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clubdionysus · 5 months

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[BAD DECISION #17] Jeon Jungkook

warnings: WELL WELL WELL. mentions of the red witch. post-gym kook. questionable conversations that shouldn't happen between friends, totally normal touching of genitals to prove points in aforementioned conversations, kitchen escapades, whiny koo <3 titty worship, spanking, titty sucking, fingering, a lil mutual masturbation, cockwarming (or at least an attempt!), unprotected sex, jk on top, the starluvrs are bad at maths!, multiple positions (prone bone my beloved <3), he finishes on her back, lovely stuff!! just friendly tho!

a/n: the header image is another lost relic, but this time i can't even remember the base photo </3

soundtrack: just a little bit - enhypen

wc: 11.2k

bd total wc: 540k (ongoing)

AO3 | MASTERLIST | MINORS DNI

The soft cotton duvet cover on Jeongguk's bed welcomes you back far more warmly than it really should do; like a 'hi, honey, welcome home' , or an 'I've missed you'.

It's fitting that the inanimate objects of his room carry such benevolence, when he himself is an open log fire on a winter's night. Warm, warm, warm is Jeon Jeongguk, and you've been cold, cold, cold for so long that the sudden heat is almost jarring.

That's how you justify the obscure feeling in the pit of your stomach when Jeongguk starts talking about blind dates, and how he always wanted to go on one when he was younger.

He reckons that the only reason that he hadn't was because he's 'a simple man of simple pleasures'.

The hoops he needed to jump through to get a blind date - quite simply just asking someone to set it up for him - had been too challenging. You've alleviated that stress for him.

"See," you smile, folding his bird back up and tossing it over to him. You're both on his bed, staring up at the flock of birds still soaring above you, just out of reach. "We're fulfilling a childhood dream. You are getting something out of this whole deal."

You don't look at him, but you know he rolls his eyes and smiles when he does so. "Never said I wasn't, Disco Ball."

He's met with silence as you glance over at him. It's not an unwelcome nickname, but it's one he doesn't use too often these days. Always calls you Byeol.

"What?" he asks and he turns to face you when you don't reply, but you say nothing.

The more you let it simmer, the worse it gets. He's not called you Disco Ball in so long. Part of you thinks he's reducing your friendship. Addressing you like he did when he didn't know you too well. Creating distance. Forming space on a featherdown quilt that draws you both in like quicksand. He'll have to try harder if a wider margin is what he's after.

It's stupid, 'cause you know the name comes from a place of affection, but it makes you feel insecure.

"We'll still be friends, right?" You ask a little quietly. Jeongguk's brows grow taut, a slight frown forming on his features. Doesn't understand where such a question has come from. "If you get a girlfriend, I mean? We can still be friends?"

Jeongguk's skin is hot. Prickly. An automatic response to discomfort - but then his lips soften into a kind smile. Despite the offence that could be taken from you asking such a question - thinking so little of him - he's not naive to the way in which you work. He understands. People you've loved have left when things got inconvenient for them. He's been through it, too.

And so the walls that want to come up in defence are kept at bay. He doesn't let them rise. Instead, he meets you at the shores.

"Yoongi invited you to dinner," he nudges your shoulder. "Tae is practically in love with you for all the help you've given him. Dionysus relies on you drinking the bar dry every other weekend to keep it afloat. We couldn't stop being friends even if we tried."

His answer should satisfy you, yet your mind is marred by the same thought repeating over and over: Hayun probably used to get invited to dinner, too.

You aren't naive. You know his friends are just as kind as he is. They'd have welcomed anyone Jeongguk deemed important into their social circle.

"What about Hayun?"

Jeongguk frowns. "What about her?"

"Well," you say slowly, looking back up towards the birds, not wanting to watch his reaction unfold on his features like a letter of commiseration.

Before you can even articulate a reply, Jeongguk stops you.

"Don't. It's not the same. Hayun... That situation was different. Things were different. Plus, she's still my friend. Our friend. All of us. She just lives in a different city, that's all. The only reason she isn't around is because of proximity. We're still friends. Just like you and me are still gonna be friends. We've no reason not to be."

The situation is different. You're well aware of this. You've known Jeongguk for all of five minutes; she was a much more permanent fixture in his life. They had a history that you wouldn't even be able to comprehend; private jokes, and stolen moments when they thought their friends wouldn't notice. Their friends. Not just Jeongguk's.

She'd been as much a part of the friendship group as Jeongguk had been; the only difference was that she'd moved away. If she hadn't, would there even be space for you in their lives? Would Seoyeon be desperate for there to be another girl around? Would Jeongguk have felt just as fondly towards you? Would he have noticed your disco ball eyes in the dark of Dionysus or would he have been too busy searching for her in a crowded room?

Or would the time spent on you be spent on her instead?

The thought is unpleasant. It weaves its way through your bloodstream like a needle with dark red string threaded through its loop. It scratches and stabs at your insides until it breaks through the flesh of your bottom lip. Sews your mouth shut. Stops you from talking; from screaming how unfair you think it is that you're being equated to someone who destroyed him.

You don't think she deserves to be thought fondly of, but if Jeongguk knew that, you'd be the one he thinks negatively of. He leapt to her defence without you even starting an attack.

"Friends don't hurt their friends," you say quietly.

Life doesn't work that way. People hurt the ones they care about all the time - or at least you use that reasoning to comfort yourself whenever Seokjin shows up just to let you down.

"She didn't mean to," he replies. "I'm the one who caught feelings. I'm the one who misread things. She stayed the same. My hurt? It's on me, Byeol."

