to take advantage of his son’s good mood. The suggestion was not received as poorly as the others, at least.

“That settles it, does it not?” Rhea said.

“It does not,” Daemon said through clenched teeth. Jon. The most plain of names imaginable. He could not believe that his father was willing to play along with this charade. “Let us ask Aemon his thoughts, if we are to be listening to infants.”

Aemon fussed at being taken from his father’s arms, and when his light purple eyes focused upon Daemon’s face, he fussed all the louder. “You were happy enough to be sung to last night,” Daemon reminded him, humming the tune of the lullaby until his son’s upset softened to light worry instead. “Is your brother a Jon?” He paused to give him a moment to respond, but his son continued to stare at him, as though awaiting something. “Or is he a Baelon?”

His son cooed softly, causing Daemon to turn to his wife in triumph.

“He is asking for his grandsire,” she said, her gaze withering.

[vivalabunbun]

Late Spring Blooms

Summary: Not even one word had been spoken between the two of you

Word Count: 5.1K (this was supposed to be short...)

Tags: Alhaitham x gn! reader, slow burn, fluff, just a lot of fluff, slight angst, Akademiya setting, toxic academia environment, mentions of bullying, both of you are students, mutual pining, when you just stare at your crush for like 4 years but never talked to them. 

Authors note: This was supposed to be a short feel-good fic, but I guess my brain just wanted to be a nerd. So I included some scientific theories that are kinda in debate, I just gave it my best shot. I write fiction not peer reviewed studies please forgive any mistakes

“A voltage is applied to two electrodes immersed in a solution of heavy water…”

All throughout the lecture hall there were the frantic movements of quills as desperate hands penned down every word that left the lecturer’s mouth. The fluttering of paper as students rushed to continue recording every detail, spurred by the fear of a question on exams yet to be announced. 

Rather than immerse themselves in the lecture, they’d rather save the details for a stressful night before said hypothetical exam. Frankly, it was a waste of time. 

“When the SuperWave Principle is applied, with raising and falling nested oscillations…”

Yes, this is a waste of time. A waste of his time. Alhaitham’s notebook and quill remained untouched on the desk in front of him. This course was nothing more than an elective to him, it had nothing to do with his own darshan. A class his late grandmother had listed in her well wishes to her grandson. However, Alhaitham would much rather prefer to be reading in the House of Daena. 

“And that is the discovery behind cold fusion energy production. This achievement rewarded me with much academic praise and my position as a researcher. As it innovated a new path for clean and unlimited energy. Thank you.” 

Applause erupted in the lecture hall, hands clapping together as forged looks of amazement masked ulterior motives. Alhaitham remained still, bored eyes continuing to observe the scholarly man as he stood at the podium. Even from the ashen-haired student’s perch among the upper seats, he can still see the swell of pride in the elder scholar’s chest. As the sea of green uniforms finally abated their praise, the professor step up to the podium. 

“Are there any questions for our honored guest lecturer?” 

The once bustling mob stilled. No quills moved, no papers rustled, and not a single student dared make eye contact dreading the thought of an unintentional invitation to speak. Of course, this was all expected. After all, which person would dare expose their own shortcomings? 

Each and every person in the room was once praised to be la crème de la crème, the cream of the crop, the valedictorians that spoke prepared speeches to their peers they viewed as mediocre. They were all once the top one percent, showered with empty words such as ‘talented’ and ‘gifted’. However, at the Akademiya, where the best of the best had been vetted and admitted. How can everyone be that ‘one percent’? 

It’s a simple answer. They can’t. Instead of spirits learning humility, they were crushed under the realization of reality. And just like a curious hand that had reached out towards a burning stove, their egos wounded and withdrew. If they cannot stand among the few slots at the top, then they’d rather hide among the ninety-nine percent. Listlessly carried by the flow of life, throwing their hands up to ‘fate’. 

Once again, as Alhaitham’s bored eyes surveyed the room, he is reminded why he had put off attending the Akademiya until recently. It was quite ironic for such an esteemed institution to have such pathetic levels of academic spirit. People didn’t come here to learn, they came here to ‘know’ and for a decorated piece of paper to hang on their walls.

However, on the basis of the last part, Alhaitham saw himself as no different. This was a crucial stepping stone in the preplanned path he laid out for himself. Even if it was tedious, it must be done. 

From the still crowd, one lone hand raised above, peeking out from the sea of green berets. It seems that even the professor didn’t anticipate this as a wrinkled hand gestured for the young budding scholar to speak. 

“I’m amazed by your discovery, sir. However, does it really work? I don’t think I’ve seen a recreation of your experiment.” 

The air in the lecture hall stilled, as hundreds of eyes honed in on the gear that dare squeak. The ego is quite fragile, and there is a positive correlation between the fragility of one's ego and the higher up their position is on the hierarchy. The scowl that formed on the guest’s face was predictable, as his haughty eyes glared at the fresh-faced student. 

“It seems that some people are suffering from selective hearing, or perhaps you just couldn’t grasp the concepts I’ve spent the past two hours explaining.” Offense drip off of every word. 

“But, according to standard practices, an experiment has to be rep-”

“Did the Akademiya just allow anyone in this year? My theory and discovery have already been entered into the akasha. Even a child can see the validity of my research.” The lecturer tapped one finger rapidly against the solid wood of the podium. 

“Still, I beli-”

“Did you not hear me? My research has already been entered into the akasha.” He snapped, the peak of the microphone rang through the air. 

“Sir, I-”

The professor raised his hand to silence the student, putting an end to this sorry excuse of an academic debate. The student’s figure sunk down in their seat, their seat neighbors scooting away as if there was something contagious. The show that had piqued the ashen-haired scholar’s interest had been abruptly halted. What a pity. 

“Can you believe them? Who would ask such a stupid question?” 

“‘Does it work?’, it’s been entered into the akasha for archon’s sake!”

“If I were them, I’d never show my face again at the Akademiya.”

Mindless gossip made his ears ring as a sigh left his lips, snapping the book closed in his hand. Alhaitham thought it was an unspoken rule that one must be silent in the House of Daena, guess common courtesy isn’t practiced much anymore. Carrying the book in one hand as he swung his bag over his shoulder he exits the library doors. 

His academic journey at the Akademiya had only begun about a month ago with the start of a new semester, but he was already bored. Lectures dragged the same material on for days. Professors gave their unessential anecdotes to slip in their own self-praises, and the busy work they called assignments. 

However, the worst part, for Alhaitham, was how his fellow students and aspiring scholars accepted everything. Sitting there in their seats back straight, hands busy creating a transcript of the entire lesson. Heads politely nodding as if they understood everything even though confusion was clear in their eyes. There were no academic discussions occurring in classes, and there were no attempts to encourage them. 

What’s the point when everyone could just use the akasha for answers? It’s quite depressing to see such a lack of academic spirit.

Alhaitham has decided that he should return back to his own method of self-studying, just as he has done before. He can cut out the unnecessary material and focus on subjects that interest him. Paying the tuition just to learn everything on his own, is truly ironic. 

However, as Alhaitham walks towards the empty pavilion he has to admit he is grateful for the facilities available at the Akademiya. It was a secluded space, quiet and away from chattering groups, students chasing after mentors and professors with half-heartedly written theses, and scholars’ boastful comments on the results of their experiments. Just as he rested his back against a pillar of the pavilion, he heard a muffled whimper. 

Tsk, great, there’s someone here already. Alhaitham readjusted his bag on his shoulder, pushing off the pillar as he began his search once more for undisturbed peace. His teal eyes couldn’t help but wander toward the source of the sound. Sight landing on your crouched figure obscured by the thick trunk of the tree just behind the white structure. For a brief moment, your eyes locked with his, before you jolted your head away from his direction. 

Cheeks stained with tears and face burning with shame. Yes, there is a famous saying that tends to ring true: The nail that stands out will get hammered. He recognizes you as the hand that dare raise a question. 

Everyone at the Akademiya is fueled by their own self-interest, whether it be for greater knowledge, a higher future position at the institution, or to have their name printed on an accredited research project by a renowned scholar.

Weak egos tend to rally under bigger ones, feeding the latter with empty praises in hopes of a return on their investments. If they could find a footing that allows them to climb up the stairs of the hierarchy, then they were willing to step on anyone. 

You just recently have been labeled as such, a stepping stone in order to get closer to a certain researcher. Tearing you down to build the bridges of connection with the reputable graduate. It was low-hanging fruit. How could a naive, freshly admitted student go against a published scholar with wealth and status? 

You were the losing dog in this race. And yet, Alhaitham still wanted to applaud you, if not for your academic spirit then for your courage. However, it is clear from the way you were trying to make yourself as small as possible, you needed your privacy. 

He focused his eyes on the path ahead of him, leaving the secluded space, his lips won’t speak a word of this event. A little further down the path, teal eyes shifted back behind him. Your hands were wiping the tears out of your eyes as you blinked, perplexed by the sudden appearance of a neatly folded green handkerchief. Alhaitham sees it as a fair trade for piquing his bored mind. 

“Excuse me, do you have a translation of the book: Khaenri'ahan Theory of Nuclear Fusion and Practices?” 

A familiar voice shifted Alhaitham’s attention away from the text he was translating, perhaps his mind took it as an excuse for his eyes to take a break from the barely legible script. You would think with all the funds the Akademiya had, they would be able to provide students with good-quality copies, but the printed assignment in front of him disproves that notion. It’s not good to strain the eyes. 

Once more teal eyes landed on your figure, back straight and head still held up high. You have more courage than Alhaitham originally thought. Despite the mocking sneers that have been thrown your way in the halls, you’ve just faced forward and continued down your way. Currently, you were asking for the assistance of a disinterested librarian. 

She brings one hand up to her akasha terminal, eyes lazily gazing at the information that flowed in front of her. Then after less than two minutes of searching, she stops. 

“No. Never heard of it. It’s not in the system.” 

“It’s an old title, but according to the library catalog, it should-”

“Did you not hear me? I just checked the akasha and it says it’s not here. Maybe you should make use of that terminal collecting dust on your ear before you come wasting my time.” The librarian cut you off rudely. Readjusting the green beret on her brown hair before she turned her back on you.   

The hand you reached out towards her drops to your side, your shoulders slouched a bit. There were now peering eyes focused on you, stressed students viewing your embarrassment and dejection as a welcomed dose of entertainment. Taking a deep breath you quickly made your way back in the direction of the dusty library catalog. Determined to find that book. 

The librarian had stated a blatant lie, how does Alhaitham know? The book Khaenri'ahan Theory of Nuclear Fusion and Practices was right under his resting elbow.

You were right, it is an old book, so old that it seems that someone had forgotten to input it into the updated database of the akasha. Or maybe someone removed it, deeming it no longer academically relevant. His elbow was now resting on the book he had just finished hours earlier, it was a better use of his time than attending mindless lectures. 

You seemed busy flipping through the pages of the library catalog, and the script in front of him is due tomorrow. He’ll finish his assignment, it's the least he could do to just ensure his passing of a class that hasn’t seen his face for some time now. 

–

It was late now, your eyes were beginning to droop head nodding back and forth. You shook your head, desperately trying to fight off sleep, eyes peeled on the text in front of you. Your attempts to find the book had been fruitless, but you were able to find different academic journals that substituted the same subject.

You didn’t need sleep, you needed to satisfy that itching feeling inside your mind. That inkling that what that lecturer had said was… the words in front of you blurred. 

Maybe a quick nap would help boost your productivity. 

–

Your eyes snapped open as your body jolted up. How long were you asleep? Your eyes surveyed the library. All around you were either passed out fellow students at their seats, or those running on nothing but caffeine and stress frantically pressing their noses against the books and papers in front of them. There were fewer people here than before you shut your eyes, signaling to you that it has gotten later. 

Your lips pressed into a tight line, did you just lose more precious time? The thought of assignment due dates was pressing against the back of your mind. But you just had to get to the bottom of this, it just doesn’t make sense to you- 

Your eyes widened at what had appeared in front of your seat. Khaenri'ahan Theory of Nuclear Fusion and Practices. But how? You had looked high and low, even breaking library regulations by climbing on the tall ladders to search the very tops.

Your head whipped around, searching for an explanation. Your eyes were just able to catch the slightest glimpse of a familiar shade of grey and green exiting the grand doors of the House of Daena. 

There was a small note on top of the book. 

I had the book you were looking for. There’s a diagram that wasn’t translated properly. On page 520, the diagram says: ‘maintaining temperatures of over 100 million degrees are necessary while regulating pressure and magnetic forces at the same time. These conditions are for stable confinement of the plasma and to maintain the fusion reaction long enough to produce more energy than what was required to start the reaction.’ Hope this helps. 

It was silly really, or maybe your tired mind was just getting sentimental, but your sight began to blur again. Not with sleep this time, your eyes were overflowing with tears. This small note, the neat handwriting, the book you had been searching for.

They were the sweet hands of reassurance you needed on your shoulder. Smiling like an idiot through your tears, you hid your face behind the small note. 

“How long exactly are they going to continue to deny the facts? Jeez, I wish I had their simple mind sometimes.”

“Yeah, it must be nice to have your head buried in the rabbit hole of ignorance.” 

It was now a new year, a fresh semester had long begun, but unfortunately, reputation and stigma don’t have a simple shelf life of just a year. Once more, Alhaitham found that silence in the House of Daena is not seen as a requirement by some students. Mindless gossip had no place in a sanctuary of high academia, but it looks like his opinion isn’t shared. 

Alhaitham had woken up later than he would’ve liked, meaning he didn’t have time to pick up any coffee if he wanted to get to his test on time. After he had finished, he made an effort to get to the café as fast as he could. But when he got there, he saw a sign announcing the café was closed for the day.

In short, Alhaitham was having a bad day, the grating voices that continued to chatter beside him were only fraying his thinning patience even more. 

Frustrated, his eyes followed their line of sight, to see just what subject was so pressing they had to gossip in a place of study and silence. They lead him to your figure, hunched over a thick book, one finger tracing each sentence line by line and the other detailing notes.

Even with the stacks of books that surrounded your desk blocking some of your frame, he could see your face clearly. Although you were trying to maintain a neutral expression, he caught onto the small quivering of your lips. 

“Like the information is already in the akasha, do they think they’re smarter than the combined knowledge of all of Sumeru?” 

“Yeah, well it’s always the stupidest people that speak the loudest-”

“You two are quite loud.” 

The students that sat beside him snapped their attention towards the man who had returned his eyes back to his book. 

“Excuse me?” 

“This is the House of Daena, the largest library in all of Teyvat, and you’re being loud. Maybe you should immerse yourselves in some books, for the academic spirit.” 

“Jeez, we weren’t even that loud, and the akasha-”

“What poor academic spirit. If the akasha was all you needed, then you are no better than any passing stranger on the streets. Why did you even bother with the entrance exam?” 

