#Ashens chapter 5 | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

thedreamlessnights · 10 months

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Accismus - pt. 5

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Geralt of Rivia x gn!reader (Eventual NSFW)

Synopsis: You meet Yennefer and Ciri, learn more about the location of a djinn, and have a painful realization.

Warnings: Brief descriptions of plague/sickness, fire, blood, and being choked (not sexually).

Word Count: 8.4k

A/N: Hello everyone! Thank you all so much for your patience as I got this chapter out. It was a rough one while I figured out everyone's dialogues and characterization, but I think I got it in the end. Thank you all SO much for the beautiful response I've gotten for this fic, from art to comments to asks, it's kept me so inspired and excited to get this out to you. Without further ado - enjoy!

The word danger has many a meaning to you.

All your life, you’ve known danger, and all your life, the danger has been different. When you were little, it was the wolves howling in the forest outside your door. Tales of plague maidens, thirsty for blood. Bedtime stories of whispering spirits locked away in trees, and evil women that ate up children like treats.

As you grew, so did the number of dangers; growing with you, their shapes ever-changing. Danger began to mean plague, bandits, and war. Adult words that came with painful memories. A woman shivering with fever, her face crimson and splotchy, breaths coming strained and painful. Fire, red-hot, eating away little by little, and black smoke that smothered the senses, blinding and burning and choking the lungs. A pair of ice-cold, bleeding hands that gripped your neck. Tight enough to bruise. Tight enough to kill.

All of those dangers have brought you fear, and never anything else. But today, you find that is not the case. This danger chills you to the bone, carries the scent of lilac and gooseberries, and she fascinates you just as much as she frightens you. The type of danger you simply can’t seem to look away from, no matter how you try - the way a lightning bolt is paralyzingly beautiful as it strikes the earth.

And so, seeing as you’re in danger, your brain does what it does best. It turns to one of its three engrained paths of action. Fight or flight, of course. Or freeze. The first two are more well-known, because they’re actually helpful. Better to take on the danger, or get yourself away from it as quickly as possible.

Freezing only happens when the brain realizes it can neither fight nor flee. Essentially, when, for lack of a better (and less crude) term, you’re shit out of luck. And, staring up at the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen, knowing that she was Geralt’s lover? Knowing that in about two minutes, this woman is going to hate you?

You are shit out of luck.

As she approaches the table, Yennefer shakes her glossy, dark curls over her shoulder and observes the scene. She says nothing, but her shimmering, intelligent eyes speak volumes as she scans over the lot of you. Her gaze contains warmth for some and ice for others. A mixture of the two for Geralt.

When it lands on you, it bears nothing but a silent, curious question. A question that wants to know who you are. Well, you think to yourself. If I knew how to answer that, Geralt and I wouldn’t be here.

Following behind her is the ashen-haired girl - Ciri. You know it must be her. She’s carrying two swords on her back, and even resembles Geralt, with their white hair and matching scars. But she and Yennefer share a similar elegance in their stride, a silent authority. An authority which melts away when she takes two steps in, sees Geralt standing next to where you’re sitting, and leaps straight into his arms.

“Geralt!” she exclaims, clinging to his shoulders and laughing as he spins her around. “You’ve no idea how I’ve missed you!”

“Think I have a clue, actually,” he says, setting her back onto the floor. He’s smiling, and not the muted smile he usually gives, but a wide one with white teeth and a flash of sharp canines, gaze warm and so very fond as he watches her. Geralt, truly happy… is this the first time you’re seeing it?

“Ciri!” Dandelion exclaims, jumping to his feet. You really shouldn’t be surprised that the two of them know each other. “How are you? It’s been too long!”

As Ciri greets Dandelion, Priscilla and Zoltan - clearly friends of hers, too - Yennefer lingers toward the doorway. Geralt’s gaze fixes on her, and when she raises a brow, he smiles.

“Hey, Yen,” he greets, leaning back against the table. The words are more casual than you’d have imagined them to be. You’d expected stiffness. It’s not there.

“Geralt,” Yennefer replies. The ghost of a smile brushes across her lips as she gazes at him, violet eyes shining in the light. “My, what a surprise. I’ve just gotten information that claims you’re in Skellige.”

Geralt shrugs. “Had a… change of plans.”

That’s certainly one way to put it.

“Naturally,” Yennefer says. Her gaze turns toward Ciri, and something flickers over her expression for a moment before it’s shut out. You know it, though. You’ve seen enough people in agony to know the sight of pain, even just a flash of it.

“Dandelion says you were looking for me,” Geralt continues, crossing his arms over his chest. “Mentioned some kind of curse?”

“And you decided to come running to the rescue?” she muses, not bothering to expand any further. Geralt’s brows furrow, but he doesn’t press her. Instead, he follows her gaze over to Ciri, who is now carrying a bottle of spirit from Zoltan and making her over to the table.

“Let’s celebrate, shall we?” Ciri says, spurning a round of cheers. “A reunion!” Her eyes land on you, and she flashes you a bright smile. “Hello! I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Ciri!”

The room’s commotion almost drowns out her words. Dandelion is opening a bottle of wine, Priscilla is pulling up more chairs, and Zoltan is already on his second pint of Mahakaman spirit, crooning out an old drinking song. Still, she steps closer to you, holds out a hand, and you gladly shake it, introducing yourself loud enough to be heard.

“Very nice to meet you!” she says. “Are you a friend of Dandelion’s?”

You’re not sure how to answer. You’re more acquaintances. Can you even be considered Geralt’s friend? “I’m not sure,” you finally respond. “I just met him yesterday.”

“Don’t let him hear you say that,” Geralt tells you. “He’ll be hurt.”

“Who’ll be hurt?” Dandelion asks, returning to the table. His cheeks are already flushed with drink, and he plops back into his seat from earlier.

“You,” Ciri answers playfully.

“Me?” His eyes widen. “Was someone talking about me?”

Geralt jerks his head in your direction. “Just said the two of you aren’t friends.”

Traitor.

“That’s - Geralt!” you exclaim. “That’s not true!��

His shoulders shake with silent laughter, and you lightly swat at him - a movement he dodges easily, grabbing his pint and gulping it down.

“I can’t believe this!” Dandelion cries, looking wounded. “I’m being insulted in my own establishment!”

“No, no!” you exclaim quickly, sending Geralt, and now Ciri, into another round of laughter. You send a kick in Geralt’s direction (and miss again), then adamantly shake your head. “Dandelion, I swear, I only said that I wasn’t sure if we’re friends because we just met.”

“Of course we’re friends!” Dandelion says. He sets a glass of wine in front of you, flashing you a charming smile. “And, of course, you’re the subject of my new ballad.”

“Is that so?” Ciri asks dryly. “And what’s this new ballad about?”

“Nothing,” Geralt firmly interjects. “C’mon, Dandelion. Already told you-”

“Yes, I know, I know,” Dandelion says. “But say I just took inspiration-”

“As much as I hate to interrupt,” Yennefer cuts in, arms folded tightly across her chest, “I’m afraid this cannot wait any longer. Geralt, I must speak with you. Privately.”

Silence slowly falls over the room, stifling the conversation as every one of you aside from Ciri and Yennefer gradually realize the same thing.

“I, uh… can’t,” Geralt finally says.

Shitty choice of words, Geralt, you think. Every trace of warmth leaves Yennefer’s expression, and you instantly shrink down in your seat, frantically gulping at the wine Dandelion placed in front of you like it might save you from her wrath.

“You can’t,” she repeats coldly. “In that case-”

“Yen, hang on,” Geralt quickly interrupts, expression pained. “Not trying to argue. I can’t.”

Something about his tone must get to her. She exhales sharply, raises a brow, and stares at him for a long, agonizing moment. A silent communication. Then she finally gives a soft smile.

“I see.” The chill in her voice is gone, suddenly replaced by a light, teasing tone. She must have read his mind, you realize. How much did she see? Placing her hands on her hips, Yennefer fondly gazes at him, then shakes her head. “I assume you’re going to remedy this… predicament?”

“Yeah. Working on it,” Geralt replies.

The whole room relaxes as she pulls up a chair and sits next to him. “Very well,” she says. “In that case, I’ll cast a shielding incantation around the two of us so we may speak. Alone. I’m afraid the matter is urgent.”

She speaks some words you don’t understand, then raises her hands. Immediately, a shimmering blue shield surrounds the two of them - making it impossible to see them or hear what they’re saying.

Ciri, looking bewildered, stares at you. “Is… is there something I’m missing?” she asks. You let out a sigh, trying to think of what exactly to say, but there are just never enough words to properly explain.

“Wait!” Dandelion says, hiccuping. “Let me - my ballad!” He reaches behind him and pulls out a lute, and you can’t help shrinking down in your chair again. Oh, gods. Surely there’s no way he’s already written something, is there? But your question is preemptively answered when he strikes out a chord and begins to sing:

A dangerous thing is the truth of a wish

For the future we ne’er can see

And djinns have been known to twist things amiss

Tainting with mischief and cruelty.

He pauses for a moment, hiccuping again, then claps his hand against his forehead. “Oh, blast it! I just can’t figure out the next line.”

“That was… really lovely, Dandelion,” you tell him. To your surprise, you don’t have to fight to make the words sound genuine. You’d actually liked it. The melody he’d chosen is no common earworm, but a haunting, beautiful tune, bound to leave a mark on whoever hears it. When he’d mentioned a ballad, well… that wasn’t what you’d pictured. And he’s right about wishes being dangerous - maybe the story can serve as a cautionary tale, discouraging one from repeating your mistakes.

Then again, a cautionary tale requires you to talk about the things you’ve done and the consequences you’ve suffered, and you’re not quite ready to tell anyone about that, much less the whole of Novigrad. As for the current, most prevalent consequence - being trapped with Geralt… you can see it now, whispered among crowds of giggling women, flushing at the thought: who wouldn’t want to be trapped with a handsome witcher?

“Aha! I knew I’d win you over,” Dandelion says brightly, giving a little bow over his lute. “Now Geralt will have to let me write it!”

A glance in Geralt’s presumed direction shows that the bubble around him and Yennefer is as prominent as ever. You can’t help wondering what they’re talking about.

“Oh! I need the details!” Dandelion exclaims suddenly, his gaze fixing on you with bright interest. “I can hardly write a story when I don’t even know the beginning, can I?”

Reaching for the last bit of your wine, you anxiously thumb the stem of the glass and manage a weak smile. “I… I’m not sure about that. I don’t think it’ll make for a good story. Maybe you could just make something up?”

“Oh, nonsense,” Dandelion says. “I can make anything into a good story.”

“He truly can,” Priscilla chimes in. “Don’t worry at all.”

But a terrible headache is coming on. Your skull throbs, and your throat squeezes as you try to speak. “But… it’d - I mean, I’ve…” Your words trail off, but all of their eyes are now fixed on you, waiting for you to go on. Curse it all. “Awful things happened because of me,” you say flatly. “It’d ruin the story.”

With that out in the open, you finish the rest of your glass and wait for the inevitable. Only… Dandelion doesn’t look phased in the least. Neither do any of the others.

“Well, surely you haven’t been sitting here thinking we’re all saints?” he asks. “No one is perfect - that’s what makes the story engaging, relatable!”

You shake your head. “Of course I don’t think you’re saints, but-”

“And… what’ve you done that’s so terrible?” Zoltan inquires, interrupting your words. His mouth is full of some kind of cake that he’s chewing, his cheeks are pink, and he clearly doesn’t believe you’ve done anything bad at all.

You’re not in the right mind for this. The wine is making you lightheaded, your head is still pounding, and it all feels like a far off dream. “I - I killed someone,” you blurt, feeling sick to your stomach. And thirsty. Very, very thirsty.

Silence takes the table, but just for a moment. “Did you have reasoning?” Priscilla asks. “Was this person going to hurt you?” You give a single, sharp nod and swallow hard, wishing you had more wine. As if reading your mind, Dandelion pours you another glass.

“Well, then. I don’t think you’re awful,” Priscilla says.

“Nor do I,” Ciri agrees.

Stinging tears are brimming at your eyes. You fiercely blink them away. None of this makes any sense. How can they all admonish you from your guilt without even hearing the full story?

“But you don’t understand,” you protest. “It was my fault I was in that situation in the first place. And that isn’t the only awful thing, I - I’ve done other things, too.”

“Well, I’ve done many things I’m certainly not proud of,” Ciri tells you. “I think all of us have.”

You quickly wipe your eyes with the sleeve of your arm, avoiding her gaze.

Priscilla reaches over and gently pats your hand. “Let’s put it this way. The things a person wishes for says a great deal about them. And, for your final wish, you wished for protection. That sounds like someone who’s afraid. Not greedy. Not evil. Just trying to be safe.”

“You’re clearly torn up about it,” Dandelion adds. “Believe me, I’ve met my fair share of truly horrendous people, and they aren’t capable of a shred of remorse.”

Tears sting at your eyes, and your futile attempts to blink them away don’t work very well. Soon, they’re coursing down your cheeks, and you could die of embarrassment right here and now. Thank the gods Geralt isn’t here to see it.

Ciri soothingly rubs your back. “I understand,” she says gently. “It’s never an easy thing, having to kill. Even in self-defense. I’ve found that speaking about it with people I trust helps.”

“Aye,” Zoltan agrees solemnly. “Geralt’d know how it feels - take a moment when ye can, discuss it with him. Might surprise you, even make you feel a bit better.”

“He already knows,” you reply gloomily. Admittedly, he doesn’t know all the details.

“And?” Priscilla asks. “Surely he didn’t call you an awful person?”

“No,” you confirm. “He told me that… that I don't seem like a cold-blooded killer.”

“That’s settled, then,” Ciri says brightly. “If you were awful, Geralt certainly wouldn’t have any problem telling you.”

You swallow hard, wiping quickly at your eyes again. When you speak, your words are no more than a whisper. “Even if he can’t get more than ten steps away from me?”

Her answer comes with no hesitation. “Even then.”

Feeling as though an enormous weight has been lifted off your shoulders, you gratefully gulp down more wine and attempt a smile. “Thank you,” you tell them, even though you’re not entirely convinced. None of them know the full story, and you aren’t in any state to deliver it to them. But if they’re looking to see you comforted, you’ll gratify them. At least now you know that Geralt hasn’t been hiding some secret animosity for you.

“Of course,” Priscilla says, her tone balming as she speaks. “Poor thing. Are you still hungry? Can I get you anything else? You look as though Geralt’s been dragging you around all day.”

You shake your head. “No, I’m alright.”

“Forgive me for the change of subject, but I simply must ask,” Ciri exclaims. “Was I hearing right? You used a djinn to ask for protection, and - and now you and Geralt can’t be more than ten steps apart?”

“You heard right,” you confirm. “I… I asked for protection to always be with me. So we can’t be apart. Gods, I feel awful for him.”

“Ah, dinnae worry about Geralt,” Zoltan says, chortling. “Lad’s not suffering any more than Dandelion in a brothel.”

Your cheeks burn.

“Excuse me,” Dandelion protests, narrowing his eyes. “I am a changed man. I’ve mended my ways, which you very well know!.”

“Wait,” you say quickly, “Wait, Geralt and I - it’s not like that.”

“No?” Dandelion asks, eyes twinkling.

“Oh, hush,” Priscilla says. “Don’t mind these boys. They’re only fooling around.”

“And truly, don’t worry about Geralt,” Ciri says. “He’s gotten himself into things much worse than this.”

Then a bright flash of light interrupts the conversation, and Geralt and Yennefer appear alongside you once more.

Geralt surveys the crowd, gaze landing on you. You barely have the time to hope that your cheeks are fully dry, that he won’t somehow be able to see that you’d been crying with his witcher senses. He’s on his feet now, leaning against the table. “Hey,” he says. “Hope they weren’t too rough on you.”

“Don’t worry,” Ciri says cheerfully. “Only a few tears were shed.”

Geralt does a double-take, then straightens. “That a joke?”

“Relax, old friend,” Dandelion croons. “The tears were only over the brilliance of my ballad, which was so lovingly received by all that you’ll have to let me write it.”

“Dandelion,” Geralt grumbles, running a hand over his eyes.

Your gaze, however, has turned to Yennefer - who seems calmer than before, but still vaguely out of place. You can’t help thinking about the way Dandelion and Zoltan had spoken of her yesterday. And Lambert, for that matter. Can so many of Geralt’s friends and loved ones dislike her? And does that speak to her true nature, or is Geralt seeing something the rest of them aren’t?

In some strange way, you feel sorry for her. You’d hate to be in a room of people that dislike you. Hate to be surrounded by the loved ones of your lover, and have them all hate you.

She meets your eyes, and a sense of immediate panic rises in you. Gods, please don’t read my mind, you think. She’d see everything you’ve done, see everything you want - and, gods, you know she’d hate you for it.

But as she looks at you, a strange sensation falls over you. Something buzzes faintly under your skin, tickles at the back of your neck, and your head feels heavy and strained. And then… nothing. It fades away, and Yennefer is left with a strange, unidentifiable expression on her face: brows pinched, lips pressed together, but none of the icy rage from earlier. Just something empty. Another question.

“Changing subjects,” Geralt says pointedly, “Yen’s heard of the djinn Priscilla was talking about. Yen, mind explaining?”

“Very well,” Yennefer replies, her expression instantly shaping into a mask of coolness. Calm. Composure. She’s a master at it, wielding it at will, and you envy that about her more than you can say. She folds her arms over her chest, fingers gracefully tapping against her arm, then slowly starts to speak.

“A few months ago, a powerful source of magic appeared north of Loc Muinne, somewhere in the Blue Mountains. Very powerful - an aura strong enough to disrupt teleportation within fifty miles, even.”

She pauses and looks around, as if confirming that all of you are listening, then continues. “When a series of mages went to investigate the source, they found a newly unearthed passageway of elven ruins, and an unfinished notebook - kept by a prestigious, well-regarded, and now-missing sorcerer. His disappearance seems to have coincided with the appearance of the aura, and, according to his writings, this magic had been the main subject of his recent studies. It carried a presence that had evolved new plant and animal life in the caves, unlike any he’d ever seen. And he’d been experimenting with the new forms of plant life, testing for various reactions on different species.

“He then went on to say that he’d recently discovered a djinn, that he believed it was some form of… sign that was on the right path. He hoped to use it to harness the power of the ruins. But the day after he mentioned it in his writings, he disappeared. His notes end abruptly, as if he’d vanished into thin air while writing them. And, his last entry was dated for the same day the aura appeared.”

She swallows, then goes on, all of you hooked on her every word now. “Some suspected foul play, of course - that the djinn had been taken from him and he’d been killed. That, when it was unleashed, it caused the activation of the aura. Others believed he’d been killed by something in the ruins. A search party was taken up to look for him, but he was never found. Unfortunately, everyone who’s gone in the caves to look for him has neglected to return, and… I’m afraid that’s all I know.”

Her words sit in the air for a long moment as you all process what she’s saying. She pours herself a glass of wine and drinks it down, and you numbly take her words in. No one’s come back. When you bite the inside of your cheek, you taste blood.

“Ah… shite,” Zoltan says, scratching awkwardly at his beard. “Not very encouraging.”

“No,” Geralt agrees. “It isn’t. Dangerous journey to get there, too. ”

“And I don’t know how to fight,” you add. “So I’d be putting both of us in danger.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Dandelion says, cheeks still ruddy with drink. “Geralt’s taken me along plenty of times.”

“Times where you could run and hide if there was too much danger,” Geralt points out. “This is different.”

“And,” Yennefer chimes in, “as I said, the risks are too great to teleport anywhere near the area. Even for Ciri.”

Ciri? you think. She can teleport? Is she a sorceress? But no - hadn’t Geralt said that she was a witcher? All of this bouncing conversation is making your head hurt again.

“Luckily,” Ciri announces, “I happen to be headed to Ard Carraigh as it is. Two witchers will be more than enough protection for the journey, don’t you think?”