There's a sincerity to his voice that absolves her of blame; makes her innocent in whatever transpired between the pair of them. You know that you only have Jeongguk's side of the story, and even that is sparse and limited due to his reluctance to talk about it in any great depth, but you feel like you don't need to hear her side. He got hurt. That's enough. Your mind is made up.

Hearing him defend her so freely unnerves you. The feeling crawls beneath your skin and gnaws at your flesh. Reduces you to skin and bone.

You're silent, because you know that anything you do say will come across as mean, or as if you dislike a girl you've never met. It'd only make Jeongguk defend her more and like you less. You don't want that - as if Jeongguk wouldn't rip Seokjin to shreds at any given opportunity.

Trouble is, you can't blame him. Jeongguk has seen the impact first-hand. Wiped away tears caused by the man himself.

Hayun is just an enigma; a name rarely said, but often felt.

"What's gotten into you?" Jeongguk smiles, trying to downplay the heaviness of the atmosphere that's engulfing you both. "You're forgetting how annoying I am. You'd probably be thankful if we stopped being friends."

Though he's just teasing, you're worried that he does think that of himself. You don't want to be soppy though, so instead, you use one of his most often said phrases against him.

"I think if we stopped being friends I would simply die."

It earns a laugh. He nudges your shoulder. Tells you that you really gotta stop stealing his catchphrases and the things he does.

"Oh fuck off," you laugh. "What else have I stolen?"

A whole host of things.

"The mirror thing," is all he says, noticing your confusion immediately. He reaches over and tenderly clasps your chin. Doesn't notice the tiny gasp that gets caught in your throat - or if he does, he doesn't mention it. Turns your head, so that you're looking at him, and says " 'watch'. "

You close your eyes and smile. Nod. "Ah. That. The mirror thing. "

"See," he smirks, not that you can see. Your eyes are still closed and they'll remain that way until you decide you're no longer embarrassed. "Told you that you copy me."

"I don't copy," you smirk right back, despite your firmly shut eyes. Jeongguk likes the glitter you're wearing today. It's golden-hued. "Just a fast learner."

"Oh yeah?" he says, a laugh catching in his throat. "Watcha learnt about me?"

You whisper now, a little smug. "That you really like mirrors."

"Yeah," he concedes far more quickly than you expected him to. He turns his focus back to the birds on his ceiling, though you think he's gotten a little closer to you. "Yeah, you're right about that - but you know why I like them?"

"Pray tell," you grin, vaguely aware of the fact the conversation feels far more flirty than it really should.

"You do this thing," Jeongguk says, as a hand rests by his crotch. He's not hard, but he is a little firmer than he should be.

It's just cause he's thinking about sex. Thinking about the sound of it. The sound of you . The sight of it. Of you . The scent of it. You . Not the taste, 'cause you've not given him the luxury of that yet. He doesn't really register the fact he's pressing down on himself. Gripping. Feeling .

"It's that first look," he continues, voice dulcet. "It's like you can't register what you're seeing. Your eyes go all wide, and you look at me as if you're too nervous to look anywhere else. Dunno. Lets me know how much you like what I do. Bit of a power trip, I guess. Always gets me."

"Gets you what?"

"Hard."

The declaration is so brash that you can't help but giggle. "You hard now?"

"Thinking about it isn't the same as seeing it," Jeongguk admits, turning his head towards you - but your eyes are still closed, a smile plastered all over your face. He finds himself smiling, too.

"But I mean..." He toys with your hand. Draws it to the top of his thighs. Gives you the chance to pull away. You don't. "Feel for yourself."

You whisper his name.

He whispers right back. "What?"

"You know what," you tell him, as if your palm isn't right where he left it, and as if your grip isn't as firm as his cock.

"What?" he teases again, feigning indifference - and then he fucking tenses. Moves his hips. Pushes up into your palm. "It's just anatomy, B. Nothing new."

Maybe not, but that nickname? That feels new. Feels like the opposite of him calling you disco ball earlier. Makes your breath hitch. Has him smirking as he looks at your lips. Bites down on his own. Knows this is trouble, but thinks he'd quite like to get in some.

See, you're the determined type. Once you set your mind to things, you do them. He's witnessed it first-hand multiple times. The second he mentioned the art cafe to Tae, he knew you'd make it happen. It's what you do.

And so he knows that you're setting him up that blind date whether he likes it or not. He knows you're gonna choose well for him. He knows, come this time next week, there'll probably be a moral complex that comes with the birds hanging above the pair of you.

But he's not ready for that. Not yet.

There's so much to do.

So many birds that haven't been set free.

A pleasant little hum vibrates in his throat as you palm the firmness beneath his sweats. His hips pulse. You daren't open your eyes - especially not as your thumb brushes against the waistband of his trousers. He hums again. Pushes his shoulders down into his mattress. Adjusts his body. Edges closer to you. Says nothing as your thumb sinks beneath the elastic of his sweats.

It doesn't go anywhere. You wait. His hips pulse.

"Swear you get off on torture," he purrs.

"You're the one who started this," you murmur, trying to feign indifference, knowing full well that if he mirrors your hand position, he'll feel just how easily he gets you all riled up. "You're a sadist."

He just smiles. Tells you he's no such thing.

And so you tell him to keep his eyes closed. Reach for his hand. Say, "Let's compare."

"Compare?" He husks, as if he doesn't know what you're doing.

"Mhmm," you hum, bringing his hand dangerously close to your pussy. "Compare. You're getting off on torture. Maybe I am, too."