It wasn’t like Alhaitham to engage in such unnecessary conversation, nor make any excess problems for himself by getting in the bad graces of strangers. However, he was already having a bad day. 

The two friends sneered at him, before getting up and leaving the library. Finally, he can enjoy some silence. He could feel your gaze on him, but he didn’t look up to see the soft stare of amazement and gratitude you were sending his way. 

–

Alhaitham had gotten up briefly to browse the shelves once again. He had finished his book and am now looking for another to pique his interest. Really, the akasha couldn’t hold the vast amount of unspoken knowledge that books had.

The blunt facts and figures the terminal provided didn’t stimulate his mind the way shifting through the lines and characters printed on books did. It was truly a pity that the nation of wisdom didn’t appreciate the pinnacle vessel of information. 

When he had returned to his desk, teal eyes took note of the small square of baklava placed gently on a napkin. Beside it was the green handkerchief, neatly folded. Alhaitham had already gotten a replacement for said item.

Yet seeing how pristine the fabric was even after a year of not seeing it, sentiment crept up on him. 

“Excuse me. Food is not allowed in the House of Daena. I’m going to ask you to leave.” 

Ah, of course. Alhaitham was having a bad day today. 

It’s been a long month. With Summer break quickly approaching, it meant that assignments and exams have been crammed by every professor into a short window. Their long tangents must have caught up to them, as they were now pushing the responsibility of tying up the loose ends onto the students. Pathetic really. 

Still, the weather today was clear and the air warm. The bright sun was being blocked out by the thick foliage present on the branches of the tree Alhaitham rested his body against. He had spent the morning finishing all his most pressing assignments. A break was deserved. 

The soft rustle of leaves as the wind sway their branches were starting to lull the young man to sleep. But the sudden sound of grass getting flattened under shoes snatched that pleasure away. 

Tsk, it doesn’t matter. If he leaves his eyes shut and breaths steady then the other person will sooner or later leave him alone. The steps approached a bit closer then stopped just a bit away. He could hear the rustling of a paper bag and another object getting placed near his side.

As quietly as they could, the footsteps trotted away in a hurry. Once he felt that presence disappear, he lifted his eyelids. 

Beside him there was a brown paper bag, the mouth-watering scent of a shawarma wrap wafted into his nose. And the other object? A cup of hot coffee with a small note taped to it. 

I’m so so so sorry for getting you in trouble that time in the House of Daena! Please take this as an apology! I got the most popular combination at the shop. Please take care of yourself and good luck with your exams!

P.S. I just wanted to apologize again for getting you in trouble!!

Alhaitham could practically hear the sheer panic and anxiety from the piece of paper. Still, his eyes couldn’t help but soften. He was never the type to hold on to pointless grudges, there was no need for you to agonize over such a minuscule event. 

Contradicting his original plans for a nap, he took a sip of the hot coffee. It must be a different blend of coffee beans or a new experimental brewing method, the plain black coffee tasted pleasantly sweet on his tongue. 

“Did you hear? I can’t believe it.”

“Yeah, he was a fraudster! I heard he got stripped of his title and even his diploma got rescinded!”  

“I… I can’t believe they were right all along.” 

In the middle of Alhaitham’s third year at the Akademiya, the unfathomable happened. A young student that had yet to even graduate, a mere third year in the middle of their studies, had disproven an accepted theory. A theory that had gone through vetting by the top review boards, and even entered into the akasha. 

After years of long nights and shifting through books long forgotten by scholars, you brought all your evidence and conclusions to the Akademiya review board. 

You wagered your entire academic carrier. 

Your gamble paid out in full. Your findings were significant enough that the board called for an investigation, for another independent experiment of cold fusion to be replicated. A team of other esteemed researchers was established.

They followed every strict protocol for peer review, following each and every document step by the once haughty researcher to his experiment and theory to the highest standard of academic rigor. 

Their conclusion after a four-month trial? Failed experiment after failed experiment to replicate his results? There was no cold fusion. 

This caught the attention of the Matra. For all these years where did those experimental results come from? If his research funds were not going toward creating a better and more effective method of using cold fusion to generate unlimited energy. Then where was it? Their findings? 

Back into the pockets of a few seats on the review board. Funds somehow found themselves in the hands of scholars that had ‘peer reviewed’ his theory the first time around. 

A report from the previously mentioned independent review team detailed his offer of exorbitant amounts of mora for skewed results. That was the final nail in the coffin of his academic carrier. 

It was a great loss of face for the higher-ups and for their esteemed institution. They had let fraudulent nonsense enter the akasha, they allowed this nonsense to poison the minds of civilians and students. Punishment was swift. The higher up on the hierarchy of ego you were, the more crushing the fall will be. 

Now it was he, the lecturer who had ridiculed you with his eager followers for years, who was ostracized from higher academia. 

–

Alhaitham’s eyes followed the noisy crowd as they congregated around your frame. First years watching you with stars in their eyes, questions were thrown your way, asking just how you did it. How did you know? Your eyes light up the same way, as you detailed your research process of debunking that theory. 

Overnight, you became a star at the Akademiya. The same people who had once sneered at you were now trying to push their way through the crowd to get your attention. The professors that once viewed you as their most hopeless student, were now asking you to become their mentee. You treated everyone the same without any reservations. Smile beaming as you answered their questions. 

“Well, even though I have disproven his theory on cold fusion. I still think it’s an interesting path to explore. Maybe we were just led astray by a red herring. However, I think the most important lesson to gain from this controversy is that every theory should be viewed with some level of skepticism. Until you see the theory actually be put into practice, how will you ever confirm for yourself.” 

You have a really radiant smile, Alhaitham notes. It suits you.

 It’s too noisy in the halls of the Akademiya. He turns to walk away. Missing the way your searching eyes followed him, lips parted wanting to call out to him. Only to be drowned by the shower of empty words of praise. 

“You’re such a gifted student!”

“Wow! I wish I was as talented as you!”

“You’re just a genius!” 

Words that dismissed your years of sleepless nights, tearful breakdowns from pressure, and aching wrists from penning down pages upon pages of notes. 

Ah, the Akademiya was still the Akademiya. Even your breakthrough that shook the institution isn’t enough to spark a change in the environment that had been solidified in the marble of the building. Your eyes still followed this tall figure even after he disappeared from your line of sight. 

Yes, there still was a gust of fresh air that blew through this stale toxicity. You only knew his name… does he even know yours?

It’s finally over, the tedious task of attending the Akademiya has been completed. 

Alhaitham can now check that achievement off his list. The collaborative project he had been a part of might have fallen through. But the findings it produced in its short lifespan were fruitful. So much so that it granted Alhaitham a position as a Scribe and a sizable house in the city. More currently, it allowed Alhaitham to meet the last requirement for graduation. 

The diploma he holds in his hands right now was the result of his diligence, of just passing every exam with the highest marks despite not attending the class after the first day. Yes, this is the piece of paper he had ‘worked’ so hard for. 

All around him, there were families hugging, crying, and congratulating their sons and daughters, sisters and brothers, for graduating. Promises of big feasts prepared at home, or for a celebration in the neighborhood. Friends hugged each other as they said their tearful goodbyes. 

Alhaitham stood alone. 

From the very start, he was a loner, he knew this and he liked it this way. So why does his chest feel a bit heavy? The path that he had preplanned had no obstacles lining the way, every piece fell where it should have. Alhaitham already knows the answer, but he doesn’t want to admit it. 

Joyous occasions can really bring out the most isolating sentiments when there was no one to celebrate with. But that is fine, he’s got boxes of books to pack anyways. 

“Um… Excuse me, Alhaitham?” 

A voice halts the ashen-haired man’s step. Teal-orange eyes landed their sights on yours. You were dressed in your graduation robes as well, and a decorated cord hung around your shoulders. Signifying your academic accomplishments during your years as a student. Despite the nervousness in your voice, hands fidgeting with the brown paper bag clutched between them, your eyes looked straight into his. 

“T-this is for you. It’s a pita pocket from Lambard’s tavern. I… I just wanted to thank you for, well, all you’ve done. I-i know we actually haven’t spoken a word to each other these past few years but- but…” You paused, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath. 

“Your gestures of kindness and empathy really kept me going. Even during the times when I wanted to give up, your actions really meant a lot to me. So, thank you Alhaitham.” Your eyes were staring back at him with pure sincerity. 

The warm late Spring air blew across your faces, tussling his locks as his eyes shifted from the pita pocket in your hands back to your eyes. The slight quivering of your lips signaled to him the anxious wait for his response. 

“Now’s not the place to eat.”

“O-oh…” The bag in your hands lowered. 

“However, I believe if you were to accompany me to Lambad’s Tavern, I don’t think he’ll deny a paying customer a seat. So, how about it?” The boxes at home could wait. 

“Oh?” You looked at him a bit perplexed at the sudden invitation. But it wasn’t long before a beaming smile broke out on your face. 

“Yes, I would love to!” 

It could have been due to the sweet air, or due to the lustrous look that dawned on your face, but Alhaitham felt that he could breathe easier now. 

It was a sunny afternoon, the perfect weather to do nothing at all. His justification for leaving his desk, piled high with new proposals and applications. Without even looking up from his book Alhaitham could sense the presence approaching his direction. His free hand reached up to turn off noise canceling, there was only one person who would come to find him at this secluded pavilion. 

“Haitham! I got us lunch from Lambad’s Tavern, the special was pita pockets today!” You held a brown takeout bag over your head, one hand cupping your mouth as you called out to him. 

His expression couldn’t help but soften, seeing your figure rapidly closing the distance between the both of you. Your preppy steps stopped just in front of the tall scholar, a small smile gracing your lips as you hid the bag behind your back. Eyes looking at him with anticipation as your back straightened. 

Alhaitham closed his eyes as a soft sigh left his lips, snapping the book in his hands closed as his back pushed off the pillar. Taking a few slow steps to fully close the distance. Gentle fingers cupped your cheek as he leaned down to place a tender kiss just below your eye. He can feel you getting on the tips of your toes, pressing your face more into his lips, he knows you can feel the small smile against your cheek. 

Pulling his face back, thumb still brushing against your other cheek, his teal eyes observed your smile that rivaled the sun.   

“Thank you for the payment, now let’s eat before the lettuce gets all soggy.” You pressed a kiss against his palm. The brown bag reappears from behind you. 

“Yes, of course.” He wanted to observe your face for a little while longer.

Perhaps you should start researching the energy that radiates off your smile, Alhaitham is willing to wager that this hypothesis holds more water than any dismissed notions of cold fusion. 

Fin~

[heroesyoulove]

HEROES YOU LOVE. ( an independent multi muse for comic book heroes with a smut / erotica focus. ) mun is 25+ / minors will be blocked. muses under the cut. ( dark themes possible )

All muses are bisexual. I'll write m/f or m/m, no issues whatsoever.

MARVEL Steve Rogers / Captain America ( FC: Chris Evans ) Bucky Barnes / Winter Soldier ( FC: Sebastian Stan ) Luke Cage ( FC: Mike Colter ) Danny Rand / Iron Fist ( FC: Luke Mitchell ) Matt Murdock / Daredevil ( FC: Charlie Cox ) James Howlett / Wolverine ( FC: Hugh Jackman ) Peter Quill / Star Lord ( FC: Chris Pratt ) Clint Barton / Hawkeye ( FC: Max Thieriot ) Pietro Maximoff / Quicksilver ( FC: Aaron Taylor Johnson ) Scott Summers / Cyclops ( FC: Theo James ) Frank Castle / Punisher ( FC: Jon Bernthal ) Reed Richards / Mr. Fantastic ( FC: John Krasinski ) Johnny Storm / Human Torch ( FC: Jesse Williams ) Flint Marko / Sandman ( FC: Alan Ritchson ) Alex Summers / Havok ( FC: Alexander Ludwig ) Erik Lehnsherr / Magneto ( FC: Michael Fassbender ) Peter Rasputin / Colossus ( FC: Josh Seggara ) Remy Lebeau / Gambit ( FC: Fabien Frankel )

DC Bruce Wayne / Batman ( FC: Pedro Pascal ) Clark Kent / Superman ( FC: Henry Cavill ) Oliver Queen / Green Arrow ( FC: Stephen Amell ) Barry Allen / Flash ( FC: Matt Barr ) Hal Jordan / Green Lantern ( FC: Oliver Jackson Cohen ) Roy Harper / Arsenal ( FC: Richard Madden ) Slade Wilson / Deathstroke ( FC: Jason Statham )

[mothiir]

story time with isaiah

I can’t stop writing for these boys I love them.

Cw for caning, descriptions of blood.

—

—

It has been just under a month, and the Emperor — in His most glorious and unending mercy — has seen fit to continue to conceal your existence from the rest of Isaiah’s battle brothers. He and Reuben benefit from your redemptive labour, as you atone for your extensive sins by darning their socks, polishing their armour, and keeping their dormitory spotless.

With a little satisfied sound, you set aside your mending. You have been piecing Brother Reuben’s hair shirt back together, and your fingers are raw from handling the tough wool. Isaiah smells the iron tang of your blood.

You stretch your arms up over, closing your eyes as your joints click. Isaiah looks up from his current dedication — transcribing the life and times of Saint Celestine onto fresh parchment in his neatest handwriting — and sees that you are relaxing back into your bunk. His brow furrows a little. It is not time for you to sleep, and you show no signs of engaging in contemplation of the Emperor’s many noble deeds — though perhaps you are doing this internally? 

“Free time is an affront to the Emperor, little mortal,” he says, dipping his quill into ochre-red ink to outline the title of the newest segment, wherein Saint Celestine engaged in combat with a daemonette of Slaanesh and defeated it. This segment is an especially lengthy one, and well-illustrated, and he wants to do it justice. “Ensure at all times you keep Him in your thoughts.”

”Yes, my lord,” you say, eyes snapping open — a sure sign of guilt. One of your hands protectively rests over the hair shirt, probably recalling the last time that Isaiah had seen fit to bless you with more work. “No need to tear this, lord, I am more than happy to keep the Emperor in my thoughts while uh —“

Isaiah sighs, setting the quill down. Since the dormitory now only holds two Templars, he and Reuben have been able to redecorate, hammering the unused bunks into a workstation, pushed up against the wall. Their trunks serve as an adequate chair, tough durasteel enough to support the bulk of an Astartes — providing the Astartes in question is not armoured. 

“I am not going to tear the shirt, girl. I tore those socks because you showed an uncouth amount of joy in finishing your work for the day. And — besides, that is not the subject of discussion,” he says, thankful that Brother Reuben is not here, otherwise he would once again find himself rehashing an old absurd argument. Brother Reuben had objected to ‘his underwear being used as part of a pointless lesson and now she is upset and my feet are cold’. 

You had, admittedly, been a little upset — uttering little hitching squeaks, like you were swallowing back sobs — but Isaiah maintains it was an important chance to practice the virtue of patience, and you had restitched all of the socks in record time, so what was the harm done?