Geralt’s brows pinch. “Sure you don’t mind?”

“Of course I’m sure,” she affirms, grinning. “It’s been ages since we last rode together! I’d love to accompany you - and, of course, hear the story of how you two met; in more detail, preferably.”

Geralt mulls it over, frowning. “Be happy to have you,” he finally says, relaxing. “Just gotta be careful. Thanks, Ciri. Yen?”

“I’m afraid I can’t join you,” Yennefer replies. “I have urgent business to attend to. You’ll manage, I’m sure.”

Geralt nods. “Appreciate you telling us about the djinn.”

“Mm. Of course.”

The room is silent for a moment before Dandelion pulls out more wine - an expensive vintage, apparently - and the table instantly comes back to life, returning to their debate about Gwent decks.

Ciri gets up to grab another drink from behind the bar, but you stay where you are. It’s clear that Geralt and Yennefer aren’t done talking, and you have a terrible habit of eavesdropping. Pretending to be absorbed with a flyer for The Chameleon, casting an occasional glance at them, you listen in. It helps that Geralt can’t get very far away.

“Never did tell me what that curse was about,” he says.

There’s a brief pause before Yennefer answers. “Clearly, you were busy. I didn’t want to pull your attention away from more… important matters.”

“Yen,” Geralt says. “You know I’m happy to help. If you were looking for me, if there’s something you need-”

“- but there isn’t,” she interrupts. “It was a complicated curse, yes, but I’ve managed. Istredd assisted me, since you were nowhere to be found.”

You don’t know who Istredd is, but you get the gist of her words. Particularly from the fact that, when you quickly glance over, Geralt looks as though he’s been slapped. Pain again, even just for a moment. If Yennefer sees it, she says nothing of it.

“I must be going,” she announces instead, gaze fixed on Geralt and Ciri. Then it softens. “Be safe. Both of you.”

“You’re going?” Ciri asks, rushing to give Yennefer a hug.

They cling to each other for a moment, and Yennefer strokes Ciri’s hair and holds her close. It’s very clear how much they care for one another.

“Don’t be a stranger,” Ciri tells her.

“Never. I’ll contact you once you’re in Ard Carraigh,” Yennefer replies.

After Ciri’s gone back to her seat, Geralt lingers near Yennefer. “Won’t let anything happen to her,” Geralt says softly.

Yennefer smiles. “I know you won’t,” she replies. “I know you.” For a moment, her mask of composure slips - she hesitates. Then, she smooths down his shirt, leans up on her toes, and kisses his cheek. “Goodbye, Geralt.”

With a final squeeze of his arm, she’s gone, exiting out the door. Leaving you and Geralt staring after her.

You recover faster than he does, tuning back into the conversation at the table - which has turned into some story revolving around Dandelion and a sword. Geralt, though, stands frozen in his tracks for a good minute or so.

When he returns to his seat, he’s silent. In fact, he hardly says another word until the two of you have turned in for bed, bidding everyone good night. It’s planned that the two of you will leave with Ciri tomorrow morning, after getting some supplies for the journey. You don’t know if you’re relieved, or scared.

One one hand, the two of you will be actively moving toward the solution, and that saves you from the anxiety of sitting still. On the other hand, it means a long, dangerous journey which ends with you and Geralt being parted.

When the two of you are back in the room and you’re finally able to breathe, you slump onto the bed. Geralt sits next to you, lost in thought, and as you eye the protruding lump of a bandage under his shirt, you suddenly remember the scratch you left this morning.

You sit up with a start. “How’s your arm?” you ask.

The words rouse him from his thoughts. Geralt’s brows rise - clearly he’d forgotten, too - and takes off shirt in a fluid moment that makes your heart skip a beat (which you pray he doesn’t hear). Of course he’d need to take off his shirt to access the wound. Calm down, you tell yourself. Don’t stare.

When he pulls away the bandage to show completely healed skin, you sit there, stunned. It’s just as he said. It’s gone. Completely gone. The scratch hadn’t been that bad, but it’d still pierced the skin and very much should still be visible, at least for a few days. But there’s not even a hint of scarring, anything to show that it’d been there. It’s fascinating. And you really should have believed him, but it’s one thing to hear it, and a completely new thing to see it.

You can’t help yourself. You run your fingers over the area where it should have been, and find it completely whole.

Geralt’s skin is surprisingly soft and warm. He stays still as you touch him, the sound of his breathing soft and even. Then, slowly, he places his hand over yours, trailing his thumb down your wrist. His fingers enclose over yours, callused fingertips and strong tendons that gently wrap around your hand.

“Dandelion’s ballad really make you cry?” he asks softly. His eyes are warm and fixed on you, and you draw in a sharp breath. For a moment, you consider Zoltan’s words. That you might feel better, if you’d just tell Geralt everything. But given all that’s happened today, it simply doesn’t seem like the right time.

Maybe one day, but not now.

“What can I say?” you tell him, smiling weakly. “The lyrics got to me.”

He frowns. “Could tell him to stop,” he says. “If he’s pressuring you-”

You cut him off with a shake of your head. “No, he… he isn’t. Really. You have some really great friends, Geralt. And Ciri, she’s wonderful, and… and just like you.”

He smiles a little and raises a brow. He’s still holding your hand, gentle but firm. “Think so?” he asks.

You swallow hard. “I do. And don’t think I’ll be forgetting your little jest with Dandelion, master witcher. That was very rude.”

His smile widens into a boyish sort of grin you haven’t seen before, and his thumb rubs over your knuckles. Your heart starts pounding in your chest. You know he can hear it. There’s that sharpening in his gaze again, the way his eyes trail down to your lips, the way the smile turns into the hint of a smirk. You gingerly tug your hand from his grip, not trusting yourself, and start pulling out your sleep clothes.

“All that walking wore me out,” you tell him. “I’d better get some sleep for the journey.” It’s a poor excuse, but he takes it - or, at least, doesn’t argue. You can feel his eyes on the back of your neck.

If you hadn’t seen him and Yennefer the way they were, maybe you’d… well, it doesn’t matter now. Starting tomorrow, the two of you will be with Ciri for weeks, and it’s too complicated for you to consider anything outside of the trip. No matter what you want.

Even if he might want it, too.

You’re so unfamiliar with the concept of romance that, for just a moment, you start thinking that you might have imagined it. The look in his eyes. But you really do know better, and it’s time to stop fooling yourself.

There’s something between you and Geralt, something that’s been there longer than you’ve wanted to admit it. Since you sat at the river and he caught you staring at him, thinking about how handsome he was. Since he bandaged your hands with careful touch. Told you he could hear your heart beating, that he could tell when you lied.

Like a deafening wall of glass, it’s lurked between the two of you, getting simultaneously bigger and frailer with every day. Ready to shatter at any moment. You’ve pulled away from it, but you’re less and less able to deny that it’s there. Or that you want it to break.

That’s your real crime, isn’t it? The one you’ve held guilt for as long as you’ve known. The one that’s poisoned your fate from birth. You always want for things you can’t have. It’s exactly why the djinn was so dangerous, why you’re being punished the way you are. He must have seen straight into your soul when you were making that wish, and gave you the exact retribution that you deserved.

Because you’re afraid. You’re afraid that if you ever got what you really wanted, it might rip you apart. You’ve never been built for good things. You’d just ruin them. Like you have with everything. And it might have been one thing to ruin your own life, but you know you wouldn’t survive it if it was Geralt. If he ever hurt you, or you hurt him…

No. You couldn’t. And, even though it’s ridiculous, you cling to that wall. Even despite your conflicting emotions, you shut yourself off. Because it’s better than the alternative.

You’ve tried to halt yourself from wishing for anything ever since you got that djinn, because you really should learn from your mistakes. But as you get into bed, you allow yourself a single, mindless wish - safe because you know it won’t come true.

You sit there in silence, chest aching, and wish that Geralt would wrap his arms around you.

More bad dreams come that night. You sleep feverishly, trading off between visions of hands on your throat and the mouth of a cave, summoning you in with a sweet song you can’t resist. When you finally wake, you find Geralt already up, organizing your things. If you’ve overslept, you don’t feel an ounce of that rest.

“Hey,” he says. “Sleep well?”

You shrug and smile at him wordlessly. Your throat feels tight and the ache in your chest has only gotten worse overnight. Your silence already betrays your emotions to an extent, but if you speak, you’re afraid everything might actually start pouring out of you. That if you open your mouth, every fear, every secret and guilt and want might come slithering up your throat in a single, slimy mass and give you away.

So you don’t talk. And you pray that you won’t have to any time soon.

It doesn’t take long for you to dress or pack your things. Your stomach has just started growling when there’s a light knock on the door.

“Ready, you two?” comes Ciri’s voice. “Breakfast’s just been finished, and we’d better eat before it gets cold - it might be our last good meal for some time!”

“Coming,” Geralt says. He hoists his things over his shoulders, and you follow straight behind him.

“Good morning,” Ciri says brightly. “Dandelion’s prepared a farewell meal for you two. I think he’s written more of that ballad.”

Geralt shakes his head. “Hope he doesn’t play it while I’m eating.”

“It’s Dandelion. Of course he will,” Ciri says. Then she looks at you. “How’d you sleep?” she asks. “Feeling any better this morning?”

Geralt stares at you, concerned, but you avoid his gaze. “I… I slept well,” you tell her. “And, yes, I feel alright now. Thank you.”

Both of those things are lies, but Ciri just smiles. “We’d better head down before Dandelion loses his head. He’s been strutting around like a peacock ever since you complimented his ballad. Can hardly wait to show you the new parts he wrote.”

That makes you laugh. A real, genuine laugh. “Should I start writing my apology for bolstering his ego?”

“Yeah,” Geralt says. “Make it short.”

“Short and sweet,” Ciri adds.

“Alright. Dear Novigrad citizens - and all others affected,” you drawl. “I’m deeply sorry for bolstering Dandelion’s ego. How’s that?”

Geralt rubs his chin. “Dunno,” he says. “Seems a little long.”

You playfully narrow your eyes at him. “Fine, then: I’m sorry, Novigrad.”

“Perfect,” Ciri says. “I’m already envious of the response it’ll receive. Come, let’s head down.”

Eskel and Lambert are at the main table once more, clearly enjoying the partakings. They both look tired and a little worse for wear, but alive. “Morning, Wolf,” Eskel says. “Hear you’re heading out again.”

“Mhm. Eating breakfast first, though,” Geralt replies, taking a seat. You sit next to him and grab a plate, mouth watering.

There’s more food here than you’ve ever seen served for a single meal. Fresh bread and butter that fills the air, spiced sausages, apple tarts drizzled with honey, plates adorned with grapes and pears and plums, perfectly ripe. Sweet buns coated with sugar and roasted ham and tiny, colorful candies that litter the table. And, judging by how full the three witchers have stocked their plates, not a bit of it will go to waste.

You fill your plate and dig in, so ecstatic that you almost don’t hear Dandelion greet you. “Good morning,” he says, laying another plate on the table. “Oh, good, you’re hungry! Eat up, eat up!”

Priscilla strides up next to him, tsking as she looks over the table. “Good morning, everyone,” she greets. “As you can see, Dandelion’s gone a bit overboard with breakfast. Are you sure you three won’t stay any longer? We’re happy to have you.”

Geralt shakes his head. “Sorry. Wish we could. Might come back here afterward, though. If not…”

“If not, then Dandelion, Zoltan, and I will see you at Yule,” Priscilla says sternly, taking a seat. Dandelion sits next to her, and you watch the two softly chatter with each other, imagining how it might look - Yule with Geralt and friends. Sparkly, you think. Shiny and warm.

You’ve never had much of a Yule. Not that your parents hadn’t tried. But for some reason, seeing their gifts - gifts you knew they’d slaved away hours of their life for - only made you feel worse. The year when their gifts turned into coin for Oxenfurt Academy had been a relief if only to not feel their eyes on your face, praying they wouldn’t see disappointment.

“Oh, yeah,” Eskel says suddenly, turning to Geralt. “We wintering with you at Corvo Bianco again this year?”

Corvo Bianco? you think. You aren’t familiar with the words.

Geralt raises his brows. “Yeah. Be glad to have you.”

“Then we’ll see you there,” Lambert responds. “Can’t fuckin’ wait.”

“Still miss Marlene’s cooking,” Eskel agrees.

In the midst of their conversation, there’s a striking realization that they must be talking about Geralt’s home. You’d never thought much about it - mostly, you’d assumed he lived from place to place, never staying anywhere long. You wonder briefly about this Marlene, heart sinking down to your stomach. There’s so much you don’t know about him.

“So - you three are really off to find a djinn?” Lambert muses. “Good luck, I guess.”

“Thanks,” Geralt says dryly.

There’s a moment of silence before you surprise yourself. “You know, Lambert, I think that might be the most genuine sentence I’ve ever heard.”

Eskel, Geralt, and Ciri laugh, to your delight, and Lambert scowls. “Ah, fuck off,” he says, but he’s hiding a begrudging smile.

“Alright. Before I forget,” Ciri starts, her gaze fixing on you. “You and Geralt. How did you two meet?”

Your cheeks go warm. Maybe because everyone is now staring at you, and you hate the attention. Maybe because you hate talking about this subject. “Well… he fell out of the sky.”

Geralt huffs, smiling a little. For a moment, you hope he’ll say something, but he doesn’t. He just waits for you to go on, along with everyone else.

“Um. Well, I made the wish,” you continue, “and for a while, it seemed like nothing was happening. So I wandered around, thinking about every possibility of my wording, wondering how the djinn had taken it. I hadn’t really - thought about it when I made the wish. It just… came out. I wanted to believe it was some invisible protection, but everything just felt… off, and I knew deep down that it wasn’t the case. And then a portal opened up, and he fell out, and I saw the two swords on his back and realized what it meant.”

“Yeah. Djinn dragged me out of Skellige,” Geralt adds. And now they’re all waiting for you to speak again.

“Anyway,” you proceed, “once I realized who he was, I asked him to move away from me, to see if anything would happen. And he wouldn’t - he didn’t really trust me, then. So I did it instead. Once I was a certain distance away, we both felt it. I actually don’t know how it feels for him, but for me it was like… like something was ripping me apart. Squeezing my skull in. I couldn’t fight it at all.”

“Yeah. Felt like that for me, too,” Geralt agrees.

You nod. “So after that, I explained to him what had happened, and he said we should come here, see if anyone knew anything. And… now, we’re here.”

“And we’re very happy you are,” Priscilla tells you.

“And?” Dandelion exclaims. “Was there any danger on the way here? What was it that made you wish for protection? And the other two wishes - I’ll need to know those for my ballad.”

Your heart drops to your stomach at the thought of telling anyone at this table about those nights, about what happened. No, you’re not ready.

Time to attempt one of your old tricks. If anyone is a sucker for flattery, it’s Dandelion.

“It was a little dangerous, yes,” you answer, trying to keep your voice even. “Geralt and I ran into a foglet. But he killed it, and I didn’t even get a scratch on me. It was very impressive, honestly.” Now for the important part. “Oh - Dandelion, speaking of your ballad,” you lead in, adding a little sweetness to your tone, “Ciri told me you wrote more of it. Will you play it for me?”

“Of course I will!” Dandelion says, eyes lighting up. “But don’t let me distract you - I want to hear about this djinn. Was he made of red mist? Were you ecstatic when you found him? Do you still have the seal?”

Shit. You hadn’t really minded his questions before, but with how standoffish you feel, they’re becoming incredibly invasive.

“Dandelion, quit pestering,” Priscilla interrupts him, but not quickly enough.

You shut your eyes at the stream of memories that come pouring in at the sound of his words. The exact images you’ve been trying to block out. “I was scared.” The words are shaky, unstable. You suddenly feel sick, placing down your fork. “I wasn’t ecstatic, wasn’t happy. All I remember is being scared.”

Dandelion pulls out a parchment and begins scribbling on it. “Scared… foglet… not a scratch…” he mumbles. “Perfect.”

Your body has started trembling. Maybe it’s because it’s more than you’ve ever revealed about that moment, but your stomach is churning and you’re shaking, and thank Melitele, Geralt notices.

He clears his throat. “Priscilla - you already started on the plans for Yule?” he asks. “Anything I should bring? Might not get to that djinn for a while.”

Under the table, he places his hand on top of yours - a small, reassuring action. Not entwining with yours, but there. Comforting. Then his thumb brushes over your pulse point. Taking in a deep breath, you give his hand a gentle squeeze.

Thank you, you think.

Priscilla takes the bait immediately. “Well, I’ve not started the plans exactly, but I have been considering some loose ideas,” she replies. “Dandelion and I were thinking about writing a new show, getting people into the spirit and such. Using the funds we make as donations for some form of charity. Of course, nothing’s been settled yet. As for what to bring - just bring yourself and anyone you’d like to invite. Though, a bottle of wine from your vineyard would never be turned down.”

“Mhm. Our first year producing wine,” Geralt tells her. “Harvest finally came in. BB says it ought to be a good one.”

“Really?” Priscilla asks. “All the better. I can’t wait.”

The conversation has given you time to manage your emotions. Geralt might be able to hear your heart thundering in your chest - and, now that you think of it, Eskel and Lambert might, too - but no one else has anything else to off but your face, which you hope is in a mask even half as collected as Yennefer’s had been.

A quick look over shows that Eskel and Lambert are glancing at you curiously, but they return to their breakfast as soon as they see your gaze on them. Well, that answers that question. No wonder Geralt had been able to tell you were lying so easily. If Eskel and Lambert, sitting several seats down from you, can hear a change in your heartbeat - and be able to tell that it’s yours they’re hearing - then… frankly, you’re horrified to think about what else he might hear.

And, thinking even more, did you just hear that right? Geralt owns a vineyard? Corvo Bianco. It’s all piecing together.

“I didn’t know you owned a vineyard,” you tell him. His hand shifts a little on yours, and blood rushes up to your face. You’d somehow forgotten it was there - as if his touch had melted into you, was so natural that it became a part of you.

“Yeah,” he says gruffly. “Got it as part of a contract from the duchess of Toussaint.”

You’ve never been to Toussaint. You’ve certainly never met the duchess. Somewhere in all this chaos, you’d nearly gotten used to the fact that a large number of the people in this room are famous. But not anymore.

You don’t even know where to begin to imagine a vineyard. Miles of grape vines? A hot, baking sun, fruit stinking in the heat? You can’t picture Geralt in it. The two images are disjointed, as if they couldn’t possibly mix.

You don’t know why this guts you. Maybe it’s the reminder that you don’t really belong here - among all these people, Geralt’s friends and family, knowing basic things about him like where he lives.

You suddenly can’t eat another bite, but the sight of your half-filled plate makes you just as sick. How many times would you have killed for food like that, only to let it go to waste? Almost all the others have finished their food.

“Are you still hungry?” you ask Geralt, pushing your plate toward him a little. “My eyes were bigger than my stomach.”

“He’s always hungry,” Ciri answers.

And Geralt shrugs and takes the rest of your food, looking more than happy to finish it off. Thankfully, he moves his hand back to his thigh, and you force yourself to take even breaths when he does, because he surely can hear you. You try to remain calm, but overstimulation is rising in you like a growing tide. You’ll miss this place fiercely, but you can’t wait to get away from it.

“What’ve you got there?” Geralt suddenly asks, and you realize the question is directed at Lambert.

Lambert, who was bent over a paper, snaps up defensively. His arms cradle over the paper like he’s afraid Geralt will somehow lean over half the table and read the contents, and he scowls. “None of your business,” he says.

“Better not distract him,” Eskel snorts. “Lambert’s writing a letter to his girlfriend.”

Lambert’s scowl deepens. “Shut up.”

“Meant to ask - how’s Keira doing?” Geralt asks. “You two fighting again?”

“No,” Lambert snaps. “We aren’t.”

Eskel’s expression sombers. “Keira, uh… she went to check out a magical surge. Hasn’t come back yet.”