"We shouldn't be doing this," Jeongguk says, and yet as you loosen your grip, he's the one who lets his hand trail up your thigh. He's the one who strokes at the fabric of your sweats. He's the one who cups your pussy with his hand.

The top you're wearing has risen up a little, a small sliver of your stomach exposed - and then his thumb is caressing against it.

His touch is warm, but the little gasp he does? The stutter of his breath? Oh, it's hot . So fucking hot.

"We're not doing anything," you say so sweetly that he'd believe it - or at least he would if it wasn't his own damn hand slipping into trousers. A breath hitches in your throat, and you can hear the ethereal way a laugh stutters in his throat.

"Just friendly, yeah?"

You nod. Whimper a pathetic confirmation - and then he's pressing against your underwear. Is slow as he rubs a single circular motion against you.

"The birds are judging us," he tells you.

"Nah," you shake your head. Take a shallow breath as he circles against you once more. "This is just revision."

"Revision?"

"Making sure we've learned from them. As long as - fuck ."

"You good there?" he teases, as if he didn't just up the speed for a moment.

You ignore his question and continue the point that was so rudely interrupted by his pacing. "As long as we only do things the birds have already told us to do, then I think it's okay."

The pair of you are silent save for your tepid breaths. Jeongguk's fingers caress against the lace of your underwear while you palm at his excruciatingly hard cock.

It's all rather juvenile, the way you're just touching each other up - and yet it's got your heartbeat racing. Perhaps it's because it's something so simple. Feels like there's so much more that could come of it. The great unknown: will you make Jeongguk cum? Or will you just blue ball him instead?

He really fucking hopes you'll choose the first option.

"Y'know," he says quietly. "I kinda need a shower."

It's not a lie. He freshened up at the gym, but didn't have a proper shower - didn't think he'd be taking such a long detour home.

"You wanna go shower?"

He nods. "Please."

It's laughable, really, the way neither of you says a word as he guides you to the bathroom. It's a regular occurrence at this point.

You glance across the open-plan living room as you make your way to the bathroom, and smile at the painting hanging up beside the television. Jeongguk follows your gaze and smirks.

"Think a future girlfriend would have an issue with that being up on the wall?"

"Maybe," you shrug. "You never have to tell her what is it, mind you. Never have to say it's... yanno."

"No I don't know, Byeol," he teases. Grips onto your shoulders to stop you from walking, and turns you to face it. Walks you both a little further into the sitting room area. Tilts his head, and you realise there's another bloody mirror in the corner of the room. You've never noticed it before. Wonder if he placed it there deliberately. "What is it?"

You narrow your eyes in the mirror. A smirk rests on his pretty lips and you can't help but bite down on yours when one of his hands creeps up your shirt. The bra you're wearing is lace; underwired but with unstructured cups. He squeezes. Fucking groans. "Shit."

"We shouldn't be doing this here," you tell him, well aware that Jimin could come home at any minute. Even going for a shower together is a risk.

Jeongguk shrugs. "Doesn't matter."

"What if Jimin-"

"If he comes home, he comes home," Jeongguk cuts you off as he continues playing with you beneath your shirt. He wants it off. Takes it off. Faces no opposition from you. Both of his hands cup at your chest, the black lace sin beneath his hands. Your heartbeat heaves in your chest, and it's only made worse when Jeongguk nudges his nose against your hair and whispers, "maybe I'll just show him how to make you cum."

You tell him he's mean. He squeezes harder. Makes you whimper. Tells you he can be mean if you really want him to be.

But you shake your head. "Play nicely."

It's not that you don't like things a little rough and tumble - it's just that if this is the last time, you know it needs to be intimate. How else will you be able to face your fears with other people if you never even let him?

One of his hands trails to the back of your bra, and gently unsnaps the clasp, before ridding you of the lace. As much as he liked it, he likes you bare better. Likes the way your pillowy breasts frame your nipples perfectly. Likes that the soft flesh spills through the gaps in his fingers. Likes how easy it is to get you whimpering as he rolls your nipples between his thumb and forefinger.

"Nice enough?" He husks.

"Nice," you nod, eyes closed, crown of your head tipping back to rest against the top of his chest. "God, Gguk. Think I'm obsessed with the way your hands feel."

The compliment makes his heart fucking race .

He watches in the mirror. Studies the way your lips part as he toys with you. Wants to kiss you so badly. Knows he can't. Fuck . Maybe he does get off on a little torture, but this is just inhumane to him. You can feel how hard he is as he presses into the small of your back. The curse and blessing of sweatpants.

You reach behind yourself to palm at his crotch, and are met with a nod of his head against yours.

"Fuck, B," he whines as you toy with the outline of his cock. "I gotta - fuck - I gotta do something with my mouth. Wanna kiss you too fuckin' bad."

He doesn't even mean to admit it, but now that he has, he feels a little shameless. If he can admit that, he can admit anything.

Maybe he'll tell you about the wet dream he had a few nights ago, and how he'd woken up to damp sheets and a ruined orgasm all because you'd made an unexpected appearance in his dream.

Maybe he'll tell you about the fact he hasn't watched porn in weeks. Just thinks of you, instead.

Maybe he'll tell you about the fleshlight hidden in the back of his bedside cabinet drawer, and how he can't use it anymore, 'cause it doesn't look like you do.

Doesn't look like you, doesn't feel like you, doesn't smell like you. Doesn't get him cumming like you do.

Actually, maybe he won't tell you about that last one - but he wants you to know.