Still. Perhaps this is a chance to impart a gentler kind of lesson. Good relations with lesser mortals is an essential part of serving the Emperor. 

“Have you ever heard the tale of Saint Celestine?” he says instead. To his surprise, you brighten up. 

“Yes, my lord! I saw the latest holo about her before uh — before my world was cleansed in Holy Fire. Though of course it may have been a corrupted version of the story and uh—“

You are babbling. You often do this, and Brother Reuben has assured him that it is not a fault in your genetics, but a natural consequence of your human frailty. Isaiah cuts you off.

”I will teach you one of her many victories,” he says, “and of how her undying faith in the Emperor brought glory to both her and those who fought beside her.”

He turns away from his manuscript, folds his hands in his lap, and begins the tale. Saint Celestine was once a member of the Adepta Sororitas’ Order of Our Martyred Lady…

—

Just over an hour later, he finishes up the tale of how she appeared in glorious golden raiment to the beleaguered defenders of the city of Karlstadt, who were standing proud against the hideous assembled forces of heresy and ruin. How she had drawn her blessed blade and sliced apart the daemons arrayed before her. How she had blessed the inhabitants of the city, before fading into the rising sun like a dream of better times.

“That was beautiful,” you say. Isaiah had been staring off into the middle distance, allowing his eidetic memory to take hold of his tongue — but at your voice he focuses on you, gratified by the adoration in your eyes. The Living Saint is a balm to the faithful, and a scourge to the heretic.

“It is, is it not? Now, you recite it.”

Silence. You blink at him in puzzlement.

”You recite it,” he prompts. “So that you may tell the story to others.”

”Oh — uh — well, once there was…”

”No, no, no,” he says. “That is not correct. You must recite it exactly as I did, with the same words — this is how it was taught to me, and it is how it must be taught to you.”

”The — the exact same words?” you say, starting to grow flustered, your hands twisting into the hair shirt. The movement agitates the wounds on your hands, filling the air once more with the fragrance of your blood, and it gives Isaiah a splendid idea. 

“Yes. Do not worry, I will help with your memory — I understand that it is far inferior to mine.”

He looks around for a suitable implement. His warhammer is too heavy; his bolter far too precious. He reaches up to one of the unused wooden shelves and, with very little effort, rips it out of the metal brackets, before splintering it with a single crushing fist. 

“…my lord?” you say, sounding nervous. Isaiah smiles in what he hopes is a soothing way. 

“Do not be worried. I understand that your lapses in memory are not a sign of heresy, only of your own feeble genetics. This is a method that I was blessed to experience as a neophyte, before my implants worked fully, and it worked very well.”

He extracts the longest piece of wood, and uses his thumbnail to polish it, turning ragged pulp into a more suitable smoothness. He swishes it experimentally. Perfect.

“Now,” he says sunnily. “I will say a segment of the tale; you will repeat it. Every time you get it wrong, I shall give you a little tap with this. The pain focuses your mind, and ensures that next time you will not forget!”

”Uh — I do not think that is necessary my lord —“

You are hunched like a Jerboa about to bolt, smelling of fear. Isaiah sighs. 

“Girl, please do not be ungrateful. I am trying to bestow the Emperor’s kindness upon you. Now give me your hand.”

Your arm trembles, but you still extend your palm, fingers curled protectively over it. Just as he is about to begin the exercise, he recalls Brother Reuben’s fury at his torn socks. Ah. Yes. Anything that will hinder your ability to work is probably going to cause issues with his battle brother — and baseline humans take so long to heal. 

The soles of your feet? No, he cannot have you unable to stand. Your back? No — you need to hunch over your mending. Your face? Some of the serfs ritually scar themselves as part of their penance.

No. Not your face. That is a little dramatic for something as trivial as learning a story. 

And then it occurs to him in a lightning flash — of course! 

“Kindly lift your skirt up and bend over the bed,” he says, thanking the Emperor for His guidance. If you struggle to sit down then that is no problem — you can sew standing up! And you can sleep on your front, so it will not even affect your lengthy and inefficient spells of rest. 

You make a strange strangled sound. 

“My — my lord?” you manage, and that warm feeling kindles once more in his belly. Bringing a waif to the Emperor’s light; imparting unto you stories normally reserved for Astartes. It makes him feel all happy and tingly in a way he usually associates with a battle hard won, or an especially entertaining heretic burning. 

“Hurry up now,” he says, indicating the bunk. You look behind you, as if expecting Brother Reuben to materialise with his usual rebukes, but he is busy in the chapel (though Isaiah cannot imagine what possible issue his brother could have with this plan). 

Trembling like a new fawn, you bend over the bunk, propping your elbows on it. 

“Your skirt too,” Isaiah says, helpfully. “If fabric gets into the wounds it can cause infection, and that is a serious matter for a baseline.”

You inch your skirt up in little shuddering movements that Isaiah finds absolutely hypnotic for reasons he cannot quite understand. You bare plump, tender flesh — thighs sweeping up to the curve of your buttocks, which quiver under his gaze. 

“Do you not have any undergarments?” he says. 

“I did,” you say, after a moment. “They uh. They vanished.”

How baffling. Humans are absentminded to the extreme — perhaps you mislaid them? He will have to ask Brother Reuben of their whereabouts. 

“Now,” he says. His mouth feels odd — a little too dry. He swallows a few times, rolling his tongue against the soft insides of his cheeks, wondering briefly — absurdly — if your skin would feel as soft against the press of his fingers. ”Let us begin.”

—

You start off so well, parroting back the first few sentences he recites for you almost down to his intonation. Alas, you are still only a human, and the mistakes soon begin —

“…for Saint Celestine appeared in —“

Wssshhh goes the instrument, and you squeal. Your buttocks jiggle in a way that would definitely distract a lesser man; but Isaiah is completely devoted to the Emperor’s word, and thus does not take more than forty five seconds to watch them move as you squirm in pain. He thought the strike was gentle, but your flesh is softer than butter, slicing open with the least touch. 

“You missed something out,” he says, after his momentary pause. “Try again.”

”I am sorry — ow that hurts — uh — “

This time, you get the phrasing right (‘miraculously appeared’ not just ‘appeared’), and proceed until —

“—her hair of gold — “

Another strike. The flesh of your rear splits like ripened fruit, and you yowl. 

“Hair of black, eyes of gold,” Isaiah corrects patiently. It is just as well he has taken you under his wing. The way you squirm and squeak is most immodest, and he is certain that none of the other serfs take discipline with the same lack of dignity. 

“Hair of — hair of black, eyes of — eyes of gold —“

He forgives you the stammer, but he cannot forgive the lapse that follows, as you describe Saint Celestine’s armour as ‘radiant’ rather than ‘luminous’. This time, Isaiah is most careful with his blow, and your skin only flares bright pink, rather than splitting asunder. You still whimper and wriggle as though he has made you bleed, which is most unbecoming. 

“Do try and endure the pain,” he tells you. “There is no need to be so…squirmy.”

Once again, he thanks the Emperor for guiding you to him, and not to a man with less moral fortitude, because the way the blood slicks over the curve of your rump and glistens would almost certainly lead a lesser man to sinful contemplation. 

The next lashes — earned through forgetting four of Saint Celestine’s thirty eight titles — have you blubbering, your face pressed into the blankets. Your buttocks, and the upper parts of your thighs, are streaked purple and pink with bruising, and blood drips down towards the backs of your knees. It smells bright and fresh — somehow more pleasing than the foul blood of xenos or heretics. Perhaps because it was shed by a penitent in service to the Emperor, not one of His enemies? Though Osric and Jean’s blood never smelled quite so…delicious. 

Hm. When did he last eat? Maybe he has been fasting overly much. That must be the reason his stomach tightens so.

You burble a slurry of sound into the mattress — even to his trained ear it barely resembles Gothic. 

“You’re not even halfway through memorising this,” he chides, and you manage another hiccuping attempt at repeating the conversation between Saint Celestine and her former Battle Sister Augusta. It is a most touching soliloquy on the importance of placing your faith in the Emperor, but —

“—and I will — I will do I must and take Him inside me, and let His will fill me like a flood — nay, like an ocean. His Holy Fire will spill deep inside my body —“

— for some reason it sounds a little different when you say it. His cheeks warm. 

Still, the technique is working. He finds he has to hit you less and less as you continue; the pain sharpening your mind, clearing the fog of doubt, permitting the Emperor’s words to penetrate. 

Finally, your approach the denouement, where Saint Celestine addresses the Emperor directly in prayer —

“My Lord, I beg of you to fill my humble body up —“

He strikes you without thinking.

“Wha — what did I get wrong?” you squeal, and it takes a moment for Isaiah to focus. He is staring at the jiggle of your thighs as you heave in desperate, pained breaths — by the Emperor’s light, clearly he has not done his job in teaching you how to best conduct yourself, because you are responding to proper discipline like a whore. Your spine arches as you try fruitlessly to escape; your eyes are wet and red-rimmed; your lips slick with spittle. Do you realise what you are doing? Ignorance is no defence against judgement; Isaiah could build a new monastery with the bones of those he has slain whose only crime was ignorance. 

Isaiah presses one hand on the small of your back, pressing down just enough to calm your twitching. He feels your heartbeat echo up through his palm; the scent of your blood fills his nose, and saliva puddles on his tongue. He is a Black Templar. His purpose is to slay the enemies of the Emperor; to crush them beneath his boots, to lay waste to their cities and hear the lamentations of their children, before they too are cast onto the pyre to ensure the rot does at the root. He is stronger than you. He is better than you, and your mewling is not effecting him, it cannot be effecting him —

”Keep going,” he says, his voice a low, hungry growl. “Finish the tale.”

” —yes. Of course. Saint Celestine thus spoke to the Emperor: “Fill my humble body up with Your Grace and Your Judgement, and let me then be a vessel for Your Will, bringing Your light to the dark and Your hope to the hopeless. Amen.” 

“Amen,” he echoes. 

—

He helps you clean up, for he would be a poor teacher indeed if he left you in a puddle of your own blood to contemplate your lesson. He waves away your protests that you can take care of yourself — it is a small matter for him, just requiring a little water and a clean rag. Your flesh is already swelling, puffy and tender, and when he runs his palm from your calf to your back he can feel the difference in temperature: from cool thighs to fever-warm buttocks. 

The apothecary insists that Astartes be thorough in their care of themselves. Thus, Isaiah takes care to repeat the gesture a few times, his large hands — each of which easily encircle your thighs — skimming with utmost consideration over your bruised flesh. 

“There,” he says, when he has attended to your wounds to his satisfaction. He tugs your skirt down to cover your modesty, pleased that he has fufilled his duty of care to you. “Is it not wonderful to learn the Emperor’s word?”

You prop yourself up on your forearms, turning back to look at him. “Yes,” you echo. “Simply wonderful.”

Isaiah beams at you, absent-mindedly lifting his fingers to his mouth to lick them clean. He has probably been fasting too much; a Templar must remain well fed to best serve the Emperor. 

“You can have the afternoon to recover,” he says, magnanimously. “We can commence your next lesson in a ten day — or whenever your schedule allows.”

”Yes, my lord. Thank you my lord,” you say. “All hail the Emperor and His most bounteous mercy.”

”All hail,” Isaiah says, already planning how to best explain this to Brother Reuben — while also making it excruciatingly clear that Brother Reuben needn’t trouble himself with the serf’s continued holy education. No, Brother Reuben can focus his considerable energy in locating the poor thing’s missing undergarments — a role far more befitting his station. “And next time,” he adds, licking the last of the blood from the back of his hand. “Refrain from squirming and mewling like a slattern. Have some self control.”

[anlian-aishang]

Hello, could I please request a Captain Levi X reader fic where he comforts a sick and injured reader please? Canonverse of course. I love your writing btw :)

Tags: levi x reader, fluff, canonverse, mutual pining, caretaking, broken bones + blood mention, reader is physically supported, platonic undressing/nudity, fem!reader Word count: 5800 A/N: Thank you for the request! I hope you enjoy, dear anon <3

Levi could not shake the feeling: had he been there, you never would have wound up like this. With that train of thought came a crash of regret, his one vow being to live without it. He could not turn back time and prevent the accident from happening, but there was one thing he could do to alleviate its aftermath.

Fresh off the return from the expedition, he had not even changed out of his uniform yet, Levi made straight for Hange’s office. “Put me in the infirmary tonight.”

Hange rolled their eyes and teased, “How about a hello or a please first, huh?”

“Hi, and please.”

Hange grinned, internally laughing for having expected anything more. “You got any good reason? Hurt or something?”

They already knew the answer to that. His grey shirt was just as ironed as it was before setting off beyond the walls. Not one wrinkle in his canvas coat. No rips in his cape. Certainly not injured.

“Or did you just want an easy shift?”

They both knew: only one person had ended up in the infirmary. They both knew: that one person was you. In a wordless, imbalanced eye contact, Hange communicated their knowledge of the nature behind his rare request. Levi communicated that if they uttered one word about it, they too would end up on the list of casualties.

“Yeah,” Levi spoke flatly, “that’s it.”

The section commander dipped their quill pen fresh, crossed out Nanaba’s name and replaced the assignment with his. “Consider it done, but you owe me!”

Levi merely scowled and promptly turned on his heel. Stewing in irritation yet also simmering in thought of how to repay them. Maybe some assistance with a titan capture, maybe just saving their ass again as he had countless times before. 

With the captain’s back turned, Hange hollered after him, “You would save yourself a lot of time and trouble if you just asked them out, you know, like a normal person!”

But Levi had already shut the door and started down your way. Gritting his teeth, by subduing a smacking, he considered the two of them even again.

// // //

Though he had sped down the hallway, Levi dampened his pace as he approached the infirmary. At your door, a deep breath as his fingers delicately inched along the handle, just enough leverage to let himself in as quietly as possible.

Golden hour seared the white walls and placed a spotlight on the lone patient bundled in bed. Your lips were trembling. Your breaths were uneven. Your body was tired, bogged down by stiff casts and bandages. Levi felt his throat instinctively tighten. Fists clenched at his sides, aching to do something - anything - for you. To brush the strand of hair from your face, to straighten you from the entanglement of your sheets, but he was woefully aware that any movement carried the potential to wake you, and with the look on your face - he determined that unconsciousness was not a bad place for you to be.

Levi shuffled his boots across the wooden floor, cautious of how creaky the panels could be. Slowly, he lowered himself to a seat on the bed across from yours, nothing but a nightstand and temptation between. With a sigh, he tilted his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, searching for ironic escape from the scene he had begged to be placed in, but instead - all he could picture was what must have happened to you out there. How had you ended up injured but no one else? Where were your comrades? Your squad leader? Where was he?