You suddenly feel like ice has run down your back. As if something has gone terribly, irreparably wrong.

“Where?” Geralt’s tone is intense, demanding in a way you haven’t heard it before, and you can tell that the sudden shift is making Eskel and Lambert uneasy, too.

“Kaedwen,” Lambert answers.

“The Blue Mountains?”

“I don’t know, maybe. She didn’t exactly say. Why?”

Geralt doesn’t seem to know how to answer.

“Yennefer was here last night,” you tell them, even though the words feel like glue on your tongue. “She said that… that somewhere in Kaedwen there are some ancient elven ruins spreading a powerful aura of magic, and that some mages went to investigate, but everyone who’s gone in there hasn’t come back out. It’s close to that djinn Priscilla was talking about.”

Lambert pushes out of his seat, looking furious. “Fucking what!?”

“She’s fine, Lambert,” Geralt assures him. “ Yen is Keira’s friend - if something happened to her, she would have mentioned it.”

“Save your bullshit,” Lambert hisses, pacing back and forth frantically. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“Geralt is right,” you say - even though you’re a little out of your league here. “Yennefer said that the magic was affecting teleportation within fifty miles of the caves. I’m sure she’s probably just trying to find a way back.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Lambert asks. “She teleported over there!”

You feel as though you’ve been slapped. You snap your mouth shut, anger simmering in your chest - anger directed toward yourself. Why had you gotten involved? You’d only made it worse.

“They’re right,” Eskel says, but his tone is more convincing, more soothing. “Yen would’ve told us. Losing another sorceress from the Lodge? That’s a big deal.”

Lambert slackens, draping a hand over his face as he takes it in. Then sits down, grabs his mug, and pours himself a drink. The tension in the room feels thick enough to suffocate.

“We’ll keep an ear out for her,” Geralt says. “Ask around. See if anyone’s heard anything. Soon as we learn something, you’ll be the first to know.”

Lambert gives an almost imperceptible nod. “Yeah. Thanks.”

There’s a moment of silence. “We ought to head out,” Ciri announces. “I’ll help clear up.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Priscilla scolds. “You’re our guests! We’ll take care of this.”

But Ciri gathers up the nearby empty plates and neatly stacks them anyway, and Geralt adds his old plate and the newer, now-empty plate that used to be yours.

Priscilla sighs. “You two,” she murmurs, smiling to herself, “are far too similar.”

You’d have turned in your dishes, if you’d had any. But you don’t. You’re grateful when Geralt stands, gathering his things.

“You’re going?” Dandelion asks - he’d been in the middle of more writing. “But I haven’t even gotten to play the next lines of my ballad for you!”

Geralt looks down at you where you’re still sitting, a brow raised. You know he’s giving you the option - that you can leave, if you want.

But then you think about what Ciri had said earlier, that Dandelion was so excited to show it to you. Strutting around like a peacock, giddy on the compliment. You think of his kindness at the table yesterday - how kind they’d all been, even to a stranger. Reassuring you that you weren’t awful without even being asked.

“I’ll gladly hear it,” you say.

Dandelion beams and pulls out his lute, and Geralt returns to his seat to listen. And then Dandelion strums, and in that haunting, lovely melody, he sings.

A dangerous thing is the truth of a wish

For the future we ne’er can see

And djinns have been known to twist things amiss

Tainting with mischief and cruelty.

With a trifle of words, our tale must begin

An uttered request, humbly made

Beseeching protection from the ‘fore-mentioned djinn

Protection for always, they prayed.

The answer received came up from the land

Where resided a lone witcher of yore

And the foul, ruthless djinn locked the two hand in hand

And he bound them for evermore.

tags: @henryownsme @madamemelancholysstuff @fullmoonshadowwrites @darkscrossfire @beforethepen @julijal @ailynyan @ivuravix

#geralt x reader #geralt of rivia x reader #game!geralt #geralt x you #geralt/reader #geralt of rivia x you #mywriting

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football-and-fanfics · 4 months

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The Medic #5 - Kostas Tsimikas

About the series: The Medic will be an anthology-like series about the reader working for the medical team of the club. Each chapter will feature a different setting/scenario and a different player.

Who: Kostas Tsimikas Prompt / request: based on Kostas's shoulder injury during the Liverpool - Arsenal match. Requested by: anonymous Warnings: mentions of broken bones, slight medical procedures and hospital.

Of course everyone startled when the foul upon him sent Kostas flying over the touchline, bowling over Klopp in the process. Your first worry, as medic, went out to both the members of your team and their well-being. Klopp quickly got back to his feet, and you assumed he was fine. Kostas, on the other hand, remained down.

Kostas lay flat on his front when you quickly kneeled down beside him. One look at him told you he was definitely not alright.

"Tell me," you simply said as you rested a hand on the small of his back, trying to ease him. "S--shoulder..." Kostas' voice trembled with pain. "I heard a c-crack." His gaze finally met yours, and you clearly saw how much pain and fear he was in.

You had to admit: this didn't sound good. You immediately made the substitution signal to Klopp, who was back on his feet and seemingly fine, because it was crystal clear that Kostas would not be able to continue.

"Alright, deep breaths." You turned your attention back to Kostas, doing your best to keep him out of hyperventilating. "It hurts so bad." Kostas spoke through trembling lips. "This isn't good, this feels bad." "Kos, easy," you said a little sharply, recognizing he was spiraling into a panic. "I'm going to help you, but I need you to remain calm. Can you do that for me?" Kostas didn't respond at first, but finally nodded determinedly.

"I need to have a short look at your shoulder. Can you sit up?" You moved your hand higher up Kostas' back in a comforting gesture. Kostas slowly, and with several winces and whimpers, moved himself up until he sat on his knees.

Now that you could have a proper look at him, your first assessment of his condition wasn't an altogether promising one. His face was ashen, eyes wide with pain, and he absolutely refused to move the right shoulder he was gently clutching. He held both arms crossed protectively over his chest, with his left arm supporting his right.

From the place he was gently holding, you deduced the injury was higher up his shoulder and located more to the front. "Don't touch it, please, don't touch it." Kostas recoiled even before you could make a move. "I won't," you eased him. You already suspected him to have a broken collarbone, and having once had that injury yourself, you knew all too well how painful that could be.

"The area your holding, is that the most painful part?" You asked. Kostas nodded, face screwed up in pain. "Yes." It was a first confirmation of what you already dreaded. "My diagnosis so far is that you injured your collarbone. We need to get you to a hospital for some X-rays."

Kostas hung his head in defeat. The possibly lengthy injury he was facing hit him hard. "Alright," he finally agreed, "but I need someone to come with me, because... I don't like hospitals." If you weren't feeling sorry for him already, you surely did now. "Absolutely." You rested a comforting hand on his uninjured shoulder. "I'm going with you and I won't leave you out of my sight."

Tags: @stonesyyyy, @footballffbarbiex, @football1921, @laurasstufff1, @ella33, @hbstre

Add me to the tags list | General masterlist | Kostas Tsimikas masterlist

#kostas tsimikas #kostas tsimikas imagine #kostas tsimikas blurb #kostas tsimikas fanfic #kostas tsimikas fanfiction #football imagine #football blurb #football fanfic #football fanfiction #footballer imagine #footballer blurb #footballer fanfic #footballer fanfiction #footballandfanficskostastsimikas

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paperbackribs · 7 months

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The Gift (4 of 15) (Witch Steve AU)

previous: Chapter 3 Boys Are Witches Too (Part B) next: Chapter 5 You're Doing That On Purpose (Part A) Ao3 Link - Chapters will be updated ahead of Tumblr Content: 1.5K words, CW: Eddie briefly uses homophobic language against himself.

Last chapter, Steve called back his mother to explain the latest round of the Upside Down and the Hawkins crew heard and accepted Steve's accounting of being a Witch. Now, Eddie wants to have a deeper conversation about what happened when he died.

Chapter 4 Break the Illusion

They had all been talking longer than he had realised, Steve thinks as he enters the kitchen. A window, facing out into the back garden, lets in the soft light of the late afternoon sun, its golden rays spilling over Eddie, creating a gentle halo on the dark cloud of his hair. Eddie's metalhead armor—the oversized black leather jacket, silver wallet chain, and worn jeans—seems incongruous against the peach floral patterns of the backsplash their interior designer installed back in '82.

Eddie has hopped up onto the tiled counter in front of the window, facing the door as he waits for Steve to join him. He’s also returned to that enigmatic expression again, Steve notes, though Eddie’s white Reeboks tap restlessly against the cupboards and his fingers twist at his rings, belying a nervous type of energy. He hopes it’s not him that is making Eddie jittery.

Steve waggles his fingers in a wave from the doorway in an awkward feeling of déjà vu, trying to communicate his harmlessness.

“Why’d you do it, man,” Eddie’s face may not be giving much away, but the tightness in his voice worries Steve.

How does he go about explaining the uncanny to a person who has never experienced it except in short and deadly bursts through a murdering psychopath or a journey through an eerie replica of their town?

Eddie hadn’t acted so reserved before he died, before he was brought back to the revelation that Steve is a Witch. Even in the midst of that damned forest he had been full of irreverant comments while easily swaying into Steve's personal space. The thought that Eddie may look at his white eye now and see the ashen and grotesque Vecna sits heavily in his gut.

Considering Eddie's limited exposure to the variety of mystical present in their world, Steve supposes he can excuse the guy for being tense. A heavy sigh gusts out of him in an attempt to let loose the apprehension stuck at the back of his throat. Determinedly, Steve walks towards Eddie and hops up beside him on the cool tiles, intent on breaking through whatever barrier has sprung up between them.

His hands brush against the back of Eddie’s thigh as he settles on the counter and Eddie whips his head to Steve in surprise, but this time he gets the puzzling sense that it’s like Eddie can’t imagine Steve wanting to be physically close to him.

Steve wonders why that would shock Eddie so much. They had started a tentative friendship, hadn’t they, in the Upside Down? They had shared insecurities and glances of comradery, and silently agreed to protect Dustin as much as they could. They weren’t strangers, is what Steve’s getting at; the experience of the Upside Down was as intimate and bonding an experience as any war.

Maybe that’s how he should approach this, Steve muses, listening to Eddie’s tapping heel create a hollow sound on the blonde wood.

He had gained the best of friends by being honest on a gross bathroom floor the last go round. Perhaps presenting the truth as simply as possible will regain him Eddie’s trust.

“I won’t lie,” Steve promises, catching Eddie’s wide eyes.

“It was risky and pulling you back from the other world was a buzzer beater, even for me. But I don’t think you know what would have happened if you had died. There were so many people, Eddie, who were going to hurt. Who were never going to get over it. I could do this one thing, so I did.”

Eddie scoffs, looking down as he wears at his fingers around the rings, his skin starting to turn an irritated red. “Yeah, I don’t think the local freak disappearing is going to cause that much of a wave.”

“Eddie,” he grabs the other boy’s hand, ignoring the zap of warmth from their connection, the soft humming.

Eddie stills, but doesn’t look up.

“I know you don’t have much reason to have faith in what I can do but believe me when I say that I have the power to See this. And yeah, it would have hurt a lot of people. Dustin…”

Steve has to draw a breath to cover the anxiety he still feels over the tapestries he had unveiled. “Dustin would have been devastated.”

Steve watches Eddie’s lips quirk bitterly through the curtain of his dark hair, his black leather-clad shoulders almost as high as his ears. “Yeah, that shrimp doesn’t know any better,” he says.

“It’s not…” Steve cuts himself off, frustrated. “I’m not great with words, that’s Nance. But it wasn’t only Dustin, Eddie. I didn’t look far, but I Know that there are going to be people who love you so much that they don’t even realise the strength of your loss yet.”

Eddie's fingers tighten around his own and Steve belatedly realises that he’s been holding his hand this entire time. Still, Steve doesn’t drop it, thinking that maybe the connection between them is needed right now, to convey his sincerity.

It’s nice too, the feeling of warmth and affection shared in a simple touch. Other than Robin, it's rare that he has the opportunity to have skin-to-skin contact with anyone these days. At his heart of hearts, Steve is a tactile guy and it's just not the same as when he tousles Dustin's hair or pulls Max in for a side-hug. And, as much as he loves his mother, she never was the demonstrative type, even when he had seen her regularly.

“I think you’ve got a pretty great way with words, Stevie.” Eddie looks up at him from the corner of his one hazel eye, still looking a little tense but something was released with his words, Steve realises, relieved. The knot in his gut unclenching. Maybe being a Witch and deciding to change the tapestry of fate wasn’t going to stop him and Eddie from continuing to be friends.

Steve lets the responding lightness he feels fuel his answering smile, “Yeah, yeah. Don’t tell anyone, they think I’m an idiot. Don’t want to break the illusion.”

“I did too,” Eddie admits guiltily. “Before all this,” he waves his free hand in the air. “I thought you were some empty-headed jock who, while not the worse of the bunch, was certainly a member of the asshole brigade.”

Steve winces, “You weren’t far off.”

“Nah,” Eddie grins, leaning further into Steve's space to teasingly tug on a lock of his hair. He's so close that Steve can smell the warmth of Eddie's cologne and feel the subtle heat of his body.

For a moment, Steve’s breath catches and he’s not sure why.

Eddie seems oblivious as he continues talking, “Turns out you’re a good dude with a head and heart ready to save people. Even people you barely know.” The last of his sentence ends in a deep murmur while Eddie reflects on the bronze strands that he has effortlessly captured between his fingertips.

“Eddie?”

Eddie blinks, letting go to tug at the sable waves over his own ear. He holds up their joined hands. “You don’t mind this?”

“What, holding hands? Robin and I do it all the time.” Robin has a lot of opinions about what she describes as the overly moist and disgustingly warm parts of the human body, but she likes to hold hands just as much as Steve does. Sometimes they’ll watch a film, backs to the opposite ends of the couch but connected by a loose clasping of their fingers.

Eddie sneers, though Steve doesn’t think it’s directed at him. “Not afraid of catching something from the local queer?”

Steve blinks rapidly, trying to remember what that store owner had told him and Robin at their Indy visit. His gaze moves beyond the pale orange tiles that they sit on to the golden amber of the maple island across from them. Steve absently traces the wide space as he cautiously decides on his words.

Drawing on Robin's language and style from when Steve had shared a simliar admission, albeit with far less self-loathing, he shifts back to Eddie, trying to make his eye contact serious and free of judgement, "Thank you for telling me. I’m happy you felt you could share that with me.”

Even as he says the stilted words, Steve feels like an idiot; but his sincerity must have been felt by Eddie because the other man's shoulders drop along with his defensive layer. "Steve,” Eddie laughs. “What are you doing, man? You sound like Twiki.” He mocks Steve with a robotic bidi-bidi-bidi sound.

Steve bumps him with his shoulder in retaliation. “No! I just...” He groans, he really isn’t great with his words. “I have this friend,” he starts carefully. “And we visited this place for the first time last year.”

“Oh, no! Mystical traveller, you've trapped me in a maze of endless possibilities. What riddle do I need to answer to understand your wisdom?” Eddie cries out into the air, bringing both arms up in supplication, Steve’s arm wagging alongside him.

“No, shut up.” Steve keeps laughing, pulling their clasped hands down to rest on the counter between them, before Eddie shakes his whole arm off.

“It was a queer bookstore, and we were talking to the owner about how my friend told me they were gay, and Chris shared about when she outed herself. And it was terrible! Like really awful and she said all she had wanted was someone to tell her that it was okay.”

Eddie’s expression softens and his teasing smile quirks to the side. “That’s really sweet. You’re sweet, Harrington, aren’t you?”

Steve brightens with the compliment even as he rolls his eyes and jumps off the counter, letting go of Eddie as he does. Eddie lets him only to lean forward, elbows on knees, “Sweet little Harrington, looking after his lost lambs and saving the unrepentant satanist of the Hellfire Club.” His eyes are gleaming.

Steve points a bossy finger in his face, pulling it back before Eddie’s mock chomp connects. “Don’t make me regret it, Munson.”

“I think sweet little Stevie, you should just call me Eddie.”

Eddie sticks out his hand and, smiling, Steve shakes it in agreement.

“Oh wait!” Steve drops Eddie's hand, calling over his shoulder as he rushes away, “Wait right there, I’ll be back.”

“Okay.” Eddie sounds amused and a little bewildered.

Steve runs up the stairs two at a time and bursts into his room. Cleaned and folded on his dresser is Eddie’s vest.

He checks it one more time – there are some blood stains that he couldn’t remove from the blue denim for the life of him, but he hadn’t wanted to scrub too hard and wear out the material. He gives it the sniff test as well – smells fine, just like his laundry powder, though he thinks he may have accidentally gotten some of his hair spray on it too. It’ll be okay, Eddie won’t notice.

He runs down to present his offering to Eddie, who's idly drumming his heels against the cupboard again, although now he leans back on his hands while staring up at the ceiling.

Eddie casually glances down to Steve as he bounds into the kitchen, lighting up and quickly reaching forwards as he sees what's in his outstretched hands, “My battle vest.”

Eddie runs a ringed thumb over a dark patch. Steve thinks that the maroon colour could pass for the stain of red wine, but wonders whether Eddie prefers the aesthetic of blood instead — something far more aligned to his admiration for Steve tearing his teeth through that demo-bat.

Nevertheless, he apologises, “Yeah, sorry, I couldn’t get it all out.”

“Nah, it’s fine, Stevie. It’s Metal, right?” Eddie looks up, happy. “Thanks, this has a lot of memories for me. It would’ve sucked if it’d gotten lost.”

Steve feels that warm glow of having done the right thing. He reckons that he may have come out the other end of the Upside Down with another good friend after all.

If you liked anything, please consider leaving a comment over on Ao3 :-) It would make my day!

Taglist

My taglist is always open, so let me know if you want to be added. Likewise, if you want to be removed, let me know. :) If I've missed you, definitely tell me because it's an accident!

@a-gae-af-racoon

@a-lovely-craziness

@aly-reads-alot

@bookworm0690

@cinnamon-mushroomabomination

@ellietheasexylibrarian

@everyrandomthing

@finntheehumaneater

@geekymagicalpotato

@goodolefashionedloverboi

@hallucinatedjosten

@ilikeititspretty

@just-a-tiny-void

@ledleaf

@littlewildflowerkitten

@lostonceandneverfound

@manda-panda-monium

@matchingbatbites

@nburkhardt

@newtstabber

@obliosworld

@oliver-sykes

@platonicbesties4life

@probablyscreamingintothevoid

@rajumat

@scoops-stevie-archive

@spectrum-spectrum

@swimmingbirdrunningrock

@tartarusknight

@whackyrach

Edit: @mightbeasleep

#witchsteve #steddie #platonic stobin #stranger things #steve harrington #any unexplained references are detailed in chapter notes on Ao3 #eddie munson #paperbackribs writing

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goldenblu · 2 months

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hold your fire (by the throat) - chapter 5

One Piece | Zosan | Post-Wano AU where Sanji slowly loses his emotions

Chapter 5: sink or swim

The hand not holding the cigarette raises up and touches his hair briefly. He says, quietly, “Are you going to fulfill your promise?”

Preview:

Zoro’s not lost. Clearly. He’s just wandering around because he feels like it. He’s securing the perimeter, that’s what he’s doing.

This excuse immediately collapses, of course, when he extends his Observation Haki and almost feels relieved that he senses a familiar presence approaching.

“Oi! Shitty marimo!”

Almost.

“The fuck do you want?” Zoro injects annoyance to his voice as he pivots around in a half-circle, but the rest of the barbs on his tongue disintegrate as Sanji comes into his view.

The cook looks irate, as he always does whenever he gets it into his head that Zoro’s gotten lost. But he also looks haggard and unsettled and maybe just a little bit afraid, face set into a grimace, eyes haunted by something only he can see. Zoro doesn’t know what triggered that reaction, although he can hazard a good guess. “Your hair changed.”

“It did?”

Ah, shit. He didn’t already know?