Wants you to understand just how fucking sexy he thinks you are. Wants you to acknowledge that if he can get this wrecked over you, then there must be hundreds of other men out there just the same as him. You don't need to linger for so long on your ex.

There'll be another guy out there for you who doesn't make you feel like shit; who only ever wants to make you feel good. So good. So, so-

"Oh God, yeah," he whines as you finally slip your fingers beneath his waistband and into his trousers. His hips pulse, wanting more, more, more of you. "So fucking good."

"My lips," you husk as his fingers dig into your soft chest. The grip is tight. Needy. "They're off limits."

"Lips," he nods. Clenches his jaw as he tries to control his breathing. Swallows his nerves down. "And the rest of you?"

You open your eyes to find his already on you in the mirror. He's hungry. Wanting. Salivating. He looks fucking primal, as if he's fighting every instinct he has just to keep your boundaries respected. Makes you wanna break every single one of them down.

Turning your head ever so slightly, just so your nose can nudge against his, you realign your faces. His lips are pouty. Pink. Pretty. Perfectly out of reach. Yet when you nod, they brush against yours tenderly. You don't let it happen again. "Be specific."

God, his cock is too fucking hard to be playing games like this. He wants to curse you out. Wants to be fucking mean. Wants to tell you to stop being a little bitch and just let him have his way with you - but he promised he'd play nicely.

"Every inch of your skin," he says, 'cause he is actually a little too nervous to ask so politely for what he really wants.

Has been wanting it for weeks.

It's something new, to him. Something he's only ever asked for once, and it was in the heat of the moment. A moment quite a lot like this.

You smile. You know what he really wants. "That's not specific."

"But it's the truth."

Jeongguk always gets a little like this when he's riled up. A little needy. Whiney. You'd be a liar if you said you didn't enjoy it, but you know that sometimes he misspeaks. Says things he never would do if he wasn't desperately after a release.

You never think he's lying, but you do think what he wants in the heat of the moment isn't always what he wants with a clear mind. This is one of those moments.

You purr, a little satisfied with how easy it is to get him like this. Feels like you're in control - so Jeongguk rolls your nipples between his fingers again to get you moaning. Realigns a sense of power. It's endless with the pair of you; a back-and-forth of control. It works well. Too well.

But he's feeling brazen, now. Feeling bold. Isn't nervous to tell you what he wants anymore, because the way your body reacts to his touch lets him know that you'll like it.

"Your tits, Byeol," he says. Your eyes fall to his in the mirror. He's looking directly at you. Notices the way your chest begins to heave a little heavier. Smirks. "If this is my last chance to..." he pauses. Is almost ashamed of what he wants.

"Last chance to what?" You flirt.

You bitch. You're teasing him just because you can. It makes him throb. The motion of your hand stroking above his underwear is making his cock all fat and leaky. There's a damp patch on the front of his briefs. He's ready to fuck. Wants to fuck.

But before that? Before he can even consider sinking himself into you?

He (regretfully) pulls one of his hands away from you, bringing it to meet your hand in his trousers. He (even more regretfully) pulls you away. You pout. He smiles.

"C'mon," he says, pulling on the hand he's just removed, leading you into the kitchen area. Will clarify it for you later.

The boys have an island that acts as a divider between the two spaces, which is exactly where he's taking you. The clothes he took off you are left by the sofa, his mind focused on one thing and one thing only: leveraging you into a better position.

You yelp a little as he dips to pick you up, gripping the back of his neck without hesitation.

"Don't be a pussy," he grins, popping you down on the island counter. "Although now I come to think of it -" he lifts you again, getting to your feet. The way his mind darts from thought to thought, and how his body acts upon them without warning, makes you laugh. He sinks his finger into the waistband of your sweats. Pings it again your skin. "Off."

"Say please," you demand, just to be a little difficult.

"Please."

"Please what?"

"Please," he says, eyes dark as he towers over you, his hands coming to cup your chest once more. The man's obsessed, you think. If he could read your mind, he'd tell you that you're correct. He is. "Take your trousers off."

"Why?"

God, he hates that shit-eating grin of yours. Hates that he can't kiss it away.

And so he decides he's not gonna entertain it any longer. He grabs your hips. Spins you around. Bends you over the island, a single hand gripping the top of your thigh, the other pressing down between your shoulder blades.

"What's the word, Byeol?" He asks, checking that you're on the same page.

"Chess," you reply a little breathlessly. This lack of control is something you're used to with him. He's never overtly dominant, always looking out for your needs first and foremost, but this feels... yeah this feels different. This is about him.

And it makes you far more excited than you ever realised it would.

His hand trails down your back. Strokes at the line of your spine. He admires you. Takes note of the dimples just above your ass. Knows he's in trouble the second he starts squeezing at one of your cheeks. Still an ass guy.

He yanks the material of your sweats down past your ass. Fucking groans when he sees the black lace thong that sits prettily over your ass. Glances over to the bra by his sofa. Groans yet again. Yep . A matching fucking set.

"Fuckin' vixen," he mumbles to himself, not really intending for you to hear it. Isn't sure if you had planned on getting laid today, but you're definitely dressed for it. As he grapples with the flesh of your ass, he notices just how smooth your skin is. Well moisturised. Coconutty.

Maybe you had taken extra care in the shower that morning. Maybe you had shaved your entire body. Maybe you had been wearing a new two-piece.

That doesn't mean you were planning on letting him see. Just means your self-care routine is coming along fabulously. Well done you.

There's a bruise on the top of your hip. Jeongguk's thumb brushes against it. Doesn't apply any pressure. A small noise chirps from his throat, questioning it.