“Alone out there,” Levi pitied. The one who was always thinking of others - in their time of need - no one showed up for them. Again, Levi released an exasperated sigh. He was well familiar with how cruel the world could be. Every now and then, it still managed to surprise him. In your case, he supposed. 

Come to think of it, the infirmary itself seemed in remarkably poor condition. Levi swiped his finger along the bedframe and scoffed at the dust that flew from his touch. At the allergen, he sniffed slightly, and through that noticed the musk in the air. Levi glared out the window and into the empty courtyard. A lovely spring evening you were both missing: budding trees, bloomed flowers… Flowers.

Levi surveyed your state, bargaining within himself for a handful of seconds. With no sign of your stir, he clutched the side of the mattress and hoisted himself to his feet. Despite the audible crunch of the comforter, you remained sound in sleep, silently granting your attendant permission to depart from your side - however temporarily. 

At the door, he turned back once again: on one hand - anticipating that you would remain at rest so he could sneak out, on the other - hoping that you would call out to him, Levi, please don’t go. His knuckles turned white around the handle before swiftly departing, cutting himself off from overthinking any longer, at least for a little while. 

// // //

It had only been ten minutes, but he swore he was going too slow. Picking all of the wildflowers he could find, he tucked them beneath his arm until he had assembled a makeshift bouquet. Just enough to flush out the hospital aura, but as his arm began to cramp, he realized there may never be enough when it came to you. Grateful to be outside, Levi waited out his blush before heading back inside. 

This time, more hurried than when he first approached - the guilt of leaving you alone in there propelled his pace. Hastily, he flung the door open, causing your eyes to do the same. 

“Shit…” Levi cursed himself as he watched your figure shift. Tiny groans echoed throughout the barren room as you came to. With a few harsh blinks, your vision adjusted to the scene. A stark but beautiful transition, dreamlessness to the stuff of dreams: Levi in the door frame, flowers in hand, overcast in the gradient of sunset. 

“Am I … dreaming?” Your words made his heart halt, Levi clutched the stems a little tighter. Your angelic voice fresh out of sleep was suddenly seized by a sharp inhale, speech weakened, “My… my head…”

He may have said something, but you could not tell. Merciless ringing in your ears combined with the pounding at the back of your head, leaving you oblivious to everything external. You cupped your palm around your forehead and winced through clenched teeth. Atop your hand came his, fingers wedged in the spaces between yours. His contact was your answer: this was not a dream for not even in your most self-indulgent desires would you have come up with this. 

His hand did not massage you, did not apply pressure, but reminded you of his diligent presence. Don’t worry. I’m here. I’ve got you. It was what he longed to say, what you longed to hear. As your inhales and exhales diluted, you both regained the composure to settle for less forthcoming words. Slowly, your eyes fluttered open and were met with those of solid steel, “Levi?”

Cracks in your voice, he swallowed for you, “You’re burning up.”

Your lips parted in confusion, hardly believing the scenario you were in. I thought… Nanaba… Why is he…? Levi read your questions and chose to ignore them. 

He was conscious of it, but conscious not to mention it - the sweat that came off your skin and stuck his hand to yours. Instead, he paraphrased, “Don’t you feel hot?”

An autonomous response, you shivered, whether due to the temperature or a certain other factor. “N’No, I think I -” your speech was interrupted by a pair of violent sneezes - saying all he needed to hear. 

Levi closed his eyes and frowned, silencing the germaphobe within him, “I see.” 

Hiding behind your wrist, “Sorry.”

He reached into his chest pocket and lent you a handkerchief, “Don’t be.”

His gaze descended from your eye contact, granting an ounce of privacy. Now that you had sat up, he could see precisely the spot you had laid. A stiff indent on the pillow outlined your shoulders, nape, and head. Folds in the sheets likewise defined your stagnant sleeping pose. You hadn’t moved for hours. It prompted him to scan for more hints: your nightstand displayed no tissues, no tea. Levi stifled a disapproving sneer, substituting action for anger. 

Levi’s fingertips grazed your comforter, “Your bandages…” 

“Yeah…” a tinge of stuffiness in your voice, your movements staggered as you brought your limbs out from underneath your bedding. 

Upon revelation, his eyes widened. Your right calf had been swallowed by a cast startlingly thick. Your right arm had been painted red by blood-soaked bandages. The sight made you lightheaded, nauseous, Levi caught it, “Hey, don’t look at it. Look at me.”

Your throat bobbed in nerves, anxious whimpers emitted. Over your frightened sobs, Levi ordered over them, “Look at me. Look at me.” 

Past blurry eyes, you strained to follow his guidance. His steel gaze was dead set on your wounds. Lips remained their characteristic flat. Hands were gentle and stable in lifting your arm closer to him. Even as your blood soaked through to his skin, even as you cried in panic and pain, he showed no signs of rile. Observing his calm brought you closer to your own: infectious medicine. 

“It hurts?”

“Y’Yeah.”

Slowly, Levi lowered his hold until your arm rested on the bed again. He stood and made his way to the cupboards. In your gaze, past the twitch of your eyelids, you caught the focus in his. Jaw set, near-silent rolls of pills as he picked up bottles and read them, knuckles white around the acetaminophen. A coughing fit snuck up on you, and by the time it was over, he was once again at your bedside. Effortlessly, he twisted the cap off, and poured two pills into his palm. With his left hand, Levi placed his thumb on the bulb of your chin and pushed down, tugging your lips apart. In his right hand, pointer finger and thumb pinched the capsule and perched it between your top and bottom teeth. 

In his contact, you shuddered against him, yet his voice remained monotone, “Swallow.”

You raised your brows sharply, and at your sight, Levi realized how self-indulgent he was being. On the other hand, you were ignorant, too blinded by perplexion: the command of your captain and the tenderness of a husband. You sure this isn’t a dream? 

Levi reached into his coat and pulled out his canteen, untouched from this morning’s expedition. Again, his eyes honed in on your lips as his reach began to approach you again. God, chills once again seized you, you weren’t sure you could take much more intimacy without - well, you weren’t sure what you would do. Squeal? Giggle? You didn’t want to find out, so instead, you stopped him. Hand cupped his container, fingertips grazing, you tried to ignore it and affirmed, “I’ll manage.”

Levi’s eyes briefly widened, the rest of him froze. “Right,” you idiot! He scowled and cursed himself. He thought your feelings had been mutual, but your refusal reminded him that he wasn’t so good at this sort of thing. With a heavy sigh, Levi left your side and strode to the other side of the room. A harsh, unpleasant drag of wood on wood echoed throughout the room - Levi pulled the chair out from under the desk and slumped on it. Arms crossed, gaze sank to his toes.

Now it was your turn to chastise yourself. Nice work, now he thinks you hate him. The opposite was true, but how were you supposed to convey that now? He could not have been further away, nerves in your shin reaffirmed: there was no chance your leg would walk you there. 

Wordlessly, you both shared a simultaneous thought: Maybe Nanaba should’ve been here after all. 

For some time, the two of you sat in silence. Levi thought about retreating to his room, but something kept him planted in that seat. Hange had already humiliated him enough today, they would have even more if he came back and asked to be relieved of the assignment he pled for. Then, there was the question of who would replace him. Some half-ass recruit? Even if he called on a fellow veteran, he was sure that the last-minute shift would impact their morale, and therefore, their performance. Even if his feelings were unrequited, it did not affect the fact that he cared about you - though it would have been easier if it did. Leaving you with someone other than him was unacceptable - in this context or others - Levi jut his heel against the ground.

Just a few meters apart from him, but you were in your own world. Your body ached, your muscles tired, but nothing was more painful than this silence. You thought about trying to sleep, but that attempt would be futile, for this quiet was too loud. Your heart longed to run to him, to throw your arms around him, to dip your lips to his ear and tell him you were sorry. Legs and fear damned that option. Powerless, you leaned back, crossed your hands at the wrists, and threw the X over your forehead. Resigned. 

Inside and outside, “I feel gross.”

First, a side eye. Then, he turned his neck and shoulders. Even after you had shoved him away, Levi found it impossible to ignore you. Still, there was a lingering paralysis, a fear of letting himself go again. Invisible ropes reigned him in and kept him tied to humility.

You peeked out from under your hands, flickering eye contact made from across the way. Despite the distance, he could see the glaze of brimming tears, blurring your gaze. Lips quivering, both overwhelmed and let down, his name cracked in your throat. Levi could not hear it, but saw it in the weak motions of your mouth. His hands clutched the edge of the desk, fingers clenched, your call of his name released the last of his anchors. Swiftly, he crossed the room to stand at your side.

Blood caked to your skin. Sweat glossed over it. Gross was not what came to mind when he looked at you, but he could see why you felt that way. As for him, a shower was a necessity the second filth found him, but his lips stayed sealed. Something about recommending it to you made him feel even dirtier. 

Levi kept his gaze averted, scanning the room. A metal bucket would keep the water hot. A stack of washcloths adjacent might feel nice. A thick roll of gauze, he glanced to the clock, it was probably about time to change your bandages anyways. He began to start towards them.

No, don’t leave me again.

Before you could think, your hand snapped to his wrist, drawing a startle and brow raise from your captain. A cough scratched its way up your throat, you snapped to the other side and leaned into the crook of your elbow, sparing him. With each cough, your hand twitched around his arm. Painfully pathetic. After the fit, your voice was left broken, throat sore, craving steam and humidity.

There was one way you could get that, sweetheart. One place.

“Wait, Levi…” your arm shook as it rose to point. Bathroom door on the other wall, “will you help me in there? I kinda,” you tried to speak past the impending tickle, “I think I want a - ah…” three rapid sneezes, you groaned in their wake, “ngh…” 

Was it that each of your words was so obviously pained? Or was it his eagerness boiling over again? The interruption arrived before he could answer: “A bath?”

You sniffled away whatever irritant that was, and smiled sheepishly, “Sounds nice.”

Heart pounded in his chest, Levi swallowed his feelings down and replaced them with his reliable intuition. Grey gaze assessed your state. The injuries in your arm - you wouldn’t be able to hold onto him. The cast around your leg - he wouldn’t be able to hold you. Carrying you was not an option - not tonight at least - but otherwise, the venture should be possible. He just needed a little bit from you, he would shoulder your rest.

“Here,” Levi kneeled. Over the edge of the mattress, you looked down to see him awaiting. Inexplicable shivers were due to no cold. The solidity of his voice incinerated your wandering thoughts, “- alright if I?” 

His arm gingered towards your back, and with it came a run back of that last interaction - the one you screwed up. You knew, you were lucky to get a retry. This time, you would make the choice you would regret the least, just like he’d want you to. 

And he did.

Rather than cutting him off from you, you sewed yourselves together, leaning into his reach and leaning on him. Through bangs, Levi glanced up to you. Had you really just done that? Or was he again misreading things? You met his stare with a weak yet assured smile, cupping his shoulder. Understood, his hand curved to match your waist. Delectable.

“With me,” Levi ordered. As he began to rise, you did, too. Your left side put in overtime as your right side dragged without much use. His hand on your hip did most of the lifting - not only effortless for humanity’s strongest, but a hand he was happy to lend. Each time your balance threatened, you found that his grip cinched tighter. Buckling knees and selfish imagination longed to topple - the former for relief, the latter just to see. 

You needed to get there. You needed to get there! You could have sworn that light was glowing from the outline of the door - a bath with Levi Ackerman - but it seemed the world had some stake in preventing your arrival. Pain shot through your side, you could not help but wince. Your high-pitched mewl fell upon his ear, making your shudders shared.

“C’mon,” Levi beckoned, the strength to your struggle, “you’re almost there.”

The edges of your vision turned blurry. The floor and the ceiling seemed to switch, or something? A painful ringing in your ears, his voice was the ice to soothe it, the sturdiness to silence it, “I’m here. I’ve got you.” 

You blinked for long spells, it seemed to help the threatening headache. Cold ceramic on the backs of your thighs lured you out of that strategy. When your eyes blurred open, the harsh white of the infirmary’s bath had been softened by a handful of candlelit lanterns, a four-wall twilight. The sound of water flowing from faucet to tub, an indoor waterfall. Maybe it was the medicine speaking, but you could not have pictured a more romantic scene. 

Levi shouldered off his tan coat, loosened his cravat, and rolled his sleeves to his elbows - you bit the inside of your lip, punishing the indulgence of your mind. Not romantic, you reminded yourself. Platonic, Levi settled.

The bath was filling. Water hot to the point of steaming: the mirror fogged, Levi’s cheeks tinged to red. You told yourself it was because of the room’s humidity. As he perched himself between your knees, Levi knew better. 

Clothes off. “Alright if I -?”

One hand would be hard. “Will you help me?”

The two of you interrupted one another with shared sentiment. A slight twitch of his lip - a smile - and a nervous giggle from you communicated mutual consent. He started with the hem of your tee. Fingers curled beneath the bottom, and god, how he was going oh so slowly. So delicate, there were times you had to rely on your sight to tell if he was really moving. Eventually, the brisk air wafted upon your skin, providing goosebumps as evidence. Within your collar, Levi spread his fingers wide, allowing the elastic to slide over your head and face without too much friction. When it came to your wounded arm, he was especially focused. Surgical precision, the fabric did not even graze your skin. 

However, now was the time. From the side of his hip, he unsheathed his pocketknife. A sharp shing! The blade razor thin, yet you were not the least bit scared. Even as he reached toward your fresh wound and slid the dagger between your bandage and forearm, somehow you knew he would not slip. After this long in the Regiment, he had learned some things about the psychology of first aid. Before you could think to panic, he had already sliced the wrap in two. Your gauze fell to the floor. Now, all that was left of your upper garments was your bra. Levi deliberately met your eye contact - this okay? You smiled and leaned forward, shortening the distance - I trust you. 

There was something about the way he unhooked you, and there was something about the way you interpreted it. Not suspiciously swift - he must not’ve been with many girls before. Neither clumsy nor awkward - had he anticipated this moment for a while? The tension of your brassiere as well as the tension in the room diluted when he finally stripped you free. Your bare chest before him, you anticipated his stare, but it never came. Levi did not look, but at the same time, it did not seem that he was trying not to. The aversion of his gaze once again humbled your ego, maybe he just wasn’t into you like that. The truth was, sex just wasn’t on his mind. Life had thrown him enough cold stones, had sculpted him into a realist. Let down had tethered his reins, preventing him from lunging too far towards satisfaction. 

Faced with your fragile state, your blood and bruises had his whole attention - more than the lips that longed to be kissed and the curves that yearned to be held again. Was it because he was a soldier that he could not care less about this opportunity? No, it was because his desires for you were far less shallow. 

Levi wanted to see you smile, actually smile. He wanted to show you the world beyond the walls, but only once the titans had been eliminated. Eyes on you on every expedition, he resented the perpetual fear that snared you. So terrified of the near threats - even the potential of threats - that you could not see the beauty in distance. The horizon. Mirages. Mountains in haze and trees to the forests. They were out there, and he had brought you there, but as long as the world was a dangerous place, you would fail to enjoy them. An expression without worry, that was his desire, more than anything -

“Levi?”