Sanji pulls his bangs away from his face, squinting at it in the dim light of the moon. His face, which already had an ashen sort of pallor to it, pales even further. Then he pats frantically at his eyebrow. Why, Zoro can’t say, since the curly brow looks normal to him. It doesn’t seem to be much of a comfort for the cook, who looks torn between relief and distress.

Letting go of his hair, Sanji says, “I need you to do it.”

Don’t jump to conclusions, Zoro reminds himself. Assess the situation. “Do what?”

Sanji stalks over and jabs a finger into his chest. “Don’t play dumb. You know what I fucking mean.”

Never one to back down, Zoro jabs a finger right back. “What I know is that you’re an idiot, curly, but this seems a bit much, even for you. It’s just hair. We already knew about this.”

“It’s not just that,” Sanji snaps. Then he drags a hand down his face, suddenly looking weary. “I can’t trust myself anymore. Now is the time.”

“If you can’t even trust yourself, then how can I trust you when you say shit like that?” Zoro rolls his eyes. “What did you do, forget to buy meat for Luffy? I always knew you weren’t a first-rate cook like you claimed.”

Sanji looks dangerously close to setting himself, and then Zoro, on fire. Zoro kind of wishes he would just do it already. “As if a tasteless moron like you would know anything about cooking.”

Zoro adds another point to the No Kill column. “What is it, then? Did you say no to Nami or something? You should do that more often, you know, instead of letting that witch take advantage of you.”

Flames blaze to life, and Zoro blocks Sanji’s foot an inch away from his face. Heat washes over his skin. Fucking finally. “Don’t say that about Nami-san, you brain-dead oaf, or I’ll kick your teeth in.”

No Kill is looking pretty favorable right about now. “If you don’t spit it out, I’m just going to keep guessing. You finally listened to Chopper and swore off cigarettes? You accidentally threw away some food scraps?” The vein in Sanji’s forehead pulses with irritation as Zoro continues. “You finally admitted I’m better than you? You kicked a woman? You didn’t feed someone who was hungry?”

To his surprise, Sanji actually falters at that last one, his next kick losing so much steam that Zoro barely has to put any effort into batting it aside. He doesn’t take the opening to counterattack, though, choosing instead to ask incredulously, “What, you actually didn’t feed someone?”

(continue on AO3)

#one piece #zosan #sanzo #sanji #zoro #black leg sanji #roronoa zoro #emotionless sanji au #hold your fire by the throat #mine #my writing

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izzyspussy · 2 months

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For every vote, I will write one sentence on the corresponding project.

Posting to main because this is mostly fanfiction options lmao. But I'm gonna tag some writeblr folks, and if y'all don't know me here I'm @calicohyde! Tagging @ashen-crest @cwritesfiction @e-s-willswriting and @gailynovelry <3

#jack facts #jack chats #poll #writing process #make me write #ofmd #ted lasso #tatg #the burden easy #it

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anothersarcasticdolphin · 1 month

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A refinement of my thoughts on a second Aemond 5+1 series:

So as much as I want to write Daemon's bastard daughter Daenys killing Aemond, I'm going to bump those two ideas from the series. They may get written as separate one-shots, but I want to keep the series as a whole consistent and not have a random OC showing up and then disappearing.

Also I kind of want to try and do each chapter across the series in a different POV.

1. Aemond's eye gets infected after Driftmark and he dies. 'Mournful song' I think this would be a one-shot from Alicent's POV. Which on the one hand I find very intimidating - because it would have to be centered around her worry and her gradual mix of denial and panic, where she is almost lying to herself.

2. Training accident with Ser Crispy (morningstars are dangerous) Title TBD. Or it might just be 'Morning(star).' I think this would be a two shot - with Ser Crispy and Aegon each narrating their very different accounts what would basically be the same events. I also think Alicent's POV would be great here, but I want her POV for the first story and I think Aegon could be very interesting as well.

3. Daemon pulls a Laertes during sparing practice. Title TBD. This would also probably be a two shot. Daemon and Rhaenyra would be the two POV characters, and this would Daemon in all his wrathful bastardly glory. He's going to be in love with Rhaenyra. But he's not going to be a good person.

4. Rhaenys uses blood magic to make Aemond kill himself [she's less theatrical than Daemon though] so Rhaena can have Vhagar 'Stolen (back)' This would be a one shot with Rhaenys as the POV character. And I think poor Vhagar may end up being rather instrumental in it all (in more ways than as just motivation), but that's by no means set in stone.

5. The Blacks show up after they find out what's happened to Luke and make what Dany did to KL look like a light breeze. 'Ashen wings.' This would probably be four chapters, and I want to model them after the four horsemen of the apocalypse. Baela as the Conquorer, Jace as War, [TBD as Famine], and Rhaena as Death. Jace is the most wrathful one, Baela vengeful but not quite as much as Jace, and Rhaena with a more detached perspective because she would be almost an outside POV as she wouldn't be in the actual attack on KL (at least at first). Also I want to get the line 'The best defense is a good offence' from Daemon in some form at some point.

So for Famine - Joffrey feels too young. I'm almost tempted to have Corlys be Famine given House Velaryon's control over trade in the Dragonstone/Driftmark/King's Landing area. Also Rhaena could be Famine and then I would have Helaena as Death. But I'm slightly terrified to try and write Helaena's POV.

+1. Aemond hates Aegon's guts for the pig incident and runs off to the Free Cities instead of doing his part for Team Green. 'The tree remembers.' This would be a one shot from Aemond's POV. Helaena is very an important character here. This one may end up being an au where Aegon didn't show up to his own wedding so Aemond married Helaena in his place - if so she and their kids are coming with Aemond.

-------

Ideas that are being relegated to independent one shots:

Aemond sides with Rhaenyra out of pure spite cause he hates Aegon's guts. This would be kind of cracky.

One of Daemon's less savory 'friends' gets Aemond while he is searching for Aegon. This would be an aftermath fic where the Blacks are on Dragonstone having been presented with the sapphire and are trying to figure out what to do.

OC [Daemon's bastard] kills him over Storm's End. 'A fell voice in the air.' We never got to see how scary Daenys could be in Four Dragons. This would probably be looking at three chapters - Daenys, Aemond, Daemon?. Also Storm's End is likely to be harmed in the making of this fic.

Daemon [+/- OC?] flies around burning stuff and gets the drop on Aemond. 'Hunter (Hunted)' The other candidate for the line 'the best defense is a good offense.'

Any thoughts?

#hotd fic #hotd fic ideas #my fic ideas #do people like these posts of me working out my thoughts for fic?#also I really need to get back to the Valyrian culture fic for second conquest #too many fics and too little time

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separatist-apologist · 11 months

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Still A Sunbeam

Summary: As a child, Elain Archeron is pushed into a pond by the heir to the Day Courts throne, Lucien Spell-Cleaver, and vows she'll never forgive him for it. But as an adult, Elain finds that if she wants out of an arranged marriage to a Spring Court prince, she will need Day Court's help. More is at stake than a decades-old rivalry, and when their home is threatened, Elain and Lucien will have to set aside old differences and work together

Elain woke to Lucien drooling against her neck, his cock rigid against her backside. It was tempting to roll over, hike up her night dress, and take what he was offering. Instead of doing so, Elain reached for his arm and pulled herself closer.

“Good morning,” Lucien whispered roughly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Elain twisted so she could look at him. Tangled red hair and sleep stained eyes greeted her. She liked him best like this—as far as Elain knew, no one else had access to the prince when he was like this. Maybe for a few brief moments before he’d kicked them out of his bed, but never so frequently, and for as long as she did.

“You’re in my bed again,” Lucien added when Elain only offered him a smile.

“I like your bed,” Elain told him, stretching out her legs for emphasis.

“Should I have your pink sheets put against my mattress?” he asked with that easy, lazy grin.

“Only if you feel compelled to.”

“Oh, I feel very compelled, Elain. Maybe I’ll do a little renovating while you’re gone.”

Heart pounding with delight, Elain kissed just beneath his jaw. “What kind of renovating?”

Lucien pressed a finger to her lips. “That’s a secret, pretty princess. My gift to my mate when she returns—”

“Lucien, if you hang a mirror above the bed I swear to the mother above I’ll—”

His hand covered her mouth, though his laughter did a good job drowning out the rest of her threat. Elain couldn’t find it in her to be irritated when he looked so happy.

“That is the best idea you’ve ever had,” Lucien told her, looking up at the canopy above them. “I could arrange that with ease.”

“But you won’t,” Elain replied, poking him in the stomach. Lucien didn’t agree, and Elain worried she’d just given him an idea he’d never shake and for the rest of her life, there would always be a mirror above the bed they shared while her mate cajoled her to climb atop him so he could watch himself every time they came together.

Lucien's smile made no promises. Elain sighed, though in truth she couldn’t really be angry with him. If that was the worst thing he did, she considered herself lucky. All he wanted was to watch her, which was much better than the alternatives. Lucien hadn’t said a word about children, which was something Killian had mentioned so often to her growing up that she knew exactly how many he wanted.

“Lucien?” Elain asked, lost to that thought. He nipped at her neck, rubbing the hard length of his cock against her hip. “Do you want children someday?”

Lucien was across the room so quickly Elain couldn’t track the movement. Back pressed to the wall, chest heaving, Lucien asked, “Why would you ask me that?”

Elain inhaled, drinking in his shifting scent. “Are you scared?”

Ashen faced, Lucien said, “No. Just…why are you asking me?”

“Because it seems like something I should know,” she replied reasonably. This was the easiest she’d ever gotten him out of bed. She’d have to remember, maybe suggest she wanted a child whenever Lucien wouldn’t budge.

“I ah…I do,” he finally said, his words careful. “Someday,” he added, emphasizing the word heavily. “Maybe when I’m a few centuries old? Do ah…do you?”

Elain could have kissed him for that. In fact, she would, she decided as she swung her legs out of the bed. Lucien tracked her every movement, his wild eyes guarded. Elain pressed her palm against his bare chest, surged upward on her tiptoes, and kissed his cheek.

“Someday,” she agreed.

“Did you ask me that so I’d let you out of bed?” The outrage in his tone made Elain laugh.

“Of course not. You think I’d be so devious I’d trick my own mate out of bed when kicking him with my cold feet works just as well?”

“Cruel,” Lucien chided, darting forward so he could pull her against his chest. “Very cruel, Elain. I was going to let you go, you know. After I had my fill…”

“Lucien,” she tried, her protest weak even to her own ears. Mouth dragging over the back of her neck, his hands sliding up her thigh, Lucien murmured. “Elain?”

“Stop,” she whispered, not meaning any part of it. It had been too long, she decided, since she’d felt the pleasure of his touch. If she was about to go off to Autumn, maybe it would be nice to have this memory of him as a reminder of what was waiting when she returned.

“Stop?” he asked, pulling his hand away from where she wanted it. “Was that what you said?”

Elain arched her neck back, eyes fluttering shut. “Don’t stop, Lucien.”

“That’s what I thought I heard,” he breathed, his words shifting to a groan when his finger found the wetness already gathering between her legs. “Get on the bed, Elain.”

She just barely made it to the edge before Lucien was on his knees, pushing up her night dress while dragging her legs up over his naked shoulders. He pressed a twin set of kisses against her inner thigh, holding her gaze for just a moment. It was a silent question, waiting a heartbeat for her to tell him no—and Elain’s silent permission to do whatever he liked within reason.

Without another word spoken, Lucien lowered his mouth and Elain closed her eyes.

When she was alone, she sometimes wondered if it was wrong to let Lucien touch her the way he did. And then he’d kiss her and Elain would forget all about those old fears—the lessons hammered against her skull that her body belonged only to her future husband, and not herself. That she was supposed to wait and keep herself pure for his enjoyment.

If she’d wanted to, Elain could have convinced herself rather easily that she’d done just that. Lucien would be her husband eventually. He was her mate, after all. It seemed to track that Lucien would ask her to be his wife after she accepted the bond, and Elain would have done exactly as she’d been told.

Lucien’s tongue slid up her body, emptying her of the realization that, despite her best efforts, Elain was still giving herself solely to one male for the rest of her life. Lucien gave her no time to really untease that, ravenous as usual. Elain writhed at the feel of his tongue sliding up and down her clit. Lucien wasn’t wasting time today, well aware she still needed to bathe and dress before she could leave him.

And, she guessed, he was hoping for a little reciprocation. Elain was happy to provide him that, if only to leave him with the memory of how sweet his mate was when he was lying awake at night lonely. She’d keep him from the orgies, if nothing else.

Threading her fingers through his hair, Elain held Lucien closer. Spreading her legs, Elain offered Lucien access to all of her, pleased when he slid two of his fingers into her with a soft, whimpering groan. It was tempting to pull him over her, to through caution to the wind and offer herself up fully.

And she’d never leave. Instead, Elain planted her heels on his shoulders, rolling and grinding her hips against him to chase the heady pleasure washing over her. Lucien licked with a ravenous, desperate hunger that all but consumed her.

“More,” she pleaded, encouraging him to speed his thrusting fingers and lapping tongue. Lucien was quite talented, working himself in tandem so he rubbed some inner place that made Elain writhe and squirm. Release crested, drawing her higher and higher until she broke apart with a sob into the blanket to keep the whole palace from hearing them.

It was one thing for his parents to know what they were doing and another for them to hear it, after all. Thighs squeezed tight around her face, Elain forced Lucien to ride her through her orgasm until she was sated and spent, trembling from the aftershocks. Only then did he pull back, wiping the back of his mouth on his hand.

“In case one of my brothers try something,” he panted, leaning over her for a kiss. “I want you to remember that.”

“You think I’d fool around with one of your brothers?” she gaped, fingers trailing down his bare chest. Lucien shuddered.

“No,” he whispered when she found the drawstring of his sleep pants. “But I think they’d still try.”

“I’m not tempted,” she replied, pulling his very rigid cock from his pants. “Though…”

“Yes?” he rasped, sliding his fingers in her hair as they traded places. It was Elain on her knees now, staring up at the prince watching her through half-lidded eyes.

“Before the bond snapped, I had been thinking that I’d like to sleep with a male who wouldn’t one day be my husband.”

Lucien choked as Elain licked the underside of his shaft.

“What?” he replied, dazed and clearly confused. “You want…someone else?”

“Experience,” she replied, though she wasn’t even sure if that was true anymore. And because she was embarrassed for having even said that at all, Elain took him into her mouth in an attempt to erase the thought from his mind. After their argument the night before, Elain wondered if this was the wrong time to tell him.

Lucien threw his head back. “You want to get married?” he panted.

Was that all he heard? Elain couldn’t exactly respond given how tight his fingers were gripping her hair, pulling her further down his shaft until the heavy crown of his cock was pressed against the back of her throat.

Lucien was watching her though.

“The parties,” Lucien breathed, tangling knots in her hair. “If you let me watch, I…” he trailed off, whimpering softly when she gently grazed her teeth against the sensitive flesh of his cock.

Lucien was so absurd, she thought affectionately. He was going to give her what she wanted regardless. Mating bond or not, marriage or not, Elain suspected Lucien still would have allowed her this if they’d just been courting. It had never occurred to her that this was done in Day Court—one did not need to be single in order to enjoy all it offered.

She didn’t know if she was ready for that, though she liked he was giving her the option. And clearly imagining it, if his heaving chest and breathless moans were any indication. What fantasies did her mate harbor, she wondered? And what would it be like to spend centuries unraveling and exploring them? Elain had no imagination for it other than just being beneath him, but perhaps once she grew accustomed to wanting pleasure, she’d have them, too.

Lucien came with a grunt, pupils big and blown out. Just in time, given how badly her knees had begun to ache. Elain didn’t know how Lucien could stand to be down as long as he was and was grateful when he reached for her arms, pulling her effortlessly to her feet.

He kissed her fervently—desperately. Elain suspected he liked the taste of himself in her mouth though he’d never said so. It was a territorial thing. She was his and he was hers—and everyone knew because his scent was all over her. A scent she’d need to wash off vigorously if she wanted to keep Beron Vanserra from learning the truth and ratting her out. Elain would need to be careful when it came time to tell her family.

And she’d need an accepted bond to soften the blow.

That was for another day, though. Get through Autumn, accept her mating bond, and then she’d worry about her mother.

“I need to take a bath, Lucien,” she whispered, kissing him again just for good measure. Just because she could and because she wanted to.

Lucien groaned, pressing his forehead against her own. “What am I supposed to do without you for a whole week?”

“Try behaving yourself,” she suggested, poking him gently in the ribs.

“No promises,” Lucien replied.

It was on the tip of her tongue to say more. To tell him the true depth of her feelings and what she thought had begun to bloom between them. Elain didn’t dare, if only to prevent him from begging her to stay with him. Instead, she kissed his cheek.

“Will you see me out?”

“Nothing could keep me,” he replied, ushering her out the door with an easy smile. “Go, before you’re late.”

Elain slipped out, looking over her shoulder to find him leaning against the door, arms crossed over his chest as he watched her go.

I love you.

She almost said it.

LUCIEN:

Elain and Arina swanned out in long-sleeved gowns too ugly for even his mother to comment on. Lucien hadn’t dared to touch her, spelled carefully by Arina so the High Lord of Autumn would scent only what she wanted him to. It was dangerous to let Eris’s mate walk into the Forest House and Arina could not be dissuaded.

Even when Helion warned her that the laws of Autumn differed from those in Day. If Beron or Eris demanded she stay, Helion would not be able to intervene. Arina had agreed which made Lucien suspicious. It might have been a mystery worth untangling had someone different not come knocking on the front door of the Sun Palace.

Rhysand. Oozing darkness and starry eyed and wholly overdressed in that black and silver tunic of his. He was closer to Lucien’s fathers age, and had been friends with Helion before his own father became High Lord.

It was like the mother was listening to him and decided to directly intervene. Lucien stepped in front of Rhysand, ignoring the sly smirk that graced the prince of Night’s features. “Little Lucien,” he said with a sneering smile, as though they were matched for height. Lucien didn’t bother to roll his eyes.

“Why are you here?”

“My business is with your father,” Rhysand replied, looking around Lucien’s body. “Where is he?”

“Busy,” Lucien lied. He had no idea where his father was. “I have a question for you.”

Rhysand arched one of his brows. “Oh? What could you possibly need from little old me?”

“I heard you were housing Feyre Archeron,” Lucien began, watching Rhysand carefully. The prince’s violet gaze sharpened, his expression shadowed to hide whatever he was thinking.

“And?”

“How is it going?” Lucien demanded, foregoing subtly for honesty.

Rhysand was utterly rigid. “Fine, I presume. I rarely see the princess.”

Liar. He was far too uncomfortable, too tense, for a male who never saw her. Lucien had heard the rumors, too.

“So she isn’t refusing to return to Spring?” Lucien questioned, crossing his own arms over his bare chest.

“Is that what you’ve heard? Killian, I presume? Sniffing around for information from sweet Elain Archeron? Where is she, anyway?”

“Autumn,” Lucien said flatly.

“She’ll fit right in,” Rhysand murmured thoughtfully. “What else has he told you?”

So Rhysand didn’t know about Elain, then. Good. Lucien didn’t let up, though internally he relaxed ever so slightly. Whatever rumors existed between himself and Elain were contained to the seasonal courts and Killian’s own jealousy.

“That you’ve corrupted the princess,” Lucien lied, wondering if Rhysand could tell. “That you and your warriors have stolen the other two Archeron’s and don’t intend to return them.”

Rhys’s slick smile returned. “Maybe they’ve decided they enjoy darkness more than pretty flowers.”

“She could leave?”

Rhysand shrugged. “If she wished. She’s not our prisoner but our guest. And despite what Killian has been whispering in his betrothed’s ear, Feyre came to me for aid and little more.” Lucien opened his mouth to ask what sort of aid Rhysand was providing but his father rounded the corner, eyes bright.

“Rhys!” Helion called, his delight plain. “You made it.”