"Pole," you remind him a little breathlessly. "Gentle with my legs, they're covered in bruises."

He nods to himself, and says, "Use 'chess' okay? Hey, look at me a sec - 'chess'. Okay? Even if it's just your legs. Don't wanna hurt you."

You're looking at him over your shoulder with a smile. His sincerity is sweet, but entirely misplaced. You want him to hurt you.

"Notice how there are no bruises on my ass?" you ask, to which he nods. You face away from him again, and sink back into the position he originally had you in, chest pressed to the counter. "Good. Change that."

He thinks he might cream his pants right there and then.

"You're gonna fuckin' kill me."

"Oh no," you pout, voice all soft and sweet. "Wouldn't that be a shame?"

Jeongguk grapples with your ass. Caresses it. Knows you're not done talking, so is buying time. Wants to hear how you'll tease him. See how riled up it''ll get him.

"If you die, I'll just have to fuck Jimin again."

The crack of his palm against your ass is electric.

Your body jolts forward, Jeongguk's grip on your hip to keep you stable no match for the impact of his flat palm. Skin on fire, chest heaving, you giggle. That's all he's got?

"Y'know," you tease, and Jeongguk is pleased that you sound a little breathless. He strokes at the skin he impacted, soothing the sting. Likes that goosebumps are already forming. "He took me from behind, a lot like thi-"

He doesn't even let you finish this time before the sting of his spank is delivered. It's harder than the first one, but his hand is also far quicker to soothe this time around.

"Yeah," he husks. "I fuckin' know."

You can hear his breathing, now. You're both panting a little.

"Does it bother you?" you ask as he tenderly cares for your reddening skin.

"Be specific," he speaks boldly, a little unlike himself, and you're starting to understand why he's an ass guy. Your tits make him weak. This? The way he's got control of your body? Makes him strong.

"That I fucked Ji-"

The way he cuts you off with another domineering slap to your ass gives you his answer - but so does the way he not only soothes the skin immediately afterwards, but also how his other hand comes to rub the bottom of your spine, following the path of its curve. He's cherishing. Worshipping.

He leans forward as his hand trails up your spine so he can reach your neck, and tenderly clasps it to he pull you back up. Turns you around. Is gentle as he lifts you back into position on the counter.

Brushes your hair out of your face. Looks you directly in the eye. Uses this thumb to collect a rogue chunk of glitter from your cheek. Rubs it on his arm. Stains himself in you.

"It doesn't bother me," he says - not for any male sense of bravado, or acting 'chill' - but because he needs you to know it isn't a big deal. You've enough complexes as it is. He doesn't want you to ever feel shame for the things you've done. "Bothers me that he doesn't realise how lucky he was to get a pussy as good as yours. Bothers me he didn't finish the job. Bothers me that he actually got to fuck you," he grins. You grin right back. "But it doesn't bother me that it happened."

"Mm, so you won't share towels with him, but you'll share girls?" You tease. His hands toy with your chest again. Secretly, you think you like him better like this. Like it when he's weak.

"Am I sharing you?"

It's a loaded question, you think.

"Not right now," you whisper, reaching to his waistband, nose nudging against his. "Take these off."

"Say please," he whispers right back. One of your hands tangles in his hair. Pulls him away. Gets him looking into your eyes.

"Please."

How can he refuse? It's like you put him in a trance whenever he sees your disco-ball eyes. He'll do whatever you ask of him.

He takes his trousers off first, then says "shirt?"

You nod. He takes that off, too. Leaves them crumpled in a pile on the floor. Doesn't care for them at the moment. Only cares for you.

"I still need a shower," he says, as he closes the gap between you, your legs wrapping around his waist.

"We can still get one," you tell him. Honestly, you don't really mind what you do with him. Just know that you wanna make it last. Want this feeling of safety and security for a little while longer.

His arms rest on your shoulders. Just a little taller than you in height when you're sitting like this, Jeongguk likes looking at you from this angle. Likes seeing the variations in your glitter; the small chunks and slightly bigger flakes that make you seem cosmic. He likes noticing the flecks caught on your lashes, and how he never realised quite how long they are. He doesn't think you're wearing mascara.

You're not - but you did get your lashes done the week before. He wouldn't give a shit even if he knew. Would think it was cool, probably.

"So about that whole no-kissing thing-"

"Nope," you laugh, swatting at his clammy chest. He smirks. Presses his lips together. Shakes his head.

And then he whines. "It's so unfair."

"If you even try, I'm yelling chess."

"Really?"

"Oh, yeah," you assure him - only for him to edge a little closer.

He's not actually going to kiss you.

Although... if you let him, he might.

"Chess!"

"Ughhhh," he whines again, pulling away. "So mean, disco ball."

"What if I promise to make you cum?"

He narrows his eyes. "Fine."

One of his hands drops to your chest again. Keeps on coming back. Can't resist. Ass guy? Yeah right.

The other drops to your underwear. Toys with the lace.

"Bird revision, right?" Jeongguk asks. "So we can only do things we've already done?

You nod.

"Okay," he whispers, before pulling away from you. "Hold that thought."

You watch as he walks around to the kitchen sink, his thick cock tenting in his underwear, desperate for something. Anything .

And yet your birds?

All focus on you. You've no idea how the fuck you're gonna get him cumming. Sure, there was the mutual masturbation one, but you'd promised that you'd be the one making him come. Maybe there's room for loopholes.

It wouldn't be the first time the pair of you have skirted the truth of what a bird could entail. A bird, a plane. Whatever.