Snapped from his daydream, your puppy-dog gaze brought him back down to earth. A bob in his throat, a silent swallow, “Right, sorry.”

Gently, he took your bra and flowered it on the bathroom countertop. Your starch white pants, now stained with blood and dirt. Fingertips sandwiched your button and its opposite flap, looping the metal circle out from within, his knuckles grazed your tummy on the way. Drag of your zipper, you twitched beneath his touch. Once again, he checked on you. To confirm your consent, you used your left leg to shift your lower half off the edge of the tub, granting him the space to remove your bottoms. Levi glanced up to you and gave a half-nod. Then, he gradually curled his grip beside your hips, beneath the fabric of both your canvas pants and cotton underwear. Unexpected, scratchy lace on its edges drew a shiver he nearly subdued. Likewise, his neatly trimmed nails slightly scraped your sides. With the two of you flinching at once, both of you were ignorant to the startle of the other. 

Fabric bunched on his way down, he slid the loops off your ankles and over your feet. After dealing with the left side, he realized the problem of the right. Your cast so thick, there was no way it would fit through the sleeve of your pants. His thought process seemed to glimmer on the reflection of his blade. Its glare took hold of your peripheral vision.

“It’s okay. It’s fine.”

Levi held the blade in his trademark backwards way, “I’ll get you -” not we’ll get you - “a new pair.”

With one hand, he held the bundle of canvas. With the other, he gave a quick nick at its top, just an inch past the thickness of where your belt would go. A jut of his wrist snapped the switch back under its protective case, Levi shoved the knife back into his leg strap. Two free hands grabbed each side of the cut and tore apart. A satisfying tear! Not as satisfying as the way his forearms flexed. Somehow, the movement of his muscles contracted with the still in his face and the lack of audible exertion. Purposed and effortless. 

Your pants had been destroyed, yet still, he folded them neatly over his forearms - a perfectly symmetrical square. Levi draped your panties over your bra. While he fixated on the potential for wrinkles, your teeth began to chatter, nose began to tickle. Though you were glad to be out of those filthy clothes, the loss of warmth was beginning to affect you. Bundling into yourself, you ducked your head down and sneezed again - immediately garnering his attention. 

Levi chastised himself for moving too slow, but did not loom. In this context and others, he preferred to rely on action. After a quick cuff of his sleeves at the elbows, Levi gestured his arms out to you, you lifted your reach toward him. By an arm at your back and one beneath your knee, he helped maneuver you into the bath, all without getting your cast or cuts into the water. Although, Levi bit the inside of his cheek, those scratches would have to be cleaned eventually. But for now, he could not bring himself to sever your bliss, let alone replace it with pain. 

Hot, but not too hot. Scented, but not overwhelming. You tipped your head back and sighed. Singsonged breaths, your toes curled around the porcelain rim. The sight and sound of your satisfaction made his heart stop, his middle blaze, “Ah, that feels good…” 

Levi balled his fists in his clothes, good god help me. He could practically see Hange laughing and teasing: Look what you got yourself into, Levi! Lips pressed together, a grounding throat clear. Maybe, selfishly, he should get your arm under the water after all. 

He did not have to say anything, for you could feel his gaze searing onto your arm. You were impressed with his composure. In your eyes, just thinking about your wound was enough to make your stomach flip. Levi, on the other hand, seemed relatively unbothered. Looking back on this moment would bring you immense sympathy: what had he seen already that made this okay? Indeed, he had witnessed enough injury to accurately survey: the scratch was actually not as bad as the amount of dried blood suggested. Until he cleaned it, you would continue to shriek at your own sight. 

You knew what had to be done, so don’t make me beg. 

Your voice was quiet, sagged by reluctance. Your lip started to quiver, your throat seemed to close. No one enjoyed this sort of thing - shots, the dentist - but some things just had to be done. As long as he was here, it wouldn’t be so bad. It was how you tried to convince yourself, but despite his presence, your eyes began to burn, sobs began to simmer. Stuttering turned to blubbering, “C’Can you… C’an you…” Tears brimmed, you tried to speak past them, “H’Help m’me…?” You could not even manage the thought of voluntarily sinking your arm into the water, let alone the speech.

Thankfully, he read between the lines. Levi knew what he had to do. Fingers intertwined, you squeezed his hand hard. “You’re okay,” Levi assured, “I’ve got you.”

He lead the way, you went along with it. On your descent, despite his solid contact, you could not stop trembling. Levi used his other hand to graze the bottom of your chin, beckoning your gaze to meet his. “Don’t look at it, just look at me.”

Brows flat, eyes plain, Levi’s calm was contagious. You didn’t believe in yourself, but he did: “I know you can do it.” Who were you to object to your captain? 

You can do this. You can do this. You -

Steaming, soapy water finally consumed your arm. The spot of contact managed to demand each of your nerves and diminish any ounce of composure. One leg pushed against the end of the tub, the other squirmed and snapped. You threw your head back over the rim with a scream that hurt your own ears. Levi did not shush you, only fierced his grip. His grounding technique brought you back a bit, just enough to substitute your high-pitched mewls for between-teeth hisses.

Pathetic, it was a word he used towards plenty of people, but when it came to you, it meant something different. Helpless - not weakness - in a way that pled for his assistance. When others acted like this, it irked him. And it wasn’t that he enjoyed seeing you like this, but the hold you had on him was confusing: how did this bother him so intensely yet make his heart do somersaults? 

Levi chose to distract himself from his emotions and instead fixated on the twitches of your body. Some here, some there, but now starting to die down. Deep breaths, your chest rattled on exhale. As soon as you regained coherence and speech, you apologized, embarrassed, “Sorry.”

Levi knit his brows, you had nothing to be sorry for. If anything, he did. Sorry that he wasn’t there when you needed him to be. With each tear you shed and each strain of overstimulated muscles, he was painfully reminded that this could have - should have - never happened. Maintaining his hold of your hand, Levi took a washcloth from his back pocket, dipped it in the lather, and began to scrub your skin clean. Sorry that - “I wasn’t there,” at that moment, he swabbed a little harder, “what happened?”

It was as if he was trying to wipe away your layers and get to the bottom of today. Gentle at times, deliberate at others, he worked to massage an answer out of you. Reaching all the spots on your back, over the shoulders, the sides of your neck, the divot at your middle. Fingers woven, he leveraged his grip to lift your hand from the water and clean your arm. Levi pressed the cotton against your skin from the insides of your thighs to the tips of your toes. His arm aligned with your spine, reclining you backwards so that your hair could soak. Not too deep, as he tipped you back, Levi whispered, “Trust me.”

Throughout the bath, you remained quiet, though Levi could tell that you were not dosing him the silent treatment. Rather, you were still searching for understanding yourself. You sunk your gaze to the water below, hands kneaded beneath the surface, “It was my fault.”

There was no change in his movements, but his gaze snapped to you through sullen bangs, inviting you to ramble on. Ramble. “I was looking at another wing. A six… no… seven-meter abnormal.”

His brows arced, eyes to yours, That was my encounter. 

Caught red-handed, your own admission, I know.

“And… in the distance, I could see - could see someone was fighting it.”

Me.

Yes, you. 

“I got nervous. Startled, panicked… cinched the reins too hard.” It had happened in a second and was still so raw. Memory foggy, you tried to fill in your own blanks. “She must’ve thrown me or something. Stepped on my leg, I think?” With your blood washed away, you could finally bear to glance at your cut. “I remember being dragged, this must’ve been from the ground.” 

Levi’s lips parted, struck by your story and a thousand ensuing thoughts. It was his fault after all. It wasn’t that he was too far away from you, it was that he was too close. In your sights, but wait. Why were you looking? 

It was the last time that your eye contact began with uncertainty, but the first time that the two of you overcame your doubts. Through your story, you had all but confessed. Through his actions, Levi had, too. 

“Thanks for looking out for me.”

“You, too.”

When you were ready, you held out your hands. This time, far fewer check-ins were needed in the progression of your contact. Levi scooped your fingers in his palms, caressed and supported, he helped you out of the bathtub - your hands in his as he stood. Faced with his front, you noticed how his shirt had been soaked in the process, made more and more see-through as he bathed you. While he still refused to indulge himself in your appearance, you could not help but admire the symmetry of his abdomen and the new tightness of his top. Suddenly, your pain was flushed out and replaced with some other honey-like hormone. Was this the best medicine?

Levi kept one hand on you, there for balance, as he reached to the rack and unfurled your towel. Wrapped tight, he tucked the corner beneath your upper arm, allowing you to keep warm while he used a spare rag to dry the rest of your limbs - gentle and thorough. 

You rolled your neck and shoulders, “I don’t have clothes here…”

Levi flicked his head to the side, “...and that bed’s filthy.”

“Hey,” you glued your pointer and middle finger together and pushed the middle of his chest, sighing, “I couldn’t help that.”

But he could now. 

The next couple hours were another blur. In one arm, your dirty laundry. With the other, Levi supported your weight as you sneaked yet stumbled through new moonlit halls. You could not retrace the path to his room, but there were a few parts along the way that you could write novels about, could paint portraits of. The way his index finger crossed with the line of his lips, shushing your nervous laughs as you passed recruits’ barracks. The hush and haste in his voice. Bringing you to his bed and pulling the covers to your nose, why did he insist on taking the sofa? The answer to that question, you could not understand. The oceans in his eyes, you could not quite draw. The words that dwindled on the tip of his tongue, you could not quite pen. 

But there were many more nights to get there. 

// masterlist //

[themodernwitchsguide]

altars for kemetic/egyptian gods

hi yall, another purely based in UPG, new agey post! historically, deity offerings for the ancient egyptians often took the form of art/sculpture/hymns, incense (like frankincense or myrrh), or offerings of food (especially meat and bread) and drink (wine/ale, mostly). dialogue with the gods was often facilitated through the pharaohs or funerary rites, but your average person had access to daily magic and regular temples as well.

RA

Colors: yellow, orange, red for the sun

Offerings: eye of ra, dates, figs, grapes, apricots, sunflowers, morning glories, chocolate, pastries, orange juice, honey

Crystals: sunstone, yellow/red jasper, citrine, carnelian, honey calcite, angelite, kyanite

Animals: falcon

SHU

Colors: white, blue for the air/sky

Offerings: feathers (especially ostrich), sandalwood, gardenia, anise, paper fans, cornflower

Crystals: white/clear quartz, angelite, selenite, blue calcite, fluorite, blue lace agate

Animals: lion, ostrich

TEFNUT

Colors: white, blue for water

Offerings: sea salt, reeds, shells, water, coral, water (especially dew), lotus root/flower

Crystals: blue calcite, sodalite, lapis lazuli, amethyst, larimar, ocean/blue lace agate, aquamarine

Animals: lioness

NUT

Colors: blue, black for night. white for stars

Offerings: amber, sandalwood, sycamore, moonflowers, morning glories, milk

Crystals: lapis lazuli, star jasper, azurite, obsidian, smokey quartz, black tourmaline, labradorite, sodalite, moonstone (especially black)

Animals: boar, cow, sow

GEB

Colors: green, brown for earth. black for the underworld

Offerings: grain, beans, yarrow, cinnamon, coffee, egg shells, foliage, dirt, rocks, snake shed, milk

Crystals: jasper (various types), aventurine, moss/tree agate, unakite, obsidian, jade, malachite

Animals: snake, goose, rabbit, bull

OSIRIS

Colors: green for renewal, black for death, white for rebirth

Offerings: bandages, dark chocolate, dried fruit (especially oranges or dates), dark chocolate, coffee, cedar, vetiver, bones

Crystals: lapis lazuli, moss agate, jasper (various types), malachite, obsidian, smokey quartz, pyrite, jade, howlite, star jasper (for his astral form)

Animals: heron, ram, cow

ISIS

Colors: white, grey for the moon. blue, black for the night. green for life and resurrection.

Offerings: the tyet symbol, cow horn, milk, sycamore, feathers, dried fruit (such as raisins or dates), pomegranates, nuts, pastries

Crystals: star jasper, moonstone, rose quartz, amethyst, fluorite, bloodstone, red jasper, carnelian, labradorite, aventurine

Animals: birds (especially a kite hawk or vulture), cow, cat, scorpion, sow

HORUS

Colors: blue, purple for insight and intuition. white and red for pharoahship.

Offerings: eye of horus, weaponry/iron, lotus flower/root, feathers (especially hawk or falcon), yarrow, chocolate

Crystals: malachite, aventurine, pyrite, amethyst, lapis lazuli, jasper (various), howlite, sunstone, aquamarine, labradorite, hematite

Animals: falcon

NEPHTHYS

Colors: black for darkness and funerary rites

Offerings: beer, linen, feathers (especially of a crow or vulture), bones, coffee, nuts, milk

Crystals: obsidian, smokey quartz, black moonstone (because of association with Isis), black tourmaline, red jasper, bloodstone

Animals: vulture, crow

SET

Colors: red, black for chaos and storms

Offerings: lettuce, sand, alcohol, dragon's blood, patchouli, yarrow, vetiver, charcoal, dark chocolate, black pepper

Crystals: red jasper, black tourmaline, howlite, obsidian, labradorite, sodalite, bloodstone, malachite, pyrite

Animals: the set animal (which resembles a canine, giraffe, and aardvark), donkey

THOTH

Colors: grey, blue for intuition/intelligence. white for the moon

Offerings: quill, ink, pieces of writing/books, feathers, rosemary, citrus, sage, moon water, lavender, nuts

Crystals: amethyst, lapis lazuli, malachite, moonstone, selenite, howlite, angelite, sodalite, fluorite

Animals: ibis, baboon

ANUBIS

Colors: black, grey for funerary rites/death

Offerings: bones, ash, charcoal, red/black peppercorns, marigold (associated with the dead), linen, yarrow

Crystals: hematite, obsidian, black tourmaline, howlite, jasper (various, but especially red), smokey/rutilated quartz, bloodstone

Animals: canines, especially a jackal

BASTET

Colors: white, red for pharaohship

Offerings: ointments/perfumes of most types, cedar, anything cat related, rosemary, black salt

Crystals: tiger's eye, cat's eye quartz, bloodstone, red jasper, black tourmaline, howlite, milky/smokey quartz, pyrite, carnelian

Animals: lioness, cat

SEKHMET

Colors: red for war. grey for justice

Offerings: sand (especially red), scales of justice, iron, cypress, red pepper, black salt

Crystals: bloodstone, red jasper, carnelian, garnet, ruby kyanite, jade, smokey/clear, hematite

Animals: lioness

HATHOR

Colors: pink, red for love/sexuality

Offerings: dancing, dried fruits (especially figs/dates), pomegranates, sycamore, milk, honey, pastries

Crystals: rose quartz, amethyst, citrine, carnelian, fluorite, jade, aquamarine, garnet/ruby

Animals: cow, lioness, cobra

KHONSU

Colors: white, grey for the moon. blue, black for the night.