Rhysand smiled again, slick as ever. “Just making conversation with your charming son.”

Helion nodded at Lucien, beckoning for Rhysand to follow him. Dismissed without so many words and though Rhysand likely thought he’d given Lucien nothing useful, he’d given him plenty. Feyre hadn’t been stolen but had escaped, harbored by a solar court at the far reaches of Prythian. No one went through Night’s borders and came back to talk about it. Lucien hadn’t been, though he knew his father had seen the court and didn’t particularly care for it.

What was rotting in Spring? Lucien was desperate to learn, and the only way to find out the truth of it was to go to Spring himself. Lucien, of course, had no intention of doing so. He could pump Elain for information when she returned regarding what might have made Feyre run off and piece it all together.

Her sister marrying a Night Court prince certainly helped him. If a mother had to choose between himself and Rhysand, who wouldn’t prefer Lucien Spell-Cleaver? That was what Lucien told himself, anyway, as he meandered aimlessly. He couldn’t remember how he’d used to spend his time before Elain, though surely he had hobbies.

Friends, too.

He’d intended to make his way to the courtyard and see if there was someone he could bully into sparring. Instead, Lucien found his mother in a floppy hat, gardening sheers in hand and surrounded by a cloud of bees. Lucien might have escaped her notice had he not been stung—or had he not shouted fuck, ow! Loud enough it drew her attention.

“Lucien,” she said, eyes bright with delight. “I was hoping I’d see you this morning.”

“Oh?” Despite the bees and the heat, Lucien couldn’t disappoint his mother. Not after what Eris had said. He inched closer, the soles of his sandals slapping loudly against the burning sandstone beneath.

“You’ve been busy,” she said, turning her face to face him. Lucien caught her pink cheeks burning in the sunlight, just barely concealed beneath the wide-brim hat she wore. “But with Elain gone, I thought we might have a chance to speak.”

“About her?”

“Yes,” his mother agreed, dropping back to a crouch before her bushes. “I know how…heady…a mate can be. And how terrifying, too.”

“You were excited about her just yesterday,” Lucien reminded her, kneeling in the dirt beside his mother. “You promised me a wedding.”

“So I did,” she said with a smile. “But it occurred to me late last night that you’re still my son and you might be feeling how I did when the bond snapped between your father and I.”

“Which was what?” Lucien asked curiously. All he’d ever heard was their shared joy, though he supposed there was probably a little more to it.

“Fear,” she admitted, reaching for a small spade. “So much fear. I spent a good year pretending I felt nothing at all, and when I couldn’t deny the pull, I…”

Horror wove its way through Luciens’ chest. “Why are you telling me this?”

“You two haven’t accepted,” his mother replied, careful not to look at him.

“We’re still getting to know each other,” Lucien told her, though in truth it wasn’t his choice. He would have accepted that minute in Summer if Elain had wanted. His mother didn’t understand, but his father would—Lucien was at her mercy. The laws of Day, like all the solar courts, required males to wait on their female mates. If Elain wanted to draw things out, she could and Lucien was bound by laws far older than him.

She’d promised him a week, and Lucien believed her. But even if she’d promised a century, he would have waited. What was a week, a month, a hundred years in the face of eternal life?

His mother drew a soft breath. “It’s okay not to want the bond–”

“I want it,” Lucien interrupted, panic flooding through him. “I want her. I—”

I love her, though that revelation was too new to be spoken out loud. His mother glanced toward him, russet eyes sparkling in the sunlight. “Was it difficult to leave Autumn?”

Pain shuttered her expression. He regretted asking such an obvious question. Of course it had. That was why Eris was always stomping around, pissed she’d left? And why his mother let him when she’d have been better served keeping him far, far away from her new home?

“Yes,” she told him. “I still miss it. Someday…” She didn’t finish that sentence, nor did Lucien force her to. He knew what she hoped for. Beron would die and she’d be able to return and see what remained of her family and visit her sons rather than force them to constantly come to Day where they didn’t belong.

“Someday,” Lucien agreed. Would Elain ever be allowed home, or would the High Lords sons shun her entirely? He’d never really considered what accepting the bond might mean. Lucien vowed to ask, and to work to keep things between himself and Killain civil for Elain’s sake.

Easier said than done, Lucien told himself as his mother roped him into weeding the little patch she was working on. By the time Lucien escaped to the cool air of the palace, sweat was sliding down his back. He was disgusting and grateful Elain wasn’t around to see him brought so low by his own mother.

“Lucien Spell-Cleaver.”

Dread pooled in Lucien’s gut. Turning his head, he found himself face to face with the second and fourth sons of Spring—Killian and Tamlin. Tamlin, at least, looked properly embarrassed while Killian looked self-righteous as ever.

Elain’s intended. Handsome, statuesque Killian, dressed immaculately in robin's egg blue. Tamlin stepped back a step, content to watch his older brother cross the marble floors of the sun palace as though he owned it.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Lucien heard himself saying. Rhysand was here, now Killian…there better be a war just outside their doorstep for two princes to be gracing their territory all at once.

“I’ve come on urgent business,” Killian replied, hand sliding in his pocket. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck—

“Which is what, exactly?” Lucien demanded, catching the eye of several lingering courtiers. Go, he ordered silently. Get the High Lord.

Whether they understood the look in his eye or not remained to be seen.

“Where is Elain?” Killian asked instead, looking at Lucien like he was nothing of consequence. A servant to be ordered around. Lucien felt his hackles rising at the thought of another male alone with his mate. He’d kill Killian. “Not here.”

Green eyes pierced through Lucien. “Excuse me?”

Letting her leave had been the right thing, he decided. Killian’s fury was a palpable thing, causing his youngest brother to shrink back with unmistakable fear. Killian had come, based on rumors, to secure Elain and Elain, the sweet, clever thing, had thwarted him yet again. Pride warred with fury. He loved her for leaving just as he hated Killian for figuring out a way to trap her.

Lucien took a careful step toward Killian. “You heard me. She’s gone. Our females are allowed to do that here.”

“Where did she go?”

Lucien shrugged. “If you’d arranged this visit with the High Lord and Lady of Day, you’d know. They oversee her education, after all—”

“But you know,” Killian hissed furiously. “You know exactly where she is.”

Lucien smiled. “I suggest you take this matter up with the High Lord, as is the law. And I would tread very carefully, prince. My father may be good natured, but he is still High Lord.”

How Lucien wished his father would imprison Killian, even for a night, for his arrogance. He wouldn’t, but Lucien could dream. As far as things went, though, Lucien still outranked Killian. He was heir, Killian was merely a spare son and little more. He turned his back, a dismissal that earned him a soft snarl. Lucien could have had him punished for that, too—it sounded just threatening enough to make his case.

He might have walked away had Killian not said, “There are rumors about the two of you. That you’ve compromised her.”

Lucien laughed. “Is that why you’ve come? To check her maidenhead? I assure you, prince, if the lady has divested herself of it, it was not done by my hand…or any other part of me.”

Not yet, he wanted to say. Though Elain might still choose to take another lover before she returned to him and as long as Lucien couldn’t scent that male on her skin, he’d pretend he didn’t care.

“What is going on between the two of you?” Killian’s voice trailed after him, boots echoing off the stone. “I want—”

“You!” Tamlin’s voice kept Lucien and Killian from their messy, near-violent showdown. If Killain got much closer, he’d scent Elain on Lucien’s skin and piece things together. Rhysand, turning a corner with Lucien’s father, had accidentally spared Lucien.

Unlike Lucien, who was determined to lie until he couldn’t, Rhys seemed happy to lean into Tamlin’s accusation.

“Me,” he said with a courtier's smile. He was slicker than the warrior-born Spring heirs—meaner, too, if Lucien had to guess. Far older than Tamlin, who was a couple decades older than Lucien.

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

“What are you doing here?” Lucien’s father added, his voice rich with recrimination. “You have no right to step into my home without an invitation.”

“I’m here to see my future wife—”

A snarl ripped through Lucien unbidden, earning a look of triumph from Killain. He turned as though to say I knew it!

“What is it with Spring Court males and rejection?” Rhysand asked, picking at a stray thread at his sleeve. “If a female begs another court to take her in, that's a hint she does not want to live with you.”

“Where have you hidden Feyre?” Tamlin demanded, clearly deciding he’d take the Night Court prince. “You will tell me or—”

“Or what?” Rhysand purred, advancing on them both. Shadow rippled around him, blotting out the bright daylight pouring in through the atrium overhead. “Will you force her home? Force her to marry you when she has stated plainly she doesn’t want you?”

“You’ve brainwashed—”

It was Rhysand’s turn to snarl, his handsome face slipping into a mask of nightmares, so grotesque that even the High Lord of Day blanched at the sight.

“OUT!” It was Helion who spoke the words, his magic punching them all in the chest. Lucien stumbled back a step, excluded from that formal warning.

“This is war,” Tamlin whispered to Rhysand, stepping backward because he had to. Killain, too, was looking at Lucien with accusation though Lucien hardly cared. Elain was safe in Autumn and bound to his mother through some magical agreement Killain couldn’t violate without killing Elain. He waved, grinning as the brothers all but sprinted for the exit, forced out by whatever his father had put in his order.

That should have been the end of it. Lucien intended to send a warning to Elain just to be safe, but halted when Rhysand turned back to his father. The mask was gone, replaced only with a look of desperation.

“Please,” the prince of Night whispered. “She’s my mate.”

His father drew a breath.

“If it comes to war, of course we’ll stand with you.”

Rhysand nodded his head, not daring to look at Lucien.

“Thank you.”

War.

Over one female.

Lucien wondered if his father had agreed not because he thought Rhysand was in the right, but because he suspected a similar declaration would be levied against Lucien, too.

But while Rhysand was filled with obvious relief, Lucien only felt horror. Feyre Archeron might be content to remain in Night, even if the High Lord of Spring declared she had to return and marched his armies to their borders, Elain would not. She would go home, bond or not, and marry Killian to prevent any suffering on her behalf.

And all Lucien could do was pray it wouldn’t come to that.

#elucien #a little pleasure & a little pain #plus a set up for where my chapters are going #WHEW this has taken a hot minute

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blueaiyuice · 5 months

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mk1 x fe3h continues - ashen wolves!

dlc-locked content is here! the ashen wolves are located in an underground sect of the church known as the flesh pits, named after shang tsung's lab place in mk1-ish. the flesh pits are more anarchical than anything, but these four are the ones people listen to the most, so they have more power underground than anyone. coming from different regions all over the continent of kombat, their histories have not been pleasant...

while they don’t have their own actual route, they do still get their non-canon route of cindered shadows. how that works hasn’t been thought up of yet since idk whod make a good aelfric but shhh

everyone here is recruitable—yes, even reptile! as they don’t have their own route, kenshi can just pick them up after certain chapters (2, 3, 4, and 5 for baraka, nitara, havik, and reptile consecutively)

next is the church of edenia? outworld? ive still yet to name the church pls help

#mortal kombat 1 #mk1 #fe3h #mk1 x fe3h #mortal kombat headcanons #uriurithoughts #reptile mk #syzoth #baraka #havik #nitara

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em-writes-stuff-sometimes · 10 months

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gevivys (beauty) │ Chapter 8: Triumph

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 │Chapter 9 │Chapter 10 (COMPLETE!)

Synopsis: Daemon returns to King's Landing after ten years in exile, intent on rekindling his affair with Rhaenyra. He wasn't expecting you - the revelation changes everything.

Hello, everyone! Can’t stop, won’t stop! This is a minor edit of the OG chapter, so nothing too new here beyond the odd word change or punctuation adjustment. I’m reasonably confident I’m almost done with the instalment, and after that, it’ll be really minor grammar/style edits and High Valyrian switchouts for the remainder of my series. THEN, I can get into writing new instalments! YAY! Thank you, as always, to my #1 gal, my slap daddy @ewanmitchellcrumbs for giving this the stamp of approval.

TRIGGERS: incest, purity culture, violence, age gap.

Daemon spends the next few days in hiding, taking his meals in his chambers and refusing to venture outside the safe haven of its four walls.

Considering just how many people he had managed to piss off in the space of a single evening, it is probably for the best. He has to admit that, by the third day, the room feels as though it’s closing in on him. That being said, he has little wish to force his company on you after how frightened you had looked, or risk being murdered on sight if either his brother or oldest niece catch a glimpse of him anywhere near you. The fact that he had so thoroughly broken off relations with his old crowd leaves him with little alternative than to remain concealed, out of sight and mind.

Yes, it is best to wait, to let the outcome play itself out. Until Viserys deigns to speak to him again—until he gathers the will to approach you—here he shall remain.

He spends his time reading the old histories, fetched readily by his attending servants. Immersing himself in tales of the Conqueror, the Fall of Ghis, the Doom, he ponders upon his ancestry.

It is a sobering thought, he concludes, to consider how far House Targaryen had risen since the Old Days, from minor dragonlords to rulers of an entire continent.

And yet, for all the power they had amassed, they are all but alone in carrying the memory of their true home. The Freehold is now nothing more than smoking ruins and ashen horizons and fairy stories mothers tell to frighten their children.

It is a day similar to any other when he receives a knock upon the door. Given that the servants tap gently, the domineering pounding upon the wooden surface can only mean that his self-imposed isolation has come to an end. Sighing, he abandons the book and removes himself from the desk, striding over to the entry to reveal his guest.

Daemon had been expecting a member of the Kingsguard. He finds Rhaenyra.

“May I come in?” she asks, hands clasped before her and face impassive. He nods, obligingly standing aside. His niece stops in the middle of the room and turns to face him. It is fascinating that the sight of her no longer arouses the same ardour and shame and torment it had once done, just the throb of an old hurt on a rainy day. “You’ve been avoiding us.”

He chuckles, closing the door. “I had thought that was rather obvious. I didn’t think anyone would particularly enjoy my presence, seeing as I traumatised my poor sweet niece by attacking her suitor in the hallway.”

He focuses his gaze upon the window past her head, unable to look her in the eye.

She huffs a breath. “He deserved it.” She pauses; hesitates. “She’s… confused. And upset.”

His chest tightens at the information.

“I know,” he says quietly. For all his bluster, he had no wish to distress you or see you distressed, and now it seems he is the very cause of it. “I hadn’t intended… well, I suppose it doesn’t matter now.”

“Why?” Rhaenyra blurts, seemingly having paid little attention to his words.

Her utterance is too sudden, too abrupt after the conclusion of his sentence to be motivated by anything other than the wounds of the past. He focuses upon her face properly, frowning lightly when he absorbs the expression of hurt confusion upon it. She steps forward, her composure breaking somewhat in the slump of her shoulders and the relaxing of her spine.

It all comes spilling out in a rush—every question, every thought, every hurt she must have carried in her soul since he left, waiting for the perfect moment to unleash itself upon his ears.

“Why her? Why me? Why did you leave me there, in that whorehouse, with no means of protection and no way to get home? Why did you bother coming to my wedding, to tell me not to marry Laenor only to turn around and disappear when I begged you to take me away? Why have you returned now, after ten years, only to immediately fixate upon my little sister, one of the few pure things in my life, and seek to mar her the way you did me—”

“You were a child.”

She barks out a laugh, an ugly, twisted thing, and throws up her hands. “So is she! She’s a girl, Daemon, a girl who knows even less about the capriciousness of men than I did at her age! Is it any wonder I am so protective over her?”

“You demean her.” He leans back against the wall as he surveys her critically. “She’s more intelligent than anyone gives her credit for.”

“Oh, please! You know very well that book learning and worldly knowledge aren’t the same thing!” She stops; sighs. Her hand comes up to clasp the bridge of her nose in consternation. “I didn’t come here to yell at you again.”

“That’s news to me,” is his sardonic counter.

He feels the old guilt and self-loathing rise up again. She isn’t wrong. He has committed grievous acts against his own blood, acts he has never apologised for. And you are innocent, pure in a way that he is almost averse to contaminating, but his very nature will not allow him to resist the temptation of leading you down the path of passion.

“I was cruel to you,” he says. “I… You never deserved what I did to you that night. But I cannot wish that it never happened, because it’s led us to who we are today. And isn’t that something?”

He comes forward to clasp her face in his hands and stares down at the face of his niece, the Realm’s Delight, his regret and love and hate all tangled into one incomprehensible entity. He presses a kiss to the top of her head, the way he used to when she was a child, and she wilts into his arms the way she did when her mother passed. They stand there, embracing finally as niece and uncle. He almost thinks he can feel some fractured part of him knit back together.

“Do you love her, Uncle?” she whispers, the cadence childish in the way that it was when everything was simple, uncomplicated, free from darkness or loss or despair. The sound is muffled in his chest, but he hears it all the same.

He hesitates, thinking upon you—your bright grin, your pale hair, your free laughter and the sound of your voice, the curve of your body and the way you look up at him, void of disgust or abhorrence. It makes both his cock and his chest ache.

“It’s more complicated than that.” His hand pats against her back comfortingly as he had done when he was himself young, her merely a wailing babe refusing to lay down to sleep. “I will not lie and claim feelings that aren’t there, but… when she looks at me, I feel as though she sees the best parts of who I am. It’s easy to pretend there’s still something good... left.”

“You’re still good, Daemon, no matter what you’ve done,” Rhaenyra says, jabbing him quickly between the ribs in his back. Her nails fucking sting.

He tugs her hair playfully in remonstration, breathing a laugh. “Cheeky. I’ve spent so much of my life being the cause of anger, hate, destruction… I want to be someone’s happiness. I want to be her happiness.”

Rhaenyra pulls away from him, wiping at her eyes. He is saddened and yet cognisant of the tear that had escaped unbidden, the years of uncertainty and suffering finally earning their release. When she smiles at him, it is a mixture of despondency and contentment—two such warring emotions—that lifts the corners of her mouth.

“I won’t lie and say it isn’t painful to hear you talk about her like she’s… I don’t know. Something worth fighting for, perhaps. But… I’m happy for you.”

She is quiet, earnest as she looks at him. Daemon is warmed by it. He hadn’t been asking for her approval, nor had he been expecting it, but to hear something almost approaching a blessing is a relief. One down…

“But you need to talk to her. She has no idea what’s going on. And if you mean to follow through with it—marry her and all—you can’t just arrange it through Father. It’s her life, and she has the right to refuse you. She pats him lightly on the shoulder as she passes him, walking back the way she had entered.

She turns to face him, smirk adorning her visage, a glint of steel in her eyes. “And know this. You will treat her well, or there shall be no men, dragons or gods that will save you from my wrath.”

Seven fucking hells.

“Understood.” He nods solemnly. His eldest niece really is a force to be reckoned with. She’ll make a fine ruler one day.

“And Daemon?” Rhaenyra beams suddenly, looking the very picture of unblemished youth. “Thank you.” It sweeps out of her, a burst of closure washing away the sins of the past.

She lets herself out.

It is a peculiar echo of their first meeting when he finally ventures out of his chambers in search of you, avoiding all curious stares and titillating whispers as he wanders through the Keep. He is once more relegated to searching the usual haunts, being both unable and unwilling to seek out Ser Harrold after the events of their previous encounter. Stopping by the library and the Hightower spawns’ rooms, there is little to be found.

Eventually, he happens upon the familiar tense stance of Cole, again guarding the entrance to the garden. Ah. There she is.

This time, he strides straight past the knight, not even bothering to posture to him today. He’s unimportant, a waste of his time—he’ll be damned if he expends his energy matching wits with a lowly knight from the Stormlands. This time, you are alone, sitting under the shade of the pavilion. Your legs swing under the bench as you stare pensively out at the trees, the hedges, the flowers.

Again, he calls your name. Again, your head snaps up to face him.

You are markedly more cautious as he makes his way forward, shifting uncomfortably as he takes a seat beside you. Daemon makes sure to leave acceptable space for fear of you running off. He waits for you to initiate the discussion, to take power for yourself where he had stolen it some days prior.

You sit in measured silence for a beat. Your breath hitches as you make abortive attempts to engage with him.