Hands under the water, Jeongguk's focus is only on cleaning himself. He preens you so often, fixes your hair, your glitter, that it's nice seeing him in the same capacity but for himself. Realistically, it's all for you, still.

He glances up. Looks a little bashful.

The distance reduces the pair of you to your natural states; just Jeongguk and his Stargirl. He gazes at you often, but it's different when he's blinded by the light. With a little space, he's reminded of the fact you belong on this earth, too.

It's like the pair of you are tangled up in a Jekyll and Hyde situation, instead, it's who you are when your clothes are on, versus when your clothes are off. He likes both of them. Doesn't think they can coexist though.

"What?" he asks when you smile at him. You just shrug and shake your head.

"Weird isn't it?"

He comes to stand in front of you again. Your legs don't wrap around him, but he does put his palms on the top of your thighs. Looks pensive as he asks, "What is?"

He's grinning, too, though. His skin is getting all prickly again. Can smell your arousal. Wants to fucking drink it.

"You 'n' me," you shrug, letting your arms snake around his neck. You're sat up straight, and the gap between your chests closes. "Like, I was maybe 15 seconds away from kissing you." The admission makes Jeongguk want to die. "But then when you were washing your hands..."

"I was just Jeongguk again, right?" He assumes. You nod. "Same for me. Like we're two different people: who we are when we're horny and who we are when we're 'normal'."

"So fucking weird," you laugh, deciding that it solidifies what a great friendship you have. Convince yourself it's gonna make it so much easier when he starts dating. If you can separate the Jeongguk you mess about with and the Jeongguk you're friends with, then there's no reason the friendship should be lost.

"Too weird to pick back up where we left off?" He says quietly. Nudges his nose against yours. Strokes his hands up your back. Pulls his chest away so he can sneak his hands to your tits once more. Squeezes. Makes you moan.

You shake your head. "Do it again."

He does.

Is firm, as he does so, his large hands cupping your chest so delicately that you almost want him to be rougher - but you like it when he's gentle. Like how well he takes care of you. His thumbs stroke across your hardened nipples, toying at them, getting you all hot and bothered.

You moan so subtly that Jeongguk thinks it might be his favourite sound in the whole entire world.

"You wanted specifics earlier," Jeongguk says under his breath. "I can give you a specific."

You nod. Trail along his bottom lip with your thumb. Let him press his lips down against it.

"Show me," you tell him. He squeezes at your chest. You know exactly what he wants. You also know he's never done it before. "My tits, huh? You wanna suck on them?"

He swallows harshly. Rests his forehead against yours. Nods. Can feel his cock throb.

"Big boy words," you whisper, and are met with a slight grunt from Jeongguk. He's used to being the one in your position. Used to setting the pace, setting the tone. You switching it back around on him? Fuck. He might just die. Or cum in his pants. One of the two. Death would be preferable. "Tell me what you want."

He rests his head on your shoulder. Looks at your tits as he plays with them.

"Not much of a teller. More of a doer."

He's just trying to weasel his way out of it. It's like the birds all over again.

"So do it."

And to your surprise, he does.

His lips are firm as he presses a kiss around your nipple. Once, twice. A third time. Poutier and poutier with each kiss. He's delicate. Sincere. Doesn't wanna get it wrong.

"Feels good," you tell him, knowing he needs the reassurance.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," you smile. Tease at his hair as his lips wrap around you again. The way his lashes splay on his cheeks is art, you decide. "You've no idea how much I like this."

His lips kiss and kiss. It takes a little encouragement - "use your tongue a little. Yeah. Yeah, like that. It feels so good when you do that. Suck a little- oh fuck. Yes." - but it doesn't take long for him to gain confidence. Be a little bolder. He focuses on your reactions. Notices when your breath hitches everytime he runs his tongue around your nipple. When he kitten licks, too. But when he sucks? That's when the jackpot hits.

Your body leans into his touch, hand resting on the back of his head. His name escapes your lips half a dozen times. When he switches to your other nipple? Half a dozen more.

His lips are direct and purposeful and they tug your nipple into his mouth, his moans vibrating around you. Pulling away, Jeongguk wastes no time. Has your other nipple in his mouth almost immediately. Squeezes your tits together, nipples almost touching so he can swipe fast licks across them. Gets you mewling. Whining. Begging for more.

And how can he refuse?

His hand dips to your pussy. Toys with you over the lace, which is sodden with your arousal. He slides your underwear to the side, and says nothing, just continues sucking on your tits as he sinks a finger into you.

"Shit," you curse. The angle you're sitting at means he can't get too deep. Means he's hitting you in just the right spot, straight off the bat. He mumbles something, but you can't work it out. Just know there's no possible way he's an ass guy. Hasn't spent more than a second away from your tits since he first started peppering them in kisses. "Just like that."

Your head lulls back, and Jeongguk finally pulls away. "You good?"

He's met with the most satisfied laugh he thinks he's ever heard. "Is water wet?"

"Dunno," he grins. "But you are. Fuckin' soaked. God," he stares down at your pussy, stuffed with two of his fingers. "I fuckin' love this cunt."

You smirk. Roll your hips as well as you can in the position. He watches, transfixed by the way he's stretching you out even with just two fingers.

"My bed," he rasps. "Can we? I know I need to shower, but - fuck - I just gotta have you in my bed, B."

Truthfully, you're glad. There's something about post-gym Jeongguk that just really gets to you. You think it's the pheromones. Don't care to google it because you enjoy the mystery.

You nod. "Probably for the best. You have to eat off of here."