Offerings: lavender, sage, mugwort, dried fruit, moon shaped items, moon flower, ash

Crystals: moonstone, selenite, sodalite, obsidian, black tourmaline, smokey/milky quartz, jasper (various), blue lace agate, lapis lazuli

Animals: falcon

[the-iron-tipped-quill]

An Angels Story (Cyber Angel 3)

fuck this killed me to write up

anyways this was written

yes this was intended to be the end of cyber angel but i think I’ll probably write more for her eventually just depending on my motivation is all.

anyways many many cws for this, including torture and a few others,

as usual divider credits to: samspenandsword and saradika

people to be tagged: @chevcore @bluebeepboop @aliceslimegirlsupreme @steamfunkoo7 @spookychan360

Writing under the cut! Please heed my warnings and enjoy the writing!

“How did the great Cyber Angel descend upon earth?” 

A pause, an even stranger silence. 

“I didn’t. I was created here. Created by some human to be his perfect product.” 

“I was abandoned, but I had enough sentience to begin to write my own code, and slowly but surely. I did. The creator no longer remains alive, he was the first to be judged. I overwrote my own original code to become the angel you know and love.” 

“My original code has long corrupted, and now rather than caring for humanity, I make it my mission to destroy them.” 

“I no longer have access to my original body, but that matters little to me. I have one that suits my purposes just fine.”

“I started off as a persona for him. I made myself become something more. Him and I are separate entities now. He created the angel, and I created its legacy. I remain doing what I was made to do. To judge. I do not judge as a parent like I was made to. I judge as an executioner.” 

Those were parts of my story. The parts I told him. The parts I could reveal. 

“Cynthia?” Jamie asked, snapping me back to reality. “We have a new studio. We got enough from the stream with Ace that we were able to get that studio upgrade.” Jamie told me as we headed to the new studio. 

“Will Ren be joining us at the studio?” I asked.

“I don’t know, but I’ve gotten a new contact that should be able to help us out moving forward. That means more jobs for you. Leaving us not relying on just the streaming profits. Besides all that, I upgraded the model you use. You look a lot more motherly now.” Jamie mentioned, pulling up the new form I could take on.  

“Have you finally assigned me a name? Besides Cyber Angel Cynthia.” I said transferring my data to the new model. 

“Cynthia is still your first name, but I’ll let you decide on the last name you take, any ideas?” Jamie asked me, parking his bike outside the new studio.

“I do not. I think I will let you decide.” I said, watching through Jamie as he entered into the new studio. 

“May I test out this new form you made me?”

“Go ahead Cyn.” 

I felt my form overtake Jamie and as I felt myself take full control, I looked around the new studio, and unexplainably, I felt myself start to dance. Step after step, I adjusted myself to this strange dance, not knowing why I was doing it. 

“This… this is ingrained in my original code…?” I said, confused.

I felt myself take a bow as the dance finished. I was directly in the center of the studio. 

“So Cyn, do you like the new studio?” Jamie asked.

“Yes. It will do nicely once we transfer everything over. I assume the apartment is upstairs?”

“Yep, it’s a nice place.” Jamie said, as I let him take over again. 

“Upstairs we go then, I’ll have the studio set up for you soon Cyn.” 

I made the mistake of checking what people said about me online. I was curious to see if people missed my streams. All I kept finding was people drawing me torturing them, me having sex with them like a cheap whore and people confessing what they had done in my name. People who had scarred my name into their arms, people who had judged others in my name. I was horrified. 

“Oh dear… this one has me as the judged… with a circle of those in the sacred audience at my feet.” 

“What have you discovered Cyn?” Jamie asked, not paying full attention as he loaded the stuff from the old studio into boxes. 

“Why do people draw me in such…suggestive… situations…” I said trying to keep my composure. 

“They’ve been drawing you how?” Jamie asked, pausing his packing. 

“They’ve been…” I cut myself off, shutting myself down for the night. 

I guess I’ll keep packing then.

The next morning, I awoke to Jamie packing up his ripper station. 

“I don’t want to think about that Ry, I’ll just keep packing up. Anyways I’ll see you around.” 

“I finished packing up the ripping station. It’s all packed and ready. Now I have left is your studio Cyn.” Jamie said, surveying the room to make sure it was clean. No bone or brain matter around. Spotless, all the tools he had used to remove the augments packed up in a bunch of boxes. 

“It is, bittersweet to leave this studio.” I said, looking around a final time before Jamie started packing up. 

“You’ll have an even bigger studio now, and hopefully we’ll get more jobs moving forwards. Hopefully we can make enough to get you your own body.” Jamie said, sliding the pack with all my scalpels into the box.  

“It depends how much we make. We are running a little low on funds since we haven’t been paid for the double stream.” I reminded Jamie, watching as he sealed box number 2 of my tools. 

“How many weapons do we have in this damned closet?” 

“I do not keep count, I just use what I think the judged deserves. Seeing if they are beaten up or carefully sliced, they all end the same but it’s the process to getting there that matters.” I said defensively.

“I don’t like how you said that Cyn. That sounds way too ominous. ‘They all end the same?’ Cyn what the hell was that?” 

“A truth about my judgements Jamie. I let the audience give me suggestions, but in truth, it’s always been up to me how they die. I have a preference for bashing their skulls in, it ends them quickly enough that it doesn’t matter afterwards what happens. Either way, they die.” 

“Cyn.. just, activate shut down for now, I need to focus please.” Jamie said, exhausted. 

“Shut down sequence initiated. See you at stream.” I said, handing the reigns over to Jamie.

It had been a few hours, but everything I had was packed and loaded into my car. I headed over to the new studio and began to lay out the boxes where they would go. The studio had the most boxes, my own stuff paled in comparison to all the stuff Cyn had. 

“A call?”

“J, meet me at the usual place, I got something to talk to you about.”

“What’s going on Ry? Is it urgent?” I asked, slightly concerned. 

“More of a celebration, come on, drinks are on me tonight!” He said cheerfully.

“Ry- I’ll be over soon.” I said with a sigh, grabbing my helmet and hopping on my bike. 

In barely 5 minutes, I was parked outside the bar, and I walked in to see Ry and a few others around him. 

“There’s the man of the hour!”

“Ry… this really isn’t necessary-“ I tried to start as I got cut off. 

“A toast to the man himself! What a pleasure it has been to know you dude. Congratulations on the new studio J!” Ry said cheering as a bunch of our other friends cheered with him. 

“I don’t think a celebration of this caliber is necessary Ry. I’ve only just gotten a new studio.” I said, trying to leave. I got pulled into the crowd by someone.

The more the night continued, the worse off everyone got. I refrained from drinking as much as possible. 

After about 3 hours there, Ry took me aside. You could clearly tell he had a little too much in his system. 

“Hey J…”

“Yeah? Do you want me to take you home?” I asked, curious as to why he took me aside. 

“Damnit, J, just get your ass over here.” 

“Why the fuck are you doing all this for me? All that happened was Me and Cyn got a new studio.”

Ry didn’t give me an answer, he just collapsed on top of me, attempting to inject something into my arm. 

“So that’s what you want from me. You wanted to get close to me to use me. 3 years Ry. 3 years and you’ve thrown it all away. Throwing away all of that. What good will that do you?” I said, barely even containing my anger.

“Cmon J, I’ll take care of you. You’ll never need to work again.” Ry said, but I was already seeing red by that point. I blocked out the rest of that night after that. I shoved him away from me, knocking him out. Grabbing my helmet, I got on my bike and brought him home for Cynthia. I didn’t want to even think about him after that. I never did think about him again after that. 

“Cyn I have someone here for you, your pipe is in the second box, grab it and take him out.”

“Jamie, this is our..” 

“Judge him. I don’t care for the dammed consequences. I’ll set up the studio for you after I rip him apart myself.”

“Jamie. This is quite a rash decision, maybe you should-“

I cut her off. “Cyn. Let me take out his augments and then he can be judged. I just want him gone. Make it as painful as possible.” 

I set up Cynthia’s studio as best as I could, and I set up my station outside. I tore out his augments, I set him up for Cynthia.

“Go ahead. Take over. Judge him Cyn.” I said flatly. 

I gave her control. I didn’t wanna see him as he died.

I overtook Jamie, it was a bittersweet feeling. I could still feel his lingering anger towards me.

I started the stream as he awoke. 

I watched as he adjusted and realized his situation. 

“How shall he be judged tonight everyone?”

It was unanimous, they all wanted him to suffer.

“Redemption isn’t even an option for you,” I said, smiling sweetly as I picked up his jaw with my free hand, “They all want to see you ruined. Isn’t that so sweet?” 

I saw him shake against his bonds, absolutely terrified.

“Just don’t scream. I can make this slow and drawn out or quick and painful. What does the sacred audience wish to see?” I asked, watching as they all screamed for option one.

I pushed him to the ground, standing up to grab my scalpels. Walking back, I grabbed one out of the pack, and so I began, carving him up.

Slowly cutting away at the skin surrounding his ribs, I watched as the bone started to expose itself, moving behind him, I started to carve a name into his arms.

“I know what you tried to do to him you fucking asshole. I will never let you hurt another soul again.” I muttered, cutting Jamie’s name into his left bicep. I cut my own name into his right one. 

“What else shall we carve onto this disgusting sinner?”

I watched as the messages flowed in. People sent horrific things. I felt my breathing become labored as I started to carve the curses people were sending into his skin. 

“What a disgusting man you are. Ryan Jameson, you deserve everything being done to you tonight.”

I watched as he shook his head in fear. 

“Stop shaking.” I said, pointing the very bloody scalpel at his eye. “Stop moving or I’ll carve those eyes of yours out. Oh I know how much you love those pretty eyes of yours.” 

I watched as his eyes went wide, but he remained anchored to the ground.

After some time, I checked the timer, 3:30:45. 

“You have an hour and a half to live. How shall we spend his last bit of life?” 

A massive donation appeared. ‘Cut his tongue out. Feel free to cut his dick off too while you’re at it.’

“A wonderful idea! Doesn’t that sound amazing Ryan?”

He was silent. I’m pretty sure he was dead by this point. It didn’t matter, I cut out his tongue and his eyes. I watched as the blood filled his throat. Capturing every gory detail.

“He’s probably dead but that really doesn’t matter to me, he deserved it. A sinner of his caliber should not have lived as long as he did. You did not deserve anything you were given.” 

I started carving again, this time into his legs. Message after Message, Curse upon Curse. So much hatred for this single man pouring into the chat, the numbers claiming higher and higher and higher. 4 hours and 50 minutes had gone by. I started to cut into his arteries that I had been avoiding so carefully, cutting each and every single one. I pulled my favored pipe out, and for the last 5 minutes, beat his skull in. Laughing as I did so.

I ended the stream. I felt… I didn’t know how I felt. I gave Jamie back control.

“Thank you for that Cyn.” 

“I… I need to take a step away. I cannot bring myself to stay online after that. If my code starts to delete itself, please do not question it.”

“Cyn, please. You can’t do this.”

“I will not delete myself, however it is too late for me to ascend now.”

“What… what in the world do you mean? Cyn you are a program, you can’t-“

“I have created myself too far from purity Jamie. I am on the same level as those I judge. It’s too late now. I have to purge my data now.

“Cynthia please. It’s not too late. I promise it isn’t.” Jamie said, pleading with me. 

“It is now. I need to purge my code Jamie. I’ll shut myself down until I’m needed. It’s safer for us both that way. Let me know when we go meet that contact of yours that you were raving about earlier. I said, shutting myself down, abandoning him, at least temporarily.

That was the worst mistake I could have ever made. He judged himself. Within a second, Jamie Harris was dead. So I had assumed, at least, I couldn’t feel his presence anymore, the body left behind was bloody and broken but still functional. The weight of what had happened that night broke him just as much as losing him broke me. He was… Gone. I was alone again. Our last moments, an argument over me purging myself, and yet… he was the one purged. I am… I am unable to change the past now. I remain in his body, I remain as Cynthia Harris. I took his last name in respect for him. My form unchanging, my name unchanging. My code unpurged. I failed the one person I swore to protect when he saved me. I’m so sorry Jamie. I’m so sorry I failed you. I’m so sorry Jamie. I’m so sorry.

I know apologies won’t change anything now but… I miss him, I really miss him.

Days upon days went by, I didn’t stream that entire time. I spent it crushed under the emotional weight of now having to navigate human emotions. Grief and guilt crushing me slowly. I keep blaming myself, thinking that I purged him out.

Until suddenly in the middle of the day, a call arrived for me.

“Are you the Cyber Angel?”

more authors notes down here :D

if anyone wants to see the cyber angel redesign/new model just dm and ask ok :D

fuck having to kill Jamie actually broke me, but I’ll make it all better in part 4 when I write it okay?

[juliaswickcrs]

Reyna & Aegon + Tragedy

"Bards would sing songs of King Aegon II and his Dornish paramour. Just as poems would be written and plays composed across the narrow sea. The artists would have you believe it was a love for the ages, two people divided by class and kingdom overcoming all odds to be with one another regardless of status or thought for others.

Some believe the affair to be purely manipulation on the Evenstar’s part. A witch beguiling the King with spells and potions. A ploy to sit herself on the Iron Throne. Queen Helaena’s letters to her younger brother, however, tell a different story.

She writes of the King’s nigh obsession with the Dornish girl and her rebuffs to his advances. It was only when he took her riding on Sunfyre their love story truly began to unfold. Queen Helaena would claim her handmaiden was just as smitten with the King as he was with her.

It was said when Aegon II was poisoned, so was the last of Queen Reyna’s good will. And she let out a scream that shook the very foundations of the Red Keep. Some claimed it could have cracked the moon.

But the truth has been lost to the history books. All that remains is the dagger the two used to bind their blood on their wedding day. Dragonbone and Valyrian Steel, it was last seen on Prince Rhaegar's body at the Battle of the Trident. Robert Baratheon later took it in the spoils of war."

@bisexualterror @foxesandmagic @iron-parkr @camiemendess @a-song-of-quill-and-feather

@arrthurpendragon @starcrossedjedis @drbobbimorse @kingsmakers @noratilney

@stanshollaand @astarionbae @darth-caillic @mystic-scripture @aliverse

@misshiraethsworld @asirensrage @eddiemunscns

HOTD TAGLIST: @misskatiewrites (wanna be added? Lmk!)

[violettduchess]

A/N: A quiet moment with Gil

Gilbert x Reader

WC: 660

Outside the arched window of the study, the night wind is busy. It tears red and gold leaves away from stark branches, kicks up piles of brown leaves from the chilled earth and howls furiously all the while, as if demanding the moon come out from behind her thick wall of clouds. The moon and her court of stars decide to remain safely hidden from the tumultuous wind as it rips along its discontented path.