“Lord Tyrell is most aggrieved,” you say finally, quietly, uncertainly.

His nose flares softly. “He dishonoured you,” Daemon takes care not to allow annoyance to seep into his tone. I don’t give a fuck about the Tyrells. “He deserved it.”

“He reacted to the situation. One you placed him in, Uncle.”

Your response is quick, instantaneous, the effect lost by the picture you make as you stare resolutely at your wringing hands. It is your usual indication of anxiety, twisting and winding your fingers together to self-soothe, a babe clutching upon their favourite blanket. You bite your lip hard, turning away from him and blinking rapidly.

He murmurs your name.

“I—I thought you… cared about me,” you say, whisper-quiet and mournful. “But you just wanted what all the others wanted.”

“No.” He pulls your hands from your lap, smothering the uneasy motions to cradle your small palms in his own. They are cold again, so he grips them tighter, hoping to transfer the warmth of his skin to yours. “Never say that. Of course I care, sweetest girl—”

He pulls his right hand away to lift your chin from where it is tucked against your collarbone, letting the pangs of contrition wash over him at the sight of your quivering lip. “How could you doubt it?”

You sniffle, try to tug your hands from his own. “You spent time with me—listened to me—gave me things,” you murmur, “and I thought you were interested in me, but you are only looking for the Valyrian wife you have longed for.”

Daemon resists you, forces you to look upon him. It is vexing to know that court gossip had reached your ears already. He hopes that is all you have heard.

“What do you know of my longing, hm?” is what he chooses to say, admonishing your line of thought as gently as he can.

Your reaction is telling. Fuck. She’s learned about the—Fuck.

You flush dark at his words, determinedly breaking eye contact. “They say… they say there was a— who looked like—when you went to Flea Bottom one eve…”

Damn it all. Raising his brow, he tries not to let his uneasiness reveal itself. “And do you believe everything the rabble blather on about among themselves? If there is something you must know, you need only ask.”

Not this, he urges silently. Don’t ask me this.

After a moment’s pause, you nod, though the sceptical manner in which you purse your lips suggests you do not accept his misdirection.

He sighs.

“Look”—he taps you lightly on the nose to distract you, steering the conversation quite decisively from his unsavoury exploits—“you are of fine stock and high birth, it’s true. You possess the qualities I want in a bride. But that is not all you are.” Your eyes cross as they follow the path of his finger and a smile threatens to lift the corner of your lip, easing the sting his words may bring. “You are intelligent, and lovely, and quite possibly the fairest maiden in the Realm.”

You snort lightly, and he teasingly pulls at your hands enclosed in his. Half-charmed and half-uncertain, your expression wavers as you stare up at him. He knows he has almost swayed you. Pressing further, he beseeches you with veiled intensity.

“Marry me,” he says. You blink at him, wide-eyed at the shift. “Stay with me, in the capital, with your family and your tutor and your dragon. Bind yourself to me; bear my children. Be my wife… Say yes to me.”

Your breath hitches at his passionate supplication, swallowing as his hand reaches up once more to lay itself upon your cheek. He bends forward, hardly believing you are allowing him so close to you. He is close enough that he can hear your quick breaths, watch the swell of your breasts above the cut of your gown rise and fall with each exhalation, smell the fragrant rose oil upon your skin. It is intoxicating.

You jerk away lightly, abortively. You are not ready.

“Will you make reparations? To Lord Tyrell?” you whisper, a shy peek of pink tongue venturing out to wet your bottom lip.

Daemon is momentarily stunned at the sight, a wild impulse to push forward and claim that lip with his teeth filling him so quickly and violently that he has to bite the inside of his cheek to will it away. He instead huffs a soft breath at your impertinence, flaring up in that unassuming way of yours even now, doe-eyed and sweet-faced and almost his.

“I’ll give him all the gold in my coffers, sweetling.” He nuzzles gently against the side of your face and revels in the victory that is about to be his. It isn’t too difficult a loss. He’ll remake his fortune quickly enough from the Crown’s annual sum. “You need only say the word.”

“I dislike violence, kepus.” You shiver as his nose nudges softly against yours and withdraw slightly from him. You flick your eyes up to his. “I will not allow unneeded savagery from my husband.”

You are soft-spoken, but the resolve is clear. It is easy to acquiesce to your appeal.

“Then you’ll never have to bear witness to it, unless necessary,” he says, and he cannot help but to add that addendum to his vow. You notice, for your eyes narrow slightly but do not say anything further. He will not curb his nature entirely for you. “Will you trust that I know when it’s needed, little girl?”

You delay, twisting your mouth. Finally, you nod, ever the obedient girl to your elders.

“Good.” He is growing impatient at your stalling, eager to hear the words that have all but spilled forth. “Now—give me your answer. I won’t wait any longer.”

Your reply is an unexpected revelation. “I have… already spoken to Papa.”

How interesting. At least he’s been speaking to someone, Daemon thinks. He’d yet to receive anything but indifference and stony silence from his brother. He pulls back, brow quirked, waiting for you to elaborate.

You shift guiltily in his hold, glancing away momentarily. “Between Jason Lannister, Lord Denys, and Aegon—you are the better option.”

There’s that mischief again. He is overwhelmingly enamoured by it.

There’s a flash of disappointment that you have not professed your desire for him beyond convenience, that you haven’t admitted to being as tortured as he had been over these past weeks, but that is no matter. He has time. He has all the time in the world to make you his, to make himself the axis upon which your world spins. It has been so long since he has felt so completely gratified in his triumph.

I won’t leave you ever again, he swears, releasing his declaration to the winds of fate. You’ll never be alone.

He presses a fervent kiss to your forehead, resting his own upon yours. Thank you, sweet girl. It never leaves his lips, so he tries to convey it through the touch of his skin and the weight of his palm against your neck, solid and real and constant.

The movement feels almost paternal, though the fervour driving it is anything but. It is a twisted, dark amalgamation of father, protector and lover-to-be, a swirl of all the duties he has and will undertake in your life. He supposes the disinclination to separate these roles is what drives such hatred of Valyrian tradition among the folk of Westeros. But he doesn’t care. He cannot care.

He has won.

He waits silently in the Small Council chamber, eyes wandering around the room as he resolutely ignores the irritable eyes upon him. The withered form of King Viserys sits hunched at the head of his table, staring down the row of seats to his brother with jaw set and assessing countenance.

The effect is rather diminished by the frailty of his form. With limp strands that are more greyish than white, scarred and ruined face, missing limbs and hunched spine, the man is a shadow of the once hale and hearty brother he knew. It makes him uncomfortable to be in his presence, a remorse and ache he feels deep in his bones that he cannot lay bare. For all the many censures he has levied against his brother over the years, it is now when faced with his mortality that he loathes the divide that has grown between them, as insurmountable as steel through rock.

“You’ll reside wherever she desires. Here, or Dragonstone, or wherever else she may choose,” the King says, eyes ever watchful.

Nigh on a sennight and not even a greeting. He’d met Northerners less chilly than the King in this moment.

“Yes, Your Grace.” Daemon tries to tamp down the self-satisfaction he must surely be exuding.

The King notices. “You’ll keep her safe and make her happy.” His voice is even terser than before.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“You’ll wed in the Sept, under the faith of the Seven.” He cuts Daemon off before he has a chance to speak. “I’ll brook no discontent from the high lords as to the legality of this… union.” The manner in which he utters this tells Daemon all he needs to know as to his brother’s attitude.

How did she manage to convince him? he wonders. You’d told him nothing of the matter, and none other had been present for whatever argument you had utilised to bend the King to your will. Clever girl.

Viserys is still talking. “They’ll not tolerate a foreign ceremony on top of your relation.”

The point is fair. Though he is sure the King had gone to his own deal of trouble to fulfil your choice, he cannot help that it stings.

“I had hoped to wed my bride in the old ways,” Daemon says.

What is the point of tying a bit of ribbon around a pair of hands and chanting some words over it, the sickly scent of burnt sage wafting in the nose and the shift and rumble of bored guests in the crowd? No—he would much rather join to you as the Conqueror had claimed his wives, an elemental union of blood and spirit that no mortal nor gods could tear asunder.

Viserys grunts. “You’ll wed under the Seven. I care little should you choose to follow it with another rite.” The man stands firm upon his declaration, his tone expressing the antipathy he will not put into words.

Daemon mutters under his breath. It isn’t worth the trouble to protest further. Perhaps his brother is correct—it would be simpler to give the nobles a show of goodwill, get the deed over and done with.

He bends to the wishes of his King. “Fine, Your Grace.”

“Good.” Viserys leans back, chair creaking as he presses against the side of the table and stretches out his remaining limb, the joint cracking noisily. “Then I wash my hands of it.”

Daemon can hear what he does not say. ‘Of you.’ That is what he’d meant. It’ll be some time before the man would forgive him this latest trespass—another decade, maybe. For all his ire over Rhaenyra, this may actually be worse, for at least he’d had an excuse to deny his brother and daughter their desire then. Now, nothing stands in the Rogue Prince’s way.

The King smacks his lips in disquiet, the sound loud in the echoing hush of the room. “I only pray she has made the right choice in you.”

“Thank you, brother.”

There is no value in attempting to reassure Viserys of his intentions, as noble as they are ever like to be. Daemon will simply have to prove his merit through action.

“Let us be done with it, then,” his brother mutters, scraping his chair back as he stands and hobbles out of the room. Daemon inclines his head in deference as he passes, following Viserys through the walkway into the Great Hall.

The hall is packed with the lords and ladies of the Realm, finely accoutred in their silks and their jewels, milling about in preparation for the King’s royal announcement. As he enters the chamber, he can spy the men of station his brother has invited to the day’s proceedings, the high lords of the land they rule: Jason Lannister, appearing well and truly livid at having yet another of his prospective Targaryen brides yanked out from under the yoke of his attentions; Jeyne Arryn, the Maiden of the Vale; the ageing Grover Tully, Lord Paramount of the Trident; Boremund Baratheon and his son, Borros; the beaten visage of Lord Denys, and Daemon has to restrain a smirk as the man glares, a prancing peacock with his feathers ruffled; even Cregan Stark, the twelve-year-old Wolf of the North, has made an appearance in his sickly father’s stead.

He spies you to the left of the throne, past Rhaenyra and her sons, past Laenor cradling the smallest boy in his arms. You stand beside the Hightower bitch and her children. It is a bizarre arrangement—from the look on the Queen’s haughty face as she gazes out at the court, nose turned up at the whispers, it had been her idea. Her hand is on your shoulder, though you pay it no mind. Instead, you have been easily diverted by the inane half-speak of the girl beside you, Viserys’ eldritch offspring with her jumbling rambles and muttered riddles.

She is too easily led, he thinks distastefully. I’ll have to remedy that.

Daemon surveys the assemblage of aristocracy below, noting how lacklustre their attempt to veil their curious goggling and riveted gossip. You have not seen beneath the guise of friendliness offered to you by your lady stepmother. A disappointingly half-witted move; if Her Grace had thought to persuade him to her side by positioning herself as his little niece’s companion, she would be sorely frustrated. Their colouring may be Valyrian, but the spawn of Alicent Hightower were no more Targaryen than the flaxen-haired maid who empties his chamberpot in the mornings. He’d be damned if the fruit of her womb replaced Rhaenyra’s rightful claim.

Viserys climbs the steps to the throne with some effort, having to swing his body to land the last two steps properly. It is no doubt a humiliating spectacle to endure, and he feels a pang of sympathy in his chest. Daemon stops to stand beside Laenor, his cousin and goodnephew by marriage.

Goodbrother also, soon. What a perplexing notion.

Finally, the King turns to face his audience, sitting gingerly upon the seat. He has likely cut his backside again. When he takes his place, the hall quietens, stooping to bend or curtsey in performance of their obeisance.

“I welcome the Lords of the Realm to King’s Landing.” For all the deterioration of his body, there is no doubt that his voice is as strong as ever, the tenor booming through the echoing space. “I have an announcement to make—that of the birth of my grandson, your Prince, Joffrey of House Velaryon, delivered of my heir the Princess Rhaenyra four moons past.”

Daemon glances at Laenor and Rhaenyra, his lips upturning despite himself. Their joy is infectious. His eldest niece affects an aspect of polite gratification, and Laenor beams as the assembly applauds in recognition of the boy’s birth. There are, however, several odd glimpses made toward the proud form of Ser Harwin Strong, stationed ever faithfully at the foot of the steps nearest Rhaenyra. The rumours will never outrun her.

Viserys raises his hand to settle the room once more. “I must also make proclamation of my second-born daughter’s impending nuptials.”

The words carry even louder, a response to the surprised hum that lifts the room. After all, you had only been courting for a small window of time, and it was not yet rumoured that you had a favourite.

“It is my decree that she is to be given in marriage to my brother, Prince Daemon of House Targaryen, son of Baelon and Alyssa of the same House, former King of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea, to continue the strength of our noble heritage and prosper the blood of Old Valyria.”

The shocked gasps and scandalised chatter fill the hall with a wash of racket as he strides down the steps, waiting impatiently for you to descend and meet him at the foot of the throne. It is a practised gesture, but one you must perform, nonetheless. You lift your skirts, scaled black like the heraldry of your shared House, and trail down the stairs at a more sedate pace.

You stop before him and curtsey lightly.

“I welcome the news of this match, my Prince,” you say, your voice ringing out clear despite the evident apprehension swimming in the violet of your eyes.

The din has receded to a low mumble, the court unsure what to make of this unexpected declaration. Daemon bows slowly before you, capturing your hand in his and pressing his lips to your flesh in a motion of aristocratic gentility. He is sure the way he stares upon you is anything but gentlemanly. A flush begins to bloom once again, adorning the pale of your skin.

“I am honoured to receive your hand, Princess.” Though he can hear his own lower tones reverberate in his ears, it is strangely intimate. For a moment, he forgets there are others in the room.

A predictable flutter circulates among the ladies of the court, sighs and murmurs and breathy chatter too far off to discern. He grins as he steps forward to tuck your arm in his own, leading you away from the Queen and her ilk. The court claps, and whether it be in shock or in genuine gladness, he cares not. All he sees is you, brimming with unease and yet clutching to him tightly, his darling girl once more seeking refuge with her fiercest protector.

There, on the steps to the Iron Throne in the Great Hall of the Red Keep, your arm entwined in his, he smiles.

Read on AO3:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/42100623/chapters/106169205

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liverpool-enjoyer · 3 months

Text

tagged by @tl-trashtalk thank you bestie!!!

Rules: In a new post, post the names of all the files in your WIP folder regardless of how non descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them and then post a little snippet or tell us about it. Then tag as many people as you have WIPs. If you don't write, list your art WIPs!

im posting ideas i have in my notes cause i technically only have one wip (i tend to jus work on one thing till its finished like a loser)

UEFA HIGH CHAPTER 13 - TITLE TBD (my only true wip) (n yes the google doc is in all caps cause it makes me feel professional)

mullendowski hanahaki au

alexis joins liverpool 5 + 1

gavi joins liverpool

ace gavi angst piece part two

something vlahesa idk

ashen frost invisible string fic

ashen frost "lucy realizes sylvester lives off tv meals n decides to do something abt it" fic

ashen frost pre-canon violet fic

i also hava FUCK ton of ideas for future uefa high chapters but im not gonna give those away obviously ;))

tagging some writing homies!!! @liverpoolfanfiction @mebiselfandi @sehrgefaelltmir @bobbybecker-21 @almostdeadyesterday

#your asks would be so appreciated hehe #also like two (2) ppl here know what ashen frost is but im including it cause i hava lotta fic ideas for it #PLUS ITS AMAZING PLAY ASHEN FROST

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mimilind · 6 months

Text

Stranger of the Falls - Part 5

Pairing: Boromir x Reader

Rating: T

Chapter Word Count: 2200

Parts: [ < Previous Part ] [ Next Part > ] [ Masterlist ]

Full story: [ AO3 ]

※※※

5. Boromir

The sun did not rise the next morning. Or perhaps it did, but you could not see it through the darkness emanating from the enemy’s realm.

News traveled even more slowly now with the villages so empty of people, but when another day dawned equally dark and sullen as the previous, words reached you that Gondor had lit the famous beacons in the south and sent the Red Arrow urging Rohan to ride to their aid.

You also learned a huge orc army had taken control over the fort at Cair Andros. They were swarming all over both sides of the river and in the cover of the unnatural darkness they plundered storages and burned villages at will.

When Främling heard about it his face became ashen.

“Cair Andros is in Anórien, a Gondor fief,” you said, feigning calmness you did not feel. “Gondor is our mighty ally in the south. They have protected us against Mordor for so long, and I am certain they will succeed this time also, especially with our riders on the way to help. The steward of Gondor is a brilliant statesman they say, and his sons mighty warlords. Together they will settle this. Fear not.”

At his dismayed face you became silent. He was looking at you almost with the same despair as when he first woke up after the accident. “Your king must pass through there,” he droned tonelessly. “In his way to aid Gondor, Théoden has to pass near Cair Andros, but with orcs throughout the lands he will be delayed. Then Gondor stands alone. All hope is lost.”

From the way he spoke you suddenly understood. His dark hair, his wealth. “You come from there. From Gondor.”

He did not meet your eyes.

“Who are you?” you asked again. “Please tell me. I need to know your name in case…” Your voice trailed off and you felt a tear trickle down your cheek.

He softly wiped it away. “I am Boromir, son of Denethor of Gondor.”

“Boromir,” you whispered. The mighty warlord. Here in your village, unable to use his right hand properly. No wonder he had lost hope.

When more tears filled your eyes he drew you to him in a hug. “Forgive me. I should have been there, defending the fort, keeping the enemy at bay. Had I not… But even then, I am not certain we could have– There is this weapon you see. The one I dreamt of. It exists, and if the enemy acquires it then…” His voice trailed off and he drew several breaths. “I am rambling. Do not listen to me. You are right; the war may never reach this remote place, and if it does I will protect you with my life.” He kissed your head. “Do not weep. Nothing will happen.”

But you heard in his voice that he did not even believe that himself.

※

He went out again and soon you saw him in the paddock, brushing the horse, talking in a soothing, soft voice. Svarten did not try to tramp or kick him; he actually seemed to enjoy it.

Vidar sauntered by, his new golden belt gleaming around his waist. You glared at it.

“I am impressed,” said he, indicating Boromir. “Never have I seen a man manage Svarten so well. Lord Främling is an extraordinary horseman.”

“And you owe him,” you retorted. “Do not pretend you were unaware of the value of that belt, yet what you gave him in return was hardly worth a thing. Nobody in their right mind would pay even a penny for Svarten! You should return the belt and lend the horse to him for free.”

Vidar protectively covered the belt with his hands. “Well, enough chit-chat; I have a palisade to guard. Later!” He hurried off.

Annoyed, you turned your attention back to Boromir. He had mounted Svarten and was riding round and round, swinging the sword in his left hand. It did not show that he had been nearly paralyzed not long ago; he sat steady like a rock in the saddle, quite a feat for someone with only one good leg.

It struck you that he no longer needed to stay in your house. You had done what you could for him and he would manage the rest himself with all this exercise.

A bit guiltily, you hoped he wouldn’t realize that himself; you did not want him to move out. You could not stand the thought of being alone at night when everything was so frightening in the world.

Besides, where else could he go? He did not know anyone in the village and it was too dangerous to travel. He was stuck with you.

You thought about the hug and kiss he gave you earlier and wondered what they meant. A gesture of friendship? Or more?

Suddenly you wanted it to be more. Under this strange, frightening darkness, in the midst of war and worry, you wished for a glimmer of happiness. A few stolen moments of tenderness and love to carry you on.

But as you thought about it, trying to picture Boromir and you as a couple, you realized you could not. There was a certain bitterness in him, troubled thoughts or memories that filled him with guilt and hopelessness. You suspected that even if he did feel something more for you he wouldn’t allow himself to succumb to it.