He smirks. Withdraws from you. Says, "So?"

And then he licks his fucking fingers clean. Eyes on yours. One of his brows tweaks. Challenges you.

"You underestimate how much I like eating pussy," he says, as he walks away, leaving you in a state of shock.

You think his departure is for dramatic effect. In reality, it's just so you don't see the Cheshire cat grin on his face, pleased with himself for what he just did. He knows it was hot - but he's smiling because he can't get over the way you taste. Fucking delicious.

That thing about torturing himself? Yeah. You might be right.

Eating pussy isn't on the birds. He knows he can't have it - and yet when you arrive at his door, mouth still ajar, both smug and surprised in the same expression, he thinks it might not be unfathomable.

"What?" he feigns innocence - but he's got a grin that tells the tale of a valiant hero. He's so pleased with himself that you almost slip back into your 'normal' selves again - but then you crawl onto his bed. All fours. Ass a little red from his hands earlier, but no bruises. Just that barely there thong he thinks belongs in a museum, and evidence of just how turned on you are showing between your thighs.

The smile of his? Replaced with a stare so hard it rivals his cock.

"What?" you feign innocence now, as you flop down onto his bed - and then he gets the luxury of seeing your tits and - fuck. It's all too much.

He walks over to the bed. Takes off his underwear. You do the same.

"I'm gonna die," he tells you with absolute certainty. He's so ridiculous that you can't help but smile all fondly at him. The way he jokes and banters with you comes so easily, that part of you doesn't even realise he's naked. Part of you does, though. Mainly your eyes, given the fact they seem to be transfixed on his cock. "If we don't do something about this-" he gestures down to his cock, as if you need any direction "- then I absolutely will just die. Is that what you want? Huh?"

"Mhmm," you hum, finishing it with a small giggle and a nod, reaching for his hand to pull him onto his bed. He lets you. Follows your lead, cause he hopes it's leading him somewhere good. "I want you dying a very little death."

The innuendo dances off your tongue and into his ear as you sit on his lap. His hands automatically find your chest. He decides he'll miss them. Encourages your body down. Positions you just right so that he can take your tits in his mouth again. He's a changed man.

"Don't think there'll be any little about it," he mumbles as he switches sides, kitten licking now so that he can finish his sentence. "Think it's gonna be a very big death, actually."

"Shit," you whisper as he gets reacquainted with your body. He decides all rather quickly that tits are a gift from God and he's been blind for his entire life up until he met you. How had he not been utterly obsessed before? He'll never admit it. Never. Will prevail as an ass guy - but fuck, he hopes whoever you set him up with has a good pair of tits.

But then there's an uncomfortable awareness of how fleeting this all is. By the time you've both finished, it'll all be over.

He manoeuvres you both over. Kisses your chest, now. Works his way up to your collarbone. Your neck. Bites down ever so gently. Kisses again. Tells you once more how your no-kissing rule 'will kill' him.

"Better leave me something nice in your will," you tease as he finally pulls away from dappling your skin in pretty kisses that you wished could have been on your lips instead. Either pair.

He sits back on his heels. Strokes his cock as he looks at you. Tilts his head, a smirk rising on one side as you cup your tits.

"Pussy," he encourages, pulling a little tighter on his cock. "Play with your pussy."

You give him a quizzical look, but do as you're told. Slide your fingers between your slick folds. Spread yourself for him. Watch as he almost fucking hisses. The pace he's wanking himself off increases. His breathing shallows. You think it stops completely when you sink two fingers into your entrance.

He curses. Tilts his head back. Ruts his hips upwards. Forces his cock through the tight grip of his hand. There's a sheen to his tip, precum leaking so delicately that you find yourself salivating at the sight of it. The muscles in his lower abdomen tense. He's edging himself.

"How many birds do we have left?" Jeongguk rasps, eyes opening to find yours again. The way he speaks, all breathless and needy, has you wanting more. "Mutal masturbation's done. I can't... Shit. I can't. I'll cum if I carry on. Tits are done. Fingers, done. What else?"

"Shower," you say, then follow it up with. "Do that last. Water gets in the way. Wanna watch you cum."

"Shit, don't say shit like that," he mewls as he sinks down on top of you. His body is warm, the chain around his neck catching on your throat, pooling between your collarbones. Has you determined to make him finish on your chest. Wanna replace his chain with his cum.

In a normal scenario, he'd kiss you right now - but he can't. Instead, he averts his desire. Grips his cock. Presses it against your folds. Spreads your slickness. Covers himself in it. Dips down a little too far. Curses. Gets you whining.

"You know," he husks against your neck. "We could..."

"Cockwarm?" You simper. "Don't believe that one was my bird?"

The crown of his cock presses against you. Jeongguk holds it as the base, and runs it down your folds, then back again. He repeats. Lets his grip get even tighter when he lines up with your entrance. He waits for you to move your hips.

And you do. Just for a moment. Just a tad. Just enough.

"Wasn't it?" He hums, knowing perfectly well it was one of his.

"Don't even think it was a bird," you whisper a little breathlessly as he presses a little deeper against you. He adjusts his hips. Lines himself up a little better. Your breath hitches.

"So you don't want to?" He asks, and you can just tell he's got one of those smiles on his lips. The one that makes you think maybe kissing him wouldn't be so bad. "'Cause I wanna."

"Gguk," you whisper. He shakes his head.

"Not an answer."

"Shit," you whimper, rolling your hips ever so gently to encourage his tepid ruts against you. "Condom?"