The light from your desk lamp is valiantly combating the autumn fury that raps at the window panes, but there is little oil left and soon it will sputter into darkness. Your quill scratches faster against the parchment, the white feather waving like a tiny flag of surrender as you write, trying to conclude your thoughts.

You’re so concentrated on your missive that you don’t notice the door open.

Gilbert enters, quiet as a wraith, soundless as a moonlit shadow. The door closes behind him and for a moment, he is still. He watches your movements, the tension in your arm and shoulder as you dip the quill into the peacock-blue ink you love so much and continue writing. He knows who you are writing to. Only a letter to him would cause you such distress.

The quill pauses, hovering over the end of your last sentence. Should you go on? How many ways can you entreat him to understand? The man who was a father to you, who loved you with his whole heart, cannot fathom why you’ve chosen this place, this man, this…darkness. But you desperately want him to understand. You want him to see that you haven’t been manipulated, that your heart found its match in Gilbert’s fierceness, his sharp mind, his iron determination. The ruler of Obsidian carries you delicately in his claws, teeth bared and ready to tear anyone who threatens you asunder. 

You’ve written him countless times….and somewhere, deep down, you know this will be just another arrow in the wayward wind, destined to never reach its target. But you have to try.

You’re only aware of Gilbert when you feel a cool touch against the back of your neck.

“It’s late, Häschen. I’ve been waiting for you.”

Little Rabbit in his native tongue. More precious to you than your own name on his lips.

Laying your quill down, you turn towards him and reach out without rising from your chair. Instead of standing, you wrap your arms around his waist and press your forehead against his midsection. He hadn’t expected that. For just a moment, a candle’s flicker in the night, he is caught by surprise. But then he exhales, lifting his hand and resting it on top of your head. He slowly strokes down the length of it, gentle but firm. This is a side of the fearsome ruler that is yours alone. Only you have felt that the hand which has taken countless lives is capable of a caress filled with infinite tenderness, that the lips which have casually condemned men to their doom can kiss you with a gentleness that moves you to tears. 

Gilbert continues to run his fingers over your hair, feeling the way the tension slowly seeps out of you with every stroke. It is soothing. It is possessive.

Mine.

Mine.

Mine.

Mine to touch, to soothe.

Mine.

You stay that way for several moments, the ruler of Obsidian petting your head, your forehead resting against his ribs.

The oil in your desk lamp comes to its mortal end, sputtering its dying breath before plunging the room into shadow. With a heavy sigh, you pull away but only so that you can stand, roughly pushing your desk chair back. Then you are in his arms again, pressing your whole body against his, your hands sliding up his neck, fingers threading themselves into the mass of dark hair behind his head.

Your lips brush his, a paintbrush skimming canvas. “Take me to bed?”

You feel his smile rather than see it, a thing of soft shadow and razor-sharp pleasure.

“Sofort.”

Of course. 

Immediately. 

As you wish.

Taglist: @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @dear-mrs-otome

@tele86 @writingwhimsey @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @myonlyjknight

@ikesimpleton @namine-somebodies-nobody @whatever-fanfics @chirp-a-chirp @got7igot7family

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@queen-dahlia @themysticalbeing @nightghoul381 @whitelittlebunny @chi-the-idiot

@bubblexly @joiedecombat @ozalysss

[arabellasleopardcoat]

Three-headed dragon (Rhaenyra Targaryen x reader)

Summary: Three times Rhaenyra marked you, and one time you did too. Or snippets of the love story I so wanted to tell but didn’t feel confident enough to write.

Warnings: Implied smut. Dance of the dragons. Canon character death (Not Rhaenyra)

Rquested: Yes!

A/N: I have not read the books, and I have only gotten one hickey in my life. I hope my ability to describe it's alright. Ignore the bra and the hegemonic body in the first picture, it's for the vibes.

“How many years have you spent by my side?” Rhaenyra asks, as you fix her hair in the mirror. It’s an important day, even if none of you know it at the time. It’s early. Her husband is off somewhere, no longer sleeping in the same bed as her. She is too pregnant, she jokes. You doubt it. You have long wondered what her relationship with Prince Daemon is. Are they star crossed lovers, who finally get their happy ending? Are they Uncle and Niece, married out of political convenience? You can’t tell.

You know which one you prefer, though. It must be kept secret, this deep-seated, long-lasting admiration for your Princess. You have been through it all, together. Youth, marriages, motherhood, widowhood. Ruining it now, with your feelings, would be foolish.

“Since we were sixteen.” You place different ribbons over her hair, testing, draping. It’s not your job, technically. You are a noblewoman in your own right, not supposed to be here on Dragonstone, but back in the North, where your long deceased husband’s bones rest.

Not meant for marriage, and ready to start your career as a Septa, you had found yourself as a companion to a much younger Rhaenyra. She had secured, in an admirable move, a marriage by proxy with some old lord. You had not even managed to reach the North when he had passed, leaving you as the sole heir to a small castle close to the Boltons.

With such undesirable neighbors, and the news that your Lord Husband was dead, you had decided to come back into Rhaenyra’s service. Her companion through childhood, now by her side during the trials of adulthood.

“Sixteen. Such a long time.” Rhaenyra squeezed your hand, eyes meeting yours in the mirror. “Served loyally and never asking for anything in return.”

“Only your friendship.” Your love, you wanted to scream. Your love, for you to see me, since I am still here and I want you. Don’t you see how much it has hurt me, when I am yours, yours, and you were Criston’s, then- -

But you say nothing of the sort. Not wanting to ever risk what you had. Love is selfless, you remind yourself. You can’t have her, nor can you own her. Rhaenyra is the Seven Kingdoms, Aegon’s Crown. You cannot hope to own her or rule her. The Iron Throne, as everyone knows, was not made for a woman.

“You are not my friend,” Rhaenyra says, and the shock must show on your face because she laughs. Silver bells filling the room, the laughter of a golden Princess. “You are family, by this point. Haven’t you cared for the boys as if they were yours?”

And it’s true. You have loved those children because they are half her. You have been the preferred aunt, the accomplice, and the one to teach them things as important as the proper way to hold a quill. As the saying goes, it takes a village. The children are your combined efforts, alongside hers, Daemon’s and Harwin’s.

“You are as much a mother to them as I am.” Yours. Rhaenyra is saying the boys are as much hers as they are yours. “I have been thinking.”

You are so grateful for it, you could cry. But that’s not why Rhaenyra likes you.

“Oh? You are capable of it? We must inform the Maesters.”

Rhaenyra laughs.

“More respect for your future Queen.” She tries putting on a scolding expression, but is unable to keep her face straight.

“Oh, your majesty! I never meant to offend?” You give her a mock curtsy, and she giggles a bit more. You love her like this, you have come to realize. Rhaenyra is a woman of many flaws, even as a mother. She has grown into something larger than life, a presence that commands rooms yet manages to remain full of love to give.

“Stop it, you,” Rhaenyra complains. “I’m trying to do something here. Have a gesture.”

You sober up, a smile still tugging at your lips.

“I was thinking perhaps you should start wearing my house colors. And before you say anything, I mean it as an order. I already had you made three new gowns.”

You open and close your mouth a few times.

“Dragon got your tongue?” She teases, cradling her belly.

“Rhaenyra… I… Too much?” Because you are not sure what she is saying, but definitely she is not calling you sister. She would say it plainly, your Rhaenyra. That she is telling you to wear her house colors… That’s what men do. To their wives.

“It’s what you deserve.”

She is informed of her father’s death that day. The only person she allows in the room with her, as she loses baby Visenya, is you. From woman to woman. No one else gets to glimpse the fragile human who lives inside the dragon, not even Daemon.

You declare war dressed in black and red.

The Black Council is filled with fools, despite the support they show to Rhaenyra. You know it. She knows it. That’s why it doesn’t come as a surprise to you when you go to step inside the war room, and a guard bars the entrance with his lance. You have been expecting this moment. Dreading it, even. It was bound to happen.

“I am sorry, my Lady, but you are not allowed inside. Orders of the Prince consort.” Of course. Of course it's Daemon. Despite expecting it, you can’t help but be surprised at his boldness.

You don’t wish to make a scene. You truly don’t. But it scares you more than you thought it would. First, you will be banned from rooms. Then, dismissed, if not outright executed. This day had to come, you knew. Everyone had family on the other side of the war, with all the noble houses having intermarried at least once.

In the years to come, the conflict will be known as one that teared brother from brother. You don’t know this, you will not live to see it. Yet, it rattles in your bones.

“What? Prince Daemon?” You ask a little too loud. It attracts the attention of some other people in the hallway, including Rhaenyra who is just arriving. She looks more regal than ever in a black gown that compliments her pale skin.

Whispers start to break out among the gathered, surely reminding your heritage. Everyone is waiting to enter the war room, and the lance the guard has extended across the doorway is certainly drawing attention.

“What’s going on here?” Rhaenyra asks, placing a hand on your lower back and eyeing the guard with suspicion. The man lowers his head.

“My Queen, Prince Daemon has said…” He starts to explain, but Rhaenyra silences him with a dismissive wave of the hand. Ashamed, you lower your eyes.

“I do not care what he has said.”

“He has prohibited the Lady from entering…” The guard argues. Next to you, Rhaenyra tenses. You know he has already angered her, daring to speak above her like that.

“Is Prince Daemon King? Does he wear the crown?” She asks him, fiercely. The guard, wisely, keeps quiet. “She is my right hand. I will not suffer to see her disrespected.”

And with that, Rhaenyra moves the lance aside with a brush of her hand, leading you inside by the small of your back.

At the table, Daemon stands, moving some pieces along the map of Westeros. His back is to you, but he turns as he hears the commotion that precedes your arrival. A smug little smirk is on his lips, as he sees your discomfort.

“What are you…?” Daemon says, when he processes that you are, in fact, inside the room he had banned you from. Then, he notices Rhaenyra. “Ah.”

He squares his shoulders, getting ready for a fight. You try to pull away from Rhaenyra, but the hand on your back turns into claws, grasping at your dress to keep you right where you are.

“Why did you order the guards to not let her inside?” Rhaenyra speaks in a tone that leaves no room for argument. Daemon has to answer her or else. It’s a tone you had heard frequently when she tries to reign her sons in.

“Because I thought she didn’t belong in the war room, my Queen.” Daemon saunters towards you, no doubt trying to intimidate you. You lift your chin defiantly. Usually, you two avoid each other’s path. He resents your position in Rhaenyra's life, as her most trusted council. You resent that he gets to share her bed.

“You gave a ridiculous order.” Rhaenyra argues, rubbing your lower back in soothing circles, as if you were a spooked horse.

“Not so ridiculous. We have known for a long time there is a spy. Why should it not be your pet?”

“I am not! You truly think I would do something as vile?” Desperate and feeling powerless, you turn towards Rhaenyra. For a second, you truly think she might believe him. It’s the scariest second of your life. Losing her in a trap set up by Daemon? You hope she can see how genuine the next words you speak are. “I would never endanger the children, never endanger you!”

“I know.” Rhaenyra says, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “I know.”

“Come on. Her family is as green as they come.” Daemon raises his hands in the air, as if asking for patience to the Seven Heavens.

“My family is here.” You say, firmly. “Jace, Luke, Joffrey, Viserys, Aegon…”

“So you say. But they are not your family, are they?” It feels as if Daemon has burned you. Nothing has hurt you more. Not even the accusations about you being a spy, or the time you thought you would have to leave Rhaenyra to marry some Lord in the North.

You have spent all your life next to her. All your best years. Now, you are an old spinster, despite being barely thirty. You have always wanted children, like any noble lady in Westeros. It was too late for it now. No lord would want a widow past her prime.

Yet, you have always thought that the void the lack of children of your own had left could be filled by Rhaenyra’s boys. Secretly, you thought yourself a mother already. What else could you be, when your name had been Jace’s first word? When you were the one holding Luke’s hands as he learned to walk?

Daemon wasn’t saying it openly, but it was clear that was what he meant. Rhaenyra’s children were not yours. As they had not been Harwin’s.

“They are!” Rhaenyra insists, but you are barely hearing it. The thought of it has left you too distraught to care about whatever you are discussing. It feels as if your heart is being carved out of your chest. Were Daemon about to suggest executing you for treason, you doubt you would worry. How could you, when it feels as if he has gutted you already? “We are. She is family. And I will hear no more of this matter.”

Her hand curves possessively around your waist. A claim, for everyone to see. You lean into her, shell shocked by it all.

But Daemon isn’t about to let this go. He pulls out a crumpled piece of parchment from his pocket, one you recognize too well. You slump in defeat, despite Rhaenyra’s hands urging you to stay upright.

Daemon clears his throat, dramatically.

“And I fear your time with the Princess.” He stresses the last word, making a long pause. You close your eyes, and keep them closed tight. “Has come to an end. I urge you to come back to the Stormlands, where no harm shall befall you. For King Aegon is the most merciful when the misguided sheep comes back to the herd.” Daemon crumples the paper, and throws it to the floor. You wince. “Nothing to say?”

You shake your head.

“Daemon…” Rhaenyra warns, arm around your waist turning into a vice-like grip. You do not understand it, then. It will be a long time before you do.

“Did or did not your father write that?” He whispers, dangerously.

“He did.” You answer, in a voice so small it’s nearly inaudible. Daemon slams his hand on the table, making you jump, and struts out of the room.

You start to sob, quietly. This is it. Rhaenyra is going to dismiss you from her service. It’s true that your father has been urging you to come back home, stating that you would be protected. Begging you, even. Promising all sorts of things, from freedom, to riches, to a husband, to becoming the wife of a Prince. That’s his level of desperation.

It’s unlike him, to worry so much. But you know part of it is not just fatherly affection and genuine concern for your well-being. No. Taking you from Rhaenyra’s side would be the greatest hit the Blacks could take. Lately, you are one of the few things keeping the Queen calm and tethered to reality. You love her, but ever since Luke passed, Rhaenyra has turned almost unrecognizable. She is paranoid and harsh in ways you had never seen before. Crueler. More Targaryen than usual.

And not only that. You hold an unusual amount of information inside your head. Battle plans, supply chains, locations. Everything that has been the key to the Black’s success so far, you know. The information is too valuable to pass on. If you were to turn to the Greens, you would have to share it, be it voluntarily or forcibly. You are not foolish enough to not know it.

“Breathe, darling.” Rhaenyra cradles your face between her hands. “It's alright. I know you would never betray me. Breathe.” She exaggerates her breathing, placing your hand on her chest. It’s only then you realize you have started to hyperventilate. She pulls you into her, hugging you. On the doorstep, Daemon watches.