If only you had met in other circumstances! In peaceful times, perhaps in your youth, then it could perhaps have come to be.

You felt robbed of his love even though you never had it.

Then you squared your shoulders. As always, there was work to do. You wiped your moist eyes dry and left on your daily round to check on the sick and elderly.

※

At noon, Boromir and you shared a stew with hard bread and mashed potatoes. Somehow this time it felt different to sit opposite to him in your simple house. He looked larger, stronger, more dangerous – like the captain and warlord you now knew he was. He made you feel small.

It was as if he had become even more a stranger after you learned his identity. Now your romantic thoughts from earlier seemed laughably absurd. Lord Boromir was a nobleman; he would never have fallen for a simple Rohirrim healer even if his heart wasn’t so troubled.

Then a couple of red stains on his tunic caught your attention and you temporarily forgot being uncomfortable as your healer’s instincts kicked in. “Your wounds have reopened.”

He glanced down and shrugged. “Not much.”

“Let me examine them.”

He looked amused at your worry but did not protest. He removed his surcote, tunic and shirt and lay down on your bed.

Two of the arrow wounds had a crust of blood but they looked much better than you had feared. Somewhat calmed, you cleaned them and smeared on more ointment. The bleeding had already stopped so you left them unbandaged.

When you had finished, you grew uncomfortable again. You were reminded that this man who lay half-clad in your bed was Lord Boromir, son of the Steward of Gondor.

It felt like you saw him for the first time. The stewards were said to have Númenorian blood – they were heroes of old, part human, part elvish – and hence would grow older, taller and stronger than most men.

Looking at him now, you did not doubt the truth of that. How could you not have realized he was of such noble descent? Boromir’s features were aristocratic, from his straight nose and chiseled jawline to his bright, gray eyes, and now without the bandages you saw how perfectly sculpted his torso was. Like a work of art.

Your mouth became dry as you took in the sight.

“Finished yet?” he asked.

Face hot, you tore your gaze away. “I am. But you should not work so hard when you are still healing, my lord,” you scolded, hoping he did not notice how flustered you had become.

He only laughed at that, again striking you with how rich and warm his laugh was.

“War is upon us and you fuss over a few scratches? You need to change your priorities. Also – simply Boromir will do; I am not your lord.”

You could not help smiling back.

“When the men return and I have ascertained the village is secure, then I shall rest,” he promised.

As he put his clothes back on, his forehead furrowed. “I only wish there were more warriors left… And that your houses and palisade were of stone, not wood that can be burned. Orcs are too fond of torching things.” When he saw your expression he hurriedly added: ”But the war will not likely reach this remote village.”

”You believe it will,” you accused.

”Do not trouble yourself about that. I will think of something.”

“I can help.”

“Well then.” He suddenly smiled. “Let us think together.”

He sat on your bed, leaning his back against the wall, and you sat next to him.

Silence ensued.

You tried to think of all the clever ways to protect places you had heard or read about. Boromir was right; stone walls seemed to be the most common part of the defense – with archers on top of them – and channels with narrow bridges leading up to the gates. This, you had heard, was what the Hornburg in Helm’s Deep looked like.

You had no such walls here, and no archers either, but maybe… “What about a moat?” you suggested. “We could channel the river here and lead it around the village. Can orcs swim?”

“Fairly well; it would need to be deep for it to work. And we are too few to dig one. If I had the strength of both my arms…” He frowned, glaring at his right hand as if it had betrayed him.

“Could we frighten them off somehow?” you asked, trying to take his thoughts off his incapability. “What do they fear? Apart from sunlight…”

“Not much.”

He fell silent again, scratching his beard while he thought. A while later he suddenly looked up. “I think I may have an idea… Do you have anything that will burn for a prolonged time?”

“Firewood?”

“No, it has to last longer. Lamp oil could work, or distilled wine.”

“We have tar, plenty of it. We use it for waterproofing.”

He brightened. “Excellent! Show me.”

You asked Vidar to unlock the village storage, and on the way there Boromir explained what he wanted to do.

“An interesting idea,” said Vidar. “Dangerous, but might actually work! Here we are now.”

He opened a barrel of the black, oily liquid. There were many more. Tar was common in this area so you traded it to other villages, and some was sent down the river to be used for shipbuilding in Pelargir.

“Splendid! And you have such an abundance, too. I need most of these barrels, I think. Can I trade you something else for them?”

“Hm.” Vidar gave Boromir’s boots a calculating look.

“Do not be ridiculous.” You gave Vidar a shove. “If he will use it to save the village he shall have it free of charge.” You explained to Boromir that nobody owned the land where the tar pits were located so the resource belonged to everyone.

The two men carried out several barrels, despite your warning to Boromir not to strain himself and overdo it, and then he asked you to help him gather the people.

Soon the villagers curiously flocked around him. Apart from the bedridden elderly everyone had come, even Sigrid, one hand on her back and the other held protectively over her swelling stomach.

Boromir talked to them with the natural authority of one used to command. He told them that though it was not likely the war would come here, he had a plan that would protect the village just in case it did.

The people listened, none of them questioning his right to lead them despite not knowing who he really was. Why would they? They recognized a capable warrior and captain when they saw one.

He divided chores. Some were to dig, others to roll barrels to strategic locations, others to sharpen stakes.

In no time the place was a flurry of activity.

Boromir and you worked with the stakes, sharpening them into lances and handing them over to Vidar and two other old men who pressed them into the soft loam outside the palisade with the sharp ends pointing outward.

Further out, Maja, her shepherdess friends, little Kalle, and many others were digging a low trench while trying to evade the enthusiastic nips of Ludde who thought they were playing a fun game. When they were done they would pour tar and cover it with boards and branches.

It took a couple of days until the preparations were finished to Boromir’s liking. Then he gathered everyone again. “Well done! After your hard toil we shall now finally be able to sleep soundly and without fear. One day, enemy armies might come this way to burn and plunder – but not this village!”

As he raised his fist everyone cheered.

※※※

A/N:

Just in case anyone wondered; tar is another word for pitch or bitumen, a more sticky form of crude oil. It has been used for waterproofing and for fuel in lamps and torches since ancient times. It’s of course highly flammable.

※※※

Parts: [ < Previous Part ] [ Next Part > ] [ Masterlist ]

Full story: [ AO3 ]

#boromir #boromir x reader #boromir fanfiction #boromir x oc #boromir x you #lotr fanfiction #lotr fanfic #lord of the rings #hurt/comfort #healing #heroism #boromir lives au #reader insert #Stranger of the Falls

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definitelynotshouting · 5 months

Note

Hello :DD I had sm Thoughts about this chapter, if your intent was to leave all your readers laying in a pool of tears u have succeeded 👍

-☀️

"He'd assumed, by virtue, that Mumbo was keeping himself out of the loop. Apparently not."

- GRIAN. HE TRIED TO TALK TO YOU TWO CHAPTERS AGO AND YOU IGNORED HIM.

- Also like how when we circle back to this point at the end of the chapter- Mumbo brings it up, Mumbo apologises- Grian lies and goes through the conversation "on autopilot", forcing himself to register absolutely NONE of the emotion so that when he goes through with his plan he can have this degree of separation- (if that's what you call it?). Just like how right here he's ignoring/selectively forgetting the fact that Mumbo did try to talk to him

-☀️

"some of the wariness clouding around them begins to clear, burning down into an ashen, sickly relief."

- I chose this one because of the "burning" metaphor. It creates this imagery of something akin to a wildfire when Grian's actions were first revealed. Emotions were blazing with fury, grief, confusion, horror and betrayal. It's all still there, but muted. For Mumbo specifically and how he initially reacted when G woke up the metaphor makes it feel like Mumbo completely burnt himself out with how he felt about everything. What's left behind in an ashen log, a carcass ready to collapse into dust at the next breeze.

-☀️

"A relieved Mumbo is a Mumbo protected against someone he can't save."

- "Someone he can't save", meaning mumbo being unable to save grian, but dually meaning that Grian doesnt believe he can be saved- not by himself, not even by his best friend. He's tried, tried to stop making the games, tried to live off of MCC. It didn't work; he's stopped trying to save himself.

-☀️

First batch!! Also, u mentioned this a while ago now but have u ended up going to that cafe you mentioned?

incredibly excited to receive your thoughts sun anon!!!! :D im so glad you liked this chapter and yes i was maybe banking on a LOT of tears over it ngl >:]

Grian's deeply unreliable narrator-ness makes me SO insane tbh, im so obsessed with how he very deliberately ignores things that dont fit into his personal narrative. Like ur objectively right Mumbo DID try to talk to him!!!!! But in Grian's head, that doesnt support his "i am doing this for everyone's greater good" agenda, so he dismisses it. Same as the gold farm-- Scar actually mentioned it to him all the way back in chapter 5, but when Mumbo asks if he knew, he insinuates that he wasnt told, without actually confirming or denying. Its a fun little tidbit that i enjoyed adding-- i really like highlighting just how unreliable Grian's perspective is rn wrt reality :]

I am SO happy you enjoyed that burning metaphor-- its definitely attached to that wildfire imagery, but its also attached to the concept of cooking for me too!!! The idea of letting something simmer down and thicken, except its burning, was very integral to that snippet ^.^

And yep!!! That was 100% what i was going for with the saving comment :] im so happy you enjoyed those, and i cant wait to see the other stuff you liked!!! Your inbox comments are a highlight of my day, truly❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰

(also i did get to go to my cafe a few weeks ago!!! i was supposed to again yesterday, but alas i woke up with some bad allergy symptoms so i ended up laid up in bed instead 😭😭😭😭 hopefully i can go again next week, especially bc i have a very good friend visiting and i'd love to show it to them :] thanks for asking :D )

#shouting speaks #asks #compliments #hunger au #EXCITEMENT.... I LOVE UR COMMENTARY SUN ANON ITS TRULY ONE OF MY FAVE THINGS #txt

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bearbluebooks · 8 months

Text

Chapter 10 - Delicate

This chapter contains: FLUFF

Read on AO3 or under the cut :)

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9

Gwyn POV

In the aftermath of the daylight violence, she found solitude under the blanket of night. Here, she was embraced by the cover of darkness, it opened its arms open wide and welcomed her home.

Her childhood home was no longer, all that was left now lay in ruins. The sea was nothing but a distant memory. Her new story was difficult to write. But Helmerra felt more like home with every day that passed.

Nesta and Gwyn took up running just before she left to find Blue. Gwyn suggested it to Nesta one day and she enthusiastically agreed. Initially, it was a way to escape her mind, to push the thoughts away with each new step. Every increased heartbeat was one less thought in her brain. Naturally, it only worked for a short amount of time. As soon as her regular pace returned, so did her flow of thoughts.

Two days had passed since her capture by ‘Him Who Should Not Be Named’.

As soon as Azriel and Gwyn returned to Helmerra, several professors greeted them in a not-so-welcoming manner. Even Helion looked displeased at their unapproved expedition. Her reasoning didn’t suffice as justification, and both got punished as a result.

Helion’s face didn’t leave Gwyn’s memory, he seemed exceptionally alarmed by all the information they revealed about Koschei and the time Gwyn spent in his castle. She knew Koschei was dangerous but his face turned ashen. He lowered his voice so only Gwyn could hear him: “See me in my office tomorrow Gwyn, we have a lot to discuss.”

Azriel was given two weeks detention where he was expected to train first years. He seemed annoyed but at least he could share some of that expertise he always bragged about.

Gwyn’s punishment was less physical but just as demanding. Her library duty was doubled, yet her patience for Merril’s increasingly demanding chores seemed to have halved. She tried to sympathize, Helmerra was a refuge for priestesses, and everybody was there with a reason, but insults like “you’re so slow Gwyn, work harder, that is if you can” and “fetch me that book, acolyte” made it more challenging every day that detention went on.

On top of that, nightmares never left her body or her mind. All the horrors that transpired in the last couple of months seemed to find a place in her dreams.

Powerlessness followed her every waking moment into sleep.

She vowed to never feel so helpless again.

It was that pledge and her latest nightmare that led her to the secret rooftop in the middle of the night.

She used every opportunity she got to become as strong as she could possibly be. Whether that would be through her body or her powers, she was only skilled enough to train one by herself at the moment.

When she first came to Helmerra and learned about her powers they always felt buried deep underneath the ocean floor, where she could feel them, but never reach them. Since she reconnected with Blue, her powers were no longer buried but burst out of her like hot lava out of a volcano. Unpredictable and scorching hot, literally. She already lost count of all the things she destroyed when she lost control of her emotions. They seemed to be tied together, both as unpredictable as the tides.

Helion invited her to a secret instruction class for Royals. She already attended once. She felt out of place and too self-aware. These were all students who had trained for years, she did not even know magic existed until a couple of months ago. She was used to being the best in everything she did, and this felt distressing, to say the least.

They were all so talented and powerful. There was Lucien’s half-brother Eris, who also had red hair. He was said to be ruthless, but he had never been anything but kind towards Gwyn. The second oldest was Tamlin, who had blond hair and was more reserved than the males she usually encountered at Helmerra. Kallias was just as silent, but in a far more intimidating manner. His white hair and gray eyes didn’t help his intimidating presence.

Gwyn was glad to have Rhys and Lucien in the class. It offered relief in the predominantly male-dominated class. Another familiar face was Tarquin. They were in the same year. She recognized him from potion’s class.

Helion also urged Gwyn to get her powers under control as soon as possible. Gwyn told him about the prophecy and his first reaction was to hit himself on the head exclaiming “how did I miss this?” He vowed to help her in every way he could.

Another class she was thankful for, was Devlon’s self-defense class. He certainly had his flaws, but he was useful at times. His fighting sequences proved particularly valuable at the moment. She wanted to learn them all as well as she could. She started with defensive techniques by enhancing her speed and skill. Gwyn knew she was smaller than most opponents, but she was also faster, and smarter.

That’s what she focused on. She learned how to move fluidly and swiftly like water.

Most importantly: she learned how to observe the opponent. To learn their weaknesses, their tells, and their flaws. To always be a step ahead of them.

Her movement had improved a lot since she first set foot in the ring. But she was not on the level she needed to be, as proven by her recent encounter.

She was still struggling with offensive fighting techniques. That’s why she focused on repetition: to build muscle memory which she could always fall back on. And to build some muscle in the meantime.

That’s why she was kicking the training dummy with the force of a storm in the sequence Devlon pushed into them last week. She could hear his belting voice in her head as if he was standing next to her:

Punch them in the solar plexus with your fist.

Chop or poke their neck above the collarbone.

Knee a male in the groin.

Kick the side of their kneecap as hard as you can.

Drive the base of your palm into the underside of their nose.

Strike their windpipe with your fist.

She repeated the sequence until her hands were red by force. And then she continued until they bled the color of crimson.

The memory of her attackers flashed in and out of her mind. Their faces appeared on the dummy and her hits became more powerful and exasperated. After a while, she couldn’t feel her hands anymore. And the aggression seemed directly channeled into her fists. Out of her body. Into the imagined enemy in front of her.

Her breathing became heavy as her heart beat fast from movement and memory.

She was so in the zone she did not hear the figure approaching her from behind.

When she turned around to hit her attacker in the pit of their stomach, a scarred hand grabbed hers as a deep baritone voice said: “are you sure you know what you’re doing Berdara?”

She smiled as she said, “I’m sure you hear that all the time, shadowsinger, but I’m very capable, thank you.”

The look in his eyes transferred to his mouth, as he smirked and said in a raspy voice: “you have not begun to see all the things I’m capable of. But I’m very willing to show you. If you’ll let me.”

The thick voice transported her to the memory of her first kiss which she tried very hard to avoid. Not because she wanted to forget it, on the contrary, she was so aroused and thunderstruck she had a hard time thinking about anything else. But that was exactly the problem. It had no place in the training ring, she needed to focus on getting better, not on that sultry voice coming out of that very kissable mouth.

She shouldn’t spend any more time thinking about those luscious lips that only needed to touch hers and she already forgot her name. Not to mention his tongue that knew exactly where to move. The harder she tried to forget that moment, the more that burning sensation returned to her core.

He was so capable in fact, that they both forgot danger lurked just behind them, as they were completely lost in each other and the kiss.

The redness of her injured hands, now moved directly to her cheeks, when he moved her hand to his mouth and placed a kiss on it. His eyes burned with a passion that Gwyn would have shied away from before, but she felt so safe in his presence now, she allowed herself to become completely entranced by those hazel eyes.

He gently pulled her closer to him again.

She loved it when he did that. She loved the closeness.

She closed her eyes as he lowered his head and used that deep sultry voice to whisper in her ear “shall I show you now?”

Gwyn whimpered in response- she had never whimpered in her life, “I’m training, you can’t distract me Azriel.”

She could kick herself.

Those kisses transported her nightmare-filled thoughts directly into a place of pure pleasure. Where nothing else existed except him.

He moved his hands to her hips, pulling her flush to his body.

She knew he would stop if she said the word. That’s what made her lose herself in his embrace. The safety of knowing he would let go if needed.

All she could smell now was cedar and night-chilled missed.

All she could feel was a deep need to have a thorough demonstration of his gifts.

He took her earlobe in his mouth, sucked on it, and whispered “okay. Let’s go Berdara.”

His voice went straight to her core, yet his body moved away.

She quickly moved in front of him and pushed his body against the wall behind him with more force than she intended to.

His hot lips found hers again. He started with slow, gentle kisses on her mouth. Taking his time. She softly took his lower lip in hers again and gave a slight bite. She remembered he liked that last time. He licked the spot she bit and gave a small chuckle. “Fuck, Gwyn.”

“You’re killing me.”

This time she smiled. She guessed that was a good sign? She vowed to ask him later if she could do anything to improve her kissing. She had no experience and Azriel was so good at it. The whole world ceased to exist, as she was lost to the kiss and his touch. She wanted their kisses to be magical for him, too.

His scarred hands moved to her backside as he pulled her into his lap.

She loved the friction the momentum caused and she tried to chase it by pushing her hips into his in an almost rhythmic movement. The kiss turned so desperate Gwyn’s body curved into Azriel’s.

Azriel groaned into her mouth.

A smile formed on his lips.

“Gwyn… that’s…”

He groaned again.

The sound almost turned her on more than the friction did.

His shadows danced around them. Both in joy and disguise. She loved those obsidian embodiments of night.

Then he pushed his tongue against her lips again. Gwyn opened greedily and allowed him inside.

His tongue sensually caressed hers in slow languid movements. He moved his hand to the back of her neck and slightly angled her head so he had better access.

His lips were hot and hungry.

They moved to her neck, where he placed small kisses and slowly licked a trail up her neck.

This time she moaned, “Azriel.”

She didn’t mean to say that out loud. Her face became red again.

His hazel eyes stared darkly into hers. As if the mention of his name was a magic spell that unleashed something in him.

He hungrily kissed her again. As he said into her mouth “I want to take you somewhere tomorrow.”

His face moved back a little bit to asses her eyes, after which he placed another quick kiss on her mouth.

Gwyn smiled so brightly she was sure happiness radiated from every pore, “I would love to…

…where are you taking me?”

He had that mischievous glint in his eyes as he said “it’s a surprise.”

She both loved and detested that look. She always had trouble letting go of control so she hated surprises with a passion. Catrin loved them. Every holiday her mom had to coordinate secrets and information skillfully.

“I don’t do well with surprises”, she said a little hesitantly. She didn’t want to disappoint him but she also didn’t want to pretend she was something else.

Azriel contemplated the new information. Devising a new plan, she was sure.

That made her smile a little bit again.

“I’ll pick you up at 7 p.m. Wear something you feel comfortable in.

It will only be the two of us. I’ll make sure we are back before the bells chime.” His eyes looked slightly insecure. As if he believed Gwyn would not want to spend time with him.

So she quickly replied, “I’ll be ready.”

He smiled brightly now too.

He softly placed a kiss on her lips again as he said “good.”

“Now let’s train. You need to put more weight into your dominant leg when you hit your opponent.”