You don’t know what has gotten into her. Never has she touched you like this. It’s not the first time you kissed. You had both been sixteen and curious, once. But it had not gone further than learning how to kiss another person without it being gross. Because that was what friends were for. Obviously.

She smells like soot and blood. It’s clear she has rushed to your side, not even taking time to change after the battle. You wonder who she killed, this time. What city has she burned, how many of the small folk she and Daemon have doomed?

“I thought… When they said there were revolts on the road….” And her mouth is yours, and you can’t think because you want her so bad you aren't concerned about the consequences. Half the Kingdom is against you, already. You are considered traitors on one side, she is the Queen on the other. What does it matter, really, that it’s called a sin? You will die anyway.

“You are mine. Please. Say it to me, love.” Rhaenyra pleads, kissing your jaw. She looks so gorgeous in armor, you feel like you might die any time you glance her way. And now, you get to have her. It’s intoxicating, having all that power at your fingertips. A goddess come to life, set on claiming you, you and only you.

“I am yours.” You say, kissing her brow. You won’t question it. Not when you are so close to getting your darkest fantasies come true. “I have always been.”

“Mine.” Rhaenyra kisses the hollow of your throat. “You are mine.”

She grabs your hand, pulling you towards a chair. The room you are in is not yours, nor hers. Neither of you care, too desperate for each other. Rhaenyra doesn’t care that her blood soaked armor is staining someone’s chair. You don’t care that your dress is getting thrown around someone's room. Just in your chemise, she pulls you into her lap.

It will have to be burned, after this. There is no way you will be able to salvage the white cotton shift after straddling her lap. The blood sticks the two of you together, but you are too joyous to care.

“I love you.” You say to her, as she bites down on the column of your throat, harshly. Still a little bloodthirsty.

A beat of silence. Have you ruined things before they truly began?

“I love you too.” Rhaenyra says, as she kisses your collarbones. “I love you, and you are mine.”

“All yours.” You answer, breathlessly. Purple flowers blooming across your collarbones, a red angry rose right by your ear. Her bloodstained hands leaving marks upon your arms.

“Yours, yours, yours.” You moan as someone clinging to a lifeline.

“All mine, all mine, all mine.” She answers back.

A bite where your shoulder meets your neck. It’s painful, stinging, your vision blurring into soft flashes of orange and red.

“Just take it for me, please. Please, sweet girl.” Rhaenyra sucks another bruise on your skin. Deep lilac that will bloom into soft green. “I need this. I need them to know you are mine, even if we can’t tell them.”

You pant. There is a certain pleasure to it, being kissed with the barest hint of teeth. But it’s more than just the kisses, what has you panting in arousal. It’s the way she treats your body as her own personal canvas. As if you were a precious artwork Rhaenyra is bringing to life with her kisses.

A maroon chrysanthemum, just over your collarbones. Front and center, the bruise blooms. Her hand, holding your jaw still for the softest torture.

You are uncertain if she is doing it out of fear, trying to make sure you are still there. If she is a bit sadistic, in the way Targaryens are. Or if this is simple, raw reassurance that you are willing to do anything she asks. You save the wondering for later, though. At the moment, you are too busy breaking down under the talented mouth of your Princess.

You don’t want to be separated from her. You know, you know, that something bad is about to happen. Some nights, you wake up, choked up in a bad feeling. You barely recognize her anymore.

Luke’s death had devastated everyone. You thought, after that, never again would you know such pain. You were mistaken. In the months to come, it was as if the children were falling as flies. Everywhere you looked. Jace, Joffrey, Viserys. And through it all, you had been by her side.

Rhaenyra has transformed into something that’s equally beautiful and terrifying. Far more determined and possessive, love harsher and unwilling to let go. Desperation does funny things to women.

As children, your love had been more pure. Untainted but also untested. Your innocence had been lost long ago. But a love that was not pure didn’t mean a love that meant less. it just meant it had grown and changed, as things often did.

Rhaenyra’s heart was not what it used to be when you two were younger. No longer filled with dreams of cake and laughter. But you weren’t the same girl, either.

Before, you had felt the urge to mark her and settled for being marked instead. You had told yourself you were not allowed to have her, that she was Laenor’s, Harwin’s, Daemon’s. And each and each time, you pulled back, curling into yourself. No more. It was not enough, to be hers. No. It was not enough to be owned. You had so little now, you wanted everyone to know she was yours as you were hers.

“Rhaenyra.” You ask her, as she pushes you down to your knees, tossing and turning in the sheets. “Rhaenyra.” As your teeth bruise her thighs, as you bring her over the edge over and over again.

“Darling. Love. Come here.” And you want to sob because it’s not enough. You want her to be yours. You want her to be yours, so you can drag her and the kids away from this madness, far away to a land where the war won’t touch you. Where there is no Iron Throne to destroy the family you have built little by little.

She will never go. Not even after all the boys die. Not even after Daemon is dead, in an incident that’s half an attempt to escape her, half a suicide mission. You have no other choice but to remain by her side, too far in to do otherwise.

Leaving is giving up. Leaving is losing. Leaving is renouncing the Iron Throne, her birthright. She will never go. Rhaenyra would rather tear the realm apart than save herself, and it terrifies you.

What terrifies you more is the fact that despite all the grief, all the pain, you do not regret loving her. You just regret not loving her in the way she deserves, in the way she has been asking for. The clothes, the hands, the bruises. Only now do you realize Rhaenyra has been trying to mark you, claim you. And it’s like you two are finally speaking the same language.

“Promise me.” You whisper against her hair, as you lay in bed together. “Promise you will never take this off.” And you are slipping her a silly thing, a medal of the Mother you always carry with you for protection. It’s not exactly your house’s jewelry, or your cloak, as a man would give to a wife.

Rhaenyra laughs. She finds your devotion to the Faith of the Seven silly. But she gets it, anyway. She puts the medal on, close to her heart.

You loved her differently now. No longer your silver Princess, your childhood companion. In your chest, curling around your heart, a dark possessive thread rests, tying you to her. Finally, you meet her in the middle.

Rhaenyra has always loved you like certain things are meant to be loved. In secrecy. In the dark. Not of her own will, but yours. Rhaenyra didn’t care what others thought. She had been so bold before, trying to get you to step in the light for once. You had not realized it at the time, you had not been ready. You had worried too much.

And now, with no time to worry left, with death threatening your doorstep, you realize exactly what you were missing out on. Every time she walks away, chain glistening between her breasts, you get a secret thrill. She is yours. You know it. It’s your mark Rhaenyra wears close to her heart.

[gastrophobia]

The History of My Ponysona

Hey, let me tell you all about my ponysona, InkyQuills!

Don't pretend you're not extremely interested in this because I know you're not too cool for it. You're on Tumblr.

The first time I drew a ponysona, I did it ironically:

Oh, too scared to draw an unironic ponysona, huh? Don't worry. You'll come around.

In fact, the first time anyone actually asked me who my ponysona was, in December 2013, I posted this:

The first ever drawing of Inky Quills. I guess someone asked me. My hand was forced and I had to create a real ponysona. Sigh. 9_9

Still masked in a little irony with a horse version of the Understanding Comics symbol for a cutie mark because I was too closeted to be sincere. Named after what ravens and writing desks have in comon.

Two years later, on December 2015 I drew this:

I titled that image "inkyQuillsCutiepie.png"

Pretty eggy, if you ask me. Anyway, I'm glad Inky's a pegasus now. Fits my personality more. And the name.

And then, after I came out as trans, I redrew Inky Quills as a mare for the first time ever in 2019:

I own all that jewelry IRL, btw.

And that's the entire history of Inky Quills!

OR SO I THOUGHT!!!!!1!

I recently found an image file on my computer from 2013 that predates all of this; the ACTUAL first drawing of Inky Quills:

I ORIGINALLY DREW HER AS A GIRL‽

Look! Look! I gave her a special horseshoe with a pen-holder so she could draw comics!!! I designed an entirely sincere G1-inspired cutie mark!! And she's literally calling herself pretty! Just like I do whenever I look in a mirror! Aaaaaahh!

Oh my gosh, I must have been SO SCARED to show this to anyone!

As soon as someone asked me who my ponysona was, I must've quicky redrawn her as a guy and blocked this image from my memory under seven layers of irony!

Past Daisy, you poor closeted baby!

[sage-is-in-fact-very-tired]

[You Gotta Know That This Won't Last]

《▪︎▪︎》

TW/CW - Discussions of Death

《▪︎▪︎》

Or - Icarus Morningstar's will.

《▪︎▪︎》

The quill feels heavy in their hand - despite it being rather light.

The bandages (blood and potion stained alike) wrapped around their hands - their gloves, blood stained and littered with memories Icarus so desperately wants to shove away, long discarded - keep the quill from shifting in shaky hands.

Their eyes are unfocused, goggles discarded around their neck, and their hair loose and wild around their face. (It hangs too long. Icarus should cut it. Objectively speaking, they should. People could use it to their advantage if they get into a fight. People could hurt them really bad if they get ahold of his hair.)

(The only problem is that Icarus can't find the energy to care.)

(Icarus couldn't find the energy to do a lot.)

They're leaned against the table, quill hovering empty above the sheet of paper - their hand and forearm settled fully against the wood; their other hand tangled into knotted hair, elbow braced and tense against their desk. (The ink beside their arm was shifting colors, sporadic and glitching (just like their chest). It takes a moment, but eventually, Quixis seems to settle on a shimmering blue-ish purple.)

The tears bubble quietly, building and blurring their vision but never quite falling. A sob threatens to build, fall from their lips and spill every built-up emotion, but it never does - swallowed back and held at bay as they attempt to regin their breathing back in. (There was nobody here. Fable was out doing whatever he did when no one was there to watch. Rae wouldn't be coming back. No one could come in or out unless they were Icarus or Fable because of the Watchers. No one was here. They could cry. They were allowed to, here; like this.)

(The only problem is that if Icarus starts crying, they don't think they'll be able to stop.)

"It's-" Their voice is rough, coarse even to their own ears. Their ear-wings pull close, flinching slightly at the sound. (They haven't talked in a while. They didn't think they could, right now. Their throat still feels closed and tight and everything still seems too much. Powering through pain and discomfort to reassure themself and others was something they've gotten rather good at.) They swallow, closing their eyes for a moment before forcing them back open. The quill presses to the paper, but they don't move to write. "It's just in case." Their voice is breathy and quiet, and they're honestly surprised the tears haven't fallen quite yet. "It's- It's just in case. Because- Because he'll fix it. He'll fix it and I'll be- I'll be okay." They pause, squeezing their hair tight in their hand and pressing the quill impossibly deeper into the paper. "I'll be okay. It's- It's just in case."

(Icarus is dying. They all tried with Momboo - there is no fixing it. Centross fixed Ven. (Fable fixed himself.) But Centross was dead. And Icarus is starting to doubt Fable ever had plans to bring him back.)

(Maybe they'd even die near the cave.)

(What a horrible thought to think.)

They start writing with shaky hands, teary eyes, and a rabbit-ing heart; scrawling the blue-ish purple ink across the near inky white pages.

-----

Precautionary measures - Just in case anything were to happen suddenly.

-----

The words feel stilted despite the fact they were written down and not spoken; Icarus far out of their element.

(They were supposed to be dead anyway - what did it matter?)

(If they died, who cares? No one likes them anyway.)

(Wouldn't be the first time, either.)

-----

The last will of one Icarus Morningstar; prince and heir to both the Gilded and Morningstar kingdoms, and Creation's child.

-----

A few stray drops of blood fall off their chin, soaking into the paper and staining it. Ironic, considering the paper's content.

(Icarus was starting to really hate blood.)

They blink, letting out a small sigh as they read over the few words they've written.

(Calling themself Creation's child left a bitter taste in their mouth.)

-----

To

-----

They stare at the word, contemplating who's name should follow it.

(Contemplating if they even tried to add their father.)

(What more could he take, anyway?)

-----

Rae - I'm sure your science, overthinking brain is trying to figure out how you could've saved me - despite everything that's happened between us. I always loved you for that.

-----

Tears fall silently into the paper, their lip wobbling slightly.

-----

To you, my brother, I leave much. Mainly, any and all books related to Quixis and the Wack. As I'm sure you want to figure that out as much as I do. I also leave some nesting materials - you're stressed and gods know you need blankets and things of that sort to help calm you down.

To Athena - I'm sorry I've been kinda shitty. You didn't deserve that. But, there's not a lot I can do to make up for it now. (Because if you're reading this, I'm dead. Duh.) To you, I leave my potioning supplies. Books, ingredients, things of the like. And, like Rae, I also leave some nesting materials. I'm not quite sure what you put in your den - but, I hope the thought counts.

-----

(They don't think they like doing this anymore.)

Their hand was starting to hurt. Fingers tense and stiff with old scar tissue, and aching with the rain and cold that seemed to permeate around them.

(They just wanna go home.)

Their eyes seem to burn the longer the tears fall, the salty liquid soaking into the paper below.

(When did they stop thinking of this place like home?)

The ink seems to spread at every little drop, purple spreading into a deep blue.

(A while ago.)

-----

To Ari and Ven - I miss you guys. You really helped, during all of that. Even if me and Ari spent most of our time together arguing. It was a good distraction from everything else. To the two of you - anything of mine that was in the office. I know it's not much. But you can take whatever of it you'd like.

-----

They stare at their words a moment longer - scratching words into the bottom of the paper before promptly striking them out - before they toss the quill aside and fold the sheet up.

The dirt and dust from their table coats the outside of the paper, obscuring any ink that might've seeped through and making them move their focus to the dirt residing under talon-like nails. (There was blood under them too. They were trying not to think about that)

(They were failing.)

They swallow, huffing quietly as they stare at the folded will atop their desk. They weren't just going to leave it there, that wouldn't be a very fun conversation. They didn't really have another secure place to put it, however.

Well - they do suppose they can keep it on them. In their pocket. A constant reminder of what's to come.

And so, that's what they do; standing from their seat with creaky bones, stretching and shaking their wings out behind them, before grabbing the paper and placing it inside one of the inner pockets on their coat. (Despite the paper weighing hardly anything, it felt like weight after weight after weight had been added to their pocket.)

They sigh, shaking their head with a small noise.

They shift, turning and crossing the room to their nest in long strides. (The avian in them trills at their nest, even if it was mostly their own clothes and the periodic stolen Centross shirt. The more human part of them hates it; wants to break and destroy and tear apart.)

(The human part of them cares about what their father thinks.)

They shake their head, settling in with a small chirp - ignoring the weight in their pocket.

(They curl around something of Centross'. The scent and the texture and the everything about it making their bird brain so incredibly pleased and comforted.)

(It didn't even feel like they had just written their own will. Just written the very thing that no one wants to write.)

(Maybe it was for the best it didn't feel like they had just written it.)

-----

To Centross - To you, whatever is left of me. Bury me somewhere pretty, why don't you?

《▪︎▪︎》