‘Moment over’ Gwyn thought jokingly.

------

Azriel POV

He needed to shut down whatever was happening between him and Gwyn before his cock became even more strained in his pants.

He took a deep breath.

Grandma's in the shower. Gwyn in danger. Animals dying.

That helped tamper his arousal a little bit. At least to where he could actually function.

Gwyn and Azriel spent the whole night training.

After Gwyn’s abduction, he secretly sent a shadow to stay with her. It was more than happy to comply. Azriel actually saw it dance towards her, happy to be able to exist in her presence day and night.

It gave Azriel slight relief, to have eyes on her at all times. He made sure to give her some privacy, they served more as a warning signal than a bodyguard.

That was what he was for, and her training. So she could guard herself.

She was already impossibly fast. He was proud of her and how far she had come. Her stubbornness was useful in more ways than one, he thought to himself, as she kicked him in the stomach and made him stumble back a few steps.

Wounded pride and delight filled his body. He should’ve anticipated that move, he was distracted in her presence, and her swift movements made good use of that. Clever.

He smiled as he wrapped his arms around her middle, pulling her into his embrace as he whispered “I was supposed to meet Rhys and Cassian half an hour ago.”

Gwyn chuckled “if you don’t want your ass kicked anymore you could just say that, you don’t need an excuse.”

Her head was under his chin now. He moved his hand up and down her back, and rested it on the small of her back. He whispered in her ear again “I don’t need to resort to tricks to get you to do what I want.”

He felt her shiver. Payback.

“Let me take you to your room, Gwyn.”

She moved her head from under his chin to look him in the eyes “I’m going to stay for a bit longer, but you go.”

“Are you sure? You can kick the crap out of me some more, just say the word.” He said with a wink.

She smiled as she said, “I’m sure, I think one bruise is enough for the night.”

She remained silent for a little bit before she continued, “thank you for training me tonight, Azriel.”

He just smiled as his shadows winnowed him away from Gwyn, into his bathroom. Words couldn’t express what he wanted to say- everything for you, I never want to see you hurt again if I can’t be there, at least you can be there for yourself. So he chose to say nothing at all.

Before he could meet his brothers, he needed to release the leftover tension. He closed the bathroom door, and took his throbbing cock in his hand as images of the beautiful copper-haired female flooded his mind. His release never came so quick, yet it only scratched the surface of the tightness he felt in his body. Not even his own hand could satisfy him anymore. Trouble.

--------

They met in the bar just outside of Helmerra. The dark-lit space was made entirely out of wood. There was a dance area, where the bar was located, and a more private area with tables and chairs to watch the lively scenery from a distance. Azriel’s favorite spot.

It used to be a weekly tradition. Life and love made the occurrence more uncommon than routine.

The music was booming so loud, he could feel the beat reverberate in his eardrums.

People swayed to the rhythm of the music. The amount of people in here was a problem waiting to happen.

Alcohol flowed as easily into mouths as the gossip that was being spewed.

Azriel, Rhys, and Cassian sat in their usual corner.

It felt like old times. The natural familiarity they automatically slipped into whenever they were together. The inside jokes and the natural understanding they all shared due to the years growing up together. They could be assholes at times, but he appreciated these moments.

Cassian and Rhys sometimes entered the dancefloor, but Azriel rarely did. He could dance, that wasn’t the issue. His mother was a gifted dancer and the scarce time they were allowed together she spent imparting some of her passion.

When she was only 18, Adelphi Black, met the love of her life on a busy marketplace. Every Tuesday she would accompany her dad to help sell their family business. For generations, the Black family gained their wealth from flowers. Their estate, Rosehall, was the only place a certain flower could grow. The unique soil and the air quality provided the necessary conditions for the Eralda to thrive.

Adephi was the oldest of two and therefore expected to take over the family legacy. In secret, she pursued her dream: to become a dancer. Even though they were better off than most in their village, Adephi was always drawn to the lavish and opulent promises of wealth. Ever since she was a little girl, she dreamt of the pearly possibility.

That’s what drove her into the arms of the much older Illyrian male. He was charming at first. Lavishing her with gifts, attention, and promises. Her father was almost as enamored by him as she was. When he asked for her hand, he happily granted it, despite her predetermined future as flower heiress.

Her happiness was quickly reversed when she met not only his wife but also his two young sons. She was never meant to be his wife, only his mistress. The realization hit hard, especially with the baby boy growing inside her pit of despair.

When Adimus, Azriel’s father, found out about the growing danger to his good name, he arranged for the cell to be built. It was home for the first eleven years of Azriel’s life.

His stepmother, Haera, made sure no windows were installed, light was to be part of Azriel’s life for only one hour a week. His mum’s presence was even more rare: one hour a week.

That hour was when Azriel was happiest. It was as if his mother vowed to show him all the light in the world, not just from the sunshine that could finally hit his skin, but from the movement he wasn’t allowed, from the music he believed to be magic, and from the feel of another person’s love.

He loved dancing. Especially because it reminded him of his mother. He just enjoyed watching more than being watched. Being the center of attention was overrated, in his opinion. Careful observation was where the real power was. To listen to what was being said, and observe what remained unspoken.

People always thought they were so secretive, in their whispered affections and stolen touches, when one look would expose everything. He didn’t even need his shadows to bring light to the obscure, only his eyes.

That was one of the things he liked most about Gwyn. She unabashedly wore her heart on her sleeve. No mask, no pretense, only Gwyn. That made her the most mysterious person of all.

“What’s been up with you, brother? We’ve hardly seen you in the last couple of weeks.

Does it have anything to do with ‘too good for you’ Gwyn?” Cassian said with a snicker and a smack on his shoulder.

“Shut up,” Aziel replied with a shove in Cassian’s chest.

“You better know what you’re doing, Azriel.” Rhys chimed in.

Why didn’t they ever mind their own business? He knew she was too good for him, he didn’t need his brothers reminding him of that fact. The sentences did latch onto some other emotions Azriel buried deep. They took root and cast a shadow over his previously delirious and singular passion.

“It’s not any of your business.” He bit back. He was not discussing this with them. What he had with Gwyn was delicate and brand-new. He hadn’t even talked about it with Gwyn.

Time to change topics. Half of Rhys’ brain was perpetually occupied with politics- the other half with Feyre, and Cassian was always in for talking battle strategy.

Being focused was always more useful than being the focal point: “what are we going to do about the asshole who abducted Gwyn?”

“You mean ‘he who should not be named’?” Cassian said.

“My dad had a meeting with the other high lords. He said there was another attack in the Winter Court. The whole village of Kincardine was slaughtered.”

All three brothers became silent. Paying respect to another fallen village.

They were too late again.

“It was different from the other attacks. They were lethal, but they were hunting for something. There was always a specific intent. This time it was like they sent a message. They burned the whole village down with some kind of lightning strike. They even left a mark of the sun behind.”

“It is said to be the same mark they cast in the sky before they storm a village,” Rhys explained.

“We need to go to that village,” Azriel said.

“That was my next point.” Rhys interrupted.

“My dad is not sending more troops there. He wants to sent them to other villages he thinks will be next.”

“One of the sun sages was caught. He wants you to interrogate him.”

“Cassian and I will strategize how we can slip out and go to Kincardine, and get back without being detected.”

“You will meet us there when you’re done.”

“We’ll go tomorrow night.”

Azriel only nodded his head in confirmation.

The night was already coming to an end. The crowd slowly made their way towards their beds again. Some their own, some to less familiar beds.

Azriel also opted for a different bed, as he stood in front of the now-familiar door. He contemplated entering. His shadow informed him Gwyn had been asleep for hours, but something felt wrong about violating her privacy- any further. So he took a deep breath and put the gift in his shadow.

The daily gifts stopped when they were outside Helmerra, continuing would make it undeniable they came from Azriel.

Now they were back, so he resumed his mission to make her room less empty. He never wanted her to feel like she lived in a cage without light.

He imagined, how her eyes lit up with every new addition to her life. How those teal eyes sparkled similarly those glimmering rays hitting the surface of the sea. That magical dance of light that seemed to transcend reality. It slightly melted away some of that ice his brother’s comments cast. He still tucked away the thought. He buried it deep, where it glinted quietly. A thing of delicate, secret beauty.

The day passed by normally. Gwyn had something called ‘Smut Sisters’, some kind of book club with Emerie and Nesta, and he read up on reports and prepared for the mission he would go on tonight after their date.

He planned this night since they got back. It had to be perfect. It was their first ever date. He thought long and hard about what to do, where to go, what to bring, and most importantly: what to say.

Azriel decided on the sea near Rosehall. He prepared a picnic on the cliff overlooking the big blue expanse, and another surprise.

Gwyn was speechless when they stepped foot outside of his shadows. That was a good sign, he thought?

“Azriel did you make me a picnic?”

“I didn’t know you were such a romantic.” She said half teasing and half pleasantly surprised.

“There’s a lot you still don’t know about me.” He said with a wink.

Was that cheesy or sexy? He really hoped the latter. He wasn’t used to working this hard for a female, he never really wanted to, nor did he need to.

“This is where I grew up. My mom still lives close by.”

“I thought it would remind you of home too.”

“I love it,” Gwyn said as she took his face in her hands. Forcing eye contact.

He saw the sparkle in her eyes he so often imagined. With the mirror image playing out right behind her back. Gwyn’s eyes seemed to shine even brighter than the stars dancing on the water’s surface.

They stared into each other’s eyes for a little while longer before they sat down on the red checkered blanket Azriel put down shortly before he picked up Gwyn.

When he stood in front of her door at 7 p.m. sharp, he was not prepared for the magnificent sight that awaited him behind the door. Gwyn opted for a dark green silk dress that reached just below her knees, she wore a knitted white vest that clasped just in front of her chest. The sleeves were so long they covered her hands. She wore white sneakers underneath. The top of her hair was braided, leaving most of her hair to fall on her back.

Azriel decided to wear something casual yet formal, he landed on his black dress shirt, which he strategically unbuttoned so his silver necklace was visible and most of his tattoos. He wore simple black pants and his most non-traditional black shoes.

Maybe he should have dressed more casually, especially now that he was so uncomfortable on the blanket, but he wanted it to be special so he would endure it.

He picked up all of Gwyn’s favorite things: chocolate cake, lemon tarts, some kind of rhubarb tartlet, and soda. He brought extra blankets for when she got cold. He contemplated bringing another gift, but he decided to continue under the veil of secrecy. Maybe she wouldn’t accept them anymore if she knew they came from him.

Gwyn’s eyes became big as they took in the sight. “You did all this for me?”

“What are you going to eat?” she said jokingly.

“You better leave some for me Berdarra. I had to fight to get that chocolate cake.”

“Maybe you have to fight me for it. I’ve been training with a gifted Shadowsinger. And I recently acquired a dagger. I make quite the opponent, I’ll have you know.”

“I don’t doubt that.” He said with a smile.

“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about the dagger that showed up in my room this morning. Or all the other presents that have filled my room, would you? She said with a glint in her eyes that he couldn’t place, he hadn’t seen it on her face before.

Oh no. He had been caught. Either she was too smart or he was not as skilled as he thought he was. Would he commit to the mystery, or admit to the reality?

After everything that happened, he promised himself -and more importantly Gwyn- he would be honest. Although he was building up to revealing everything, he could admit this. It wouldn’t be so bad. He had good intentions. She would see that. She would.

His shadows danced chaotically around them now. The one loyal shadow that always seemed to be drawn to Gwyn was floating behind her now. He could almost see its crossed arms and judgmental look.

“Yes.” He said. “I do.”

“Why?”

“Do I need a reason?”

“Why did you do it Azriel? You hardly knew me when the first gift came.”

That was partly true, but he wouldn’t tell her that tonight. He wasn’t ready for that conversation. He wasn’t ready to lose her.

“I wanted to…” his voice became more quiet as he searched for words to express everything he was feeling. He couldn’t smile his way out of this one.

“You deserved to feel at home.”

He hoped that was enough for now. He hoped she wouldn’t press him further. He was never good with words and experience taught him the less he said the less trouble his mouth would get him in.

“Thank you. That was really nice.”

She deserved the whole truth: “I bought the necklace as a Solstice present for Elain.”

“Then we broke up.”

“I wanted to return it. But then you moved into the priestess dorms.”

“I wanted somebody to enjoy it.”

“Oh.” She responded quietly.

Then she remained silent. As if her brain was working through all the new information.

After a little while she broke the tension “thank you for being honest.”

She sat down, folding her knees underneath her body. She held her hands out to pull him onto the blanket as well.

“This is lovely, Azriel.”

She moved closer and wrapped her hands around his scarred fingers. Giving them a light squeeze, as if saying, thank you.

“What’s your favorite color?” she suddenly blurted out, shattering the tension that was building up in the air. It did nothing to lessen the desire that always flooded his veins, her proximity only made it more all-consuming. Even though he made sure to visit the bathroom to clear his head (both of them) before picking up Gwyn.

“Blue.”

“Not black?” she joked.

“That’s my last name, actually.”

She laughed now. A proper belly laugh that reverberated through his soul. Was there a nicer sound in the word?

“Of course it is.” She said in between laughs.

“Why do you say that” he said with nothing but peaked interest.

“You only wear black, your shadows are black, I am willing to stake my new dagger on your whole room being black. Black bedsheets, black curtains, black wardrobe, black bed. Your sarcan is black.”

“I’m just saying, it makes sense.”

Shit. She was right.

“Maybe I’ll show you, maybe I’ll continue the mystery.” He said with a smile.

He hoped he could prove her right one day. But only when she was ready.

“Would you like to dance, Gwyn?”

That took her by surprise. That made two of them.

He stood up and took her hand in his. There was no music but he could swear a faint beautiful sound danced around them. He listened to the sound and hummed along. Gwyn seemed to pick up the tune just as easily. Could she hear it too, he wondered?

He placed his other hand on the small of her back. He used the movement to pull her closer to his moving body. He took her through his favorite dance, the Quake. Its swift yet intimate movements made it perfect for their first dance.

Gwyn was quite tall for a female, yet she still barely reached his chin. She rested her head on his chest. He almost forgot he had another surprise.

After dancing until his feet hurt in what he thought were comfortable shoes he asked: “Gwyn, would you like to go for a swim?”

“I didn’t bring any swimming clothes!” she said with a look in her eyes that seemed to say ‘this is why I don’t like surprises’.

He needed to think of something fast. “Why don’t you wear my shirt, it will cover most of your body,” he said a little bit proudly.

“Only if you feel comfortable! I’ll turn around.” He said quickly.

“Okay.” She said with a confidence he was relieved to hear.

He turned around and undressed his upper body. Once he removed his shirt, he held it in his scarred hand and reached it behind him. It was quickly picked up by a much smaller pale hand that rested her hand in his a little bit longer than was necessary. Sparks ignited in its wake.

He moved down towards the beach, granting her space to change.

He stood in the water, where gentle waves drenched his pants. Which he very purposefully kept on, he was already afraid he made her uncomfortable with his bare chest. No need to further add to it.

His shadows warned him she was descending, so he flexed his muscles just a little bit. First impressions mattered.

“You can turn around” she yelled above the cresting waves.

So he did. Slowly he tried to prepare his heart for the sight of her in his clothes. But no amount of time could have readied his body or his mind for the absolutely breathtaking view that walked down the cliffside. Towards him.

Her long pale legs were barely visible under his black shirt. It was so big on her, that she practically drowned in it. She had rolled up the sleeves to reveal her delicate hands. She buttoned up the shirt to cover most of her chest but he could still see some of her freckles. How he loved those tiny brushes of sun. Her hair was braided and swayed in the wind. Her eyes shone bright in the moonlight as if joy added an extra layer of radiance to her teal eyes.

It felt as if his heart stopped beating. As if it was waiting to be dropped back to earth. Into his body. It felt like a dream. He was sure he actually dreamt about this moment once. If it was a dream, he prayed to the Cauldron to never let him wake up. He could live in this moment for eternity.

“You’re staring.” She said, as she suddenly stood in front of him.

“You’re beautiful Gwyn.”

What else could he say to convince her of that fact? He didn’t want to scare her. But he also desperately needed her to know how celestial she was. Her copper hair that flowed in the air, her teal eyes that bore into his soul, her luscious lips he never wanted to leave him, her delicate hands that he wanted to be wrapped around his neck.

As she finally stood in his orbit, she pulled him further into the sea.

There was magic in the air, not the Helmerra kind, but the otherworldly kind. The waves were such a deep aquamarine not even Feyre’s painting skills could do it justice. The air was crisp and clear. The night sky was illuminated by thousands of stars. Normally starlight was not as visible because of other light sources polluting its radiance. They were now so far from civilization that it wasn’t a problem here. The stars danced in all their glory.

The water was up to her chest now, it barely reached his middle. His shirt clung to her body, making all her curves visible. He tried very hard not to stare. He focused on a spot just behind her head. Just so he didn’t see those full breasts that fit her body so perfectly.

He was very grateful his lower half remained underwater because his cock sprung to attention again. She moved closer to his body, as she wrapped her legs around his. He prayed she wouldn’t feel the growing effect she had on him. She rested her head on his shoulder and he couldn’t remember another moment he felt so at ease, so at peace. They drifted like that for a little while. Getting lost in each other’s touch and the rising movements of the sea.

It was a little while before Azriel’s second surprise joined their little pocket of safety. The familiar melodic growl took them out of their sole focus. Gwyn left his grasp and swam towards her sarcan. “Oh Mother, Blue? What are you doing here?

“I missed you!”

Azriel couldn’t help but smile. As he watched Gwyn and that natural playfulness he adored so much. Blue and Gwyn resumed their easy companionship, as her shadow darted in and out of their synchronized movements.

Blue had been accepted into the stables for Helmerra sarcans. He visited her yesterday to set up the surprise. Sarcans could only communicate with their companion, so Azriel never got a confirmation other than a small nod, but he was sure Blue adored Gwyn as much as he did.

“Azriel come over here!”

He swam over to the joyful duo- or trio? And watched the lighthearted scene that played out in front of him.

After an hour or so, he regretfully had to end the fun, as the bells were about to chime and he promised to get her back in time.

“Gwyn.”

“We need to go back.”

“Noooo, five more minutes.”

He smiled. “Sure, I’ll grab our stuff. Meet me on top of the cliff.”

As he made his way up, he looked back a couple of times. He wanted to imprint this memory so Feyre could perhaps paint it one day.

If Gwyn would reject him after he told her the whole truth, at least he would always have this.

He winnowed them back to the front of her door as promised. They stood like that for a little bit. Baskin in each other’s presence. Not wanting to be the first to break it off.

She moved a little bit closer. Then she stood on her toes and kissed him.

First his cheek, then his mouth.

She licked his lower lip, asking to deepen the kiss.

He opened greedily. Not wanting this night or this moment to end either. She kissed him deeply and fervently.

Then she pulled away.

“Azriel….”

“Yes, Gwyn.” Should he be amused or worried?

“…. You’re so good at kissing. And I….”

“… I have never kissed anybody before…”

“… and you’re so good…”

“… and I want to be that good for you too. So if I can anything better… or different…”

“Please let me…”

Was she serious? He had never had kisses that did that to his body. Cauldron he was hard just thinking about those lips. If this was all they would ever do, he would die a very happy male. Existing in her presence was more than enough, and he was grateful for every second.

He took a step forward and interrupted her by saying in a raspy voice “Gwyn…”

He delicately grabbed her neck, lowered his head, and whispered against her mouth “…yours have been the best kisses I’ve ever had.” He kept holding her neck as he turned them both around, lightly pushing her against the door. Never stopping the kiss, only deepening it. Then he smiled against her lips.

Before he stopped as his shadows whispered in his ear someone was in her room.

#gwynriel #gwyn acosf #gwyn x azriel #azriel shadowsinger #acotar #acotar alternate universe #acotar fanfiction #gwyneth berdara #a court of silver flames #ao3 fanfic

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