"Birth control?" he chances. He knows you're on it. Think if he's gonna get his cock in you, then he's gonna at least try for it raw.

You know you should, and yet - "Are you clean?"

He nods. Asks the same back. You nod. Haven't hooked up with anyone but him since your last test.

Everything is out in the open. There's nothing to lose - just the knowledge that you'll maybe never get this ever again. It only serves to make you want him raw even more.

"You get a minute."

He pauses. "A minute?"

"Sixty seconds," you nod. "Cockwarming. That's all you get."

It's ridiculous, 'cause all you want is for Jeongguk to fuck you senseless. Think it's embarrassing admitting that, though. What if he doesn't actually want to fuck you? What if it's just for the birds?

"Who's counting?" He husks. Realigns himself. Presses the tip of his cock against your entrance. Plugs it but doesn't push forward. Makes you wanna die. Too good. Too fuckin' good.

"You are," you whimper, knowing you won't be able to keep count when he's inside you.

He nods. Reminds you that 'chess' is always an option.

His cock sinks into you slowly. It's thick and wide, angled just right to hit your sweetest spots. Jeongguk groans. Finds himself seeking out your tits with his mouth as he bottoms out. Sucks gently, until he's reminded by you that he needs to be keeping count.

He grins. Nibbles your nipple ever so gently, then nods. "You're right, you're right. Sorry. Shit. One. Two..."

Jeongguk finds solace in the crook of your neck as your legs wrap around him. The position has him thinking you've no right to ever complain about intimacy again. This is about as fucking intimate as it gets. And when your arms wrap around his neck? Dainty fingers start toying with his hair? Only amplifies it.

Your hips move ever so tenderly, and he loses count. Finds himself swearing again. You're tight and warm around him, just how he wanted it. Torture. Fucking torture. He likes this so much he fears you ruined actual sex for him.

"Shit," he mumbles against you. "Never been good at maths."

The way you giggle? Torture. Again.

"You're a liar, Jeon Jeongguk," you whisper tenderly, tensing around him just cause you liked the way it made him whine.

He pouts and shakes his head, which is still buried in the crook of your neck. His voice is muffled as he asks, "What comes after 32?"

And because you're just as into it as he is, you decide lying is okay for the time being. "11."

"Yeah," he whines. "Thought so. Eleven... Twelve... What's next?"

"Dunno," you whimper breathlessly. It's getting a bit too much for you, too. "Maybe ten?"

"Ten," he echoes. Decides he wants to spend eternity inside you. "Eleven..."

He pauses just long enough for you to know exactly where he's going with this - so you beat him to it.

"Maybe it would be easier if you had a rhythm going?" you simper.

"A rhythm?" He hums. He was just gonna pretend he couldn't do maths again.

"Like..." you pull your hips back a little, burying yourself deeper into the mattress and away from him - but then you push them back up. Jeongguk fucking whines. "One."

You pull back, again. Jeongguk whines, again. Sinks himself back into you. "Shit. Two."

"I'm not good at multitasking," he says. Not a lie, admittedly. Gets distracted too easily. If you don't keep count, he'll just fuck you forever or something stupid like that. Doesn't think he'd mind it, to be honest. "Maybe you should keep count."

"Mhmm? You want me to count for you?"

"Yeah," he nods. "Count for me, B. Make sure I don't go over sixty."

"I'll count backwards," you tell him, thinking it will somehow take longer, because apparently all sense of sanity is evading you. Unsurprising. All you can think about is Jeongguk's fat cock and how it's keeping you spread open nice and wide for him. "Countdown."

"60-0?" He clarifies, to which you nod. "Mhm. Do that. Count backwards. Use that pretty little head of yours."

"Sixty..."

The way he pulls out of you is maddeningly slow. He's deliberating taking his time. Overindulging. Making this last. He's even slower as he pushes back in, filling you up as deep as he possibly can.

You're barely able to get the next number out.

"Fifty-nine," you eventually manage as he bottoms out. "Fuck."

He's lethargic in the way he moves. Slow as he withdraws, and even slower still as he fucks himself into you.

"Fifty-eight..."

Jeongguk's skin is hot. He sticks to you like glue. Only his hips move - but so do yours.

You're fucking.

You. Are. Fucking.

And, God, you know you shouldn't. You know that it's a recipe for disaster, but Jeongguk's aftershave smells like safety and his bed feels like home, so the prospect isn't scary.

"...Forty-two... Forty-one..."

Your whines are getting louder. So are his grunts. You grip onto his biceps, and begin to realise Jeon Jeongguk is not a man. He simply cannot be. Not when he is built like a Greek God, and looks like one too. Crafted from marble, there's no possibility he's real.

And even if he is real, you think there's no way he'd actually be fucking himself into you like he is.

Sex, at its very basic fundamental value, is all about survival of the fittest. Anatomy. Breeding. Shit like that; things you can't quite recall when he's balls deep inside you. It's about fucking for the survival of the human race, and out of everyone on the planet, you can't wrap your head around the fact he'd choose to do that with you. His basic anatomy would choose you .

Jeongguk isn't thinking as intensely as you are.

Fucking. Nice feeling. Cum. Nice. Inside her. Nice. Fucking. Real nice. Glitter. Nice. Tits. Suck. Nice. More. Fuck. Nice. Again? Nice.

But he is also thinking about spilling himself into you, and how fucking unreal it would feel.

So maybe your brains are working in tandem. Different process. Same end goal. He just can believe he'd choose you, 'cause, well... he already has.

Eventually, you hit thirty-three, then thirty-two, and then -

"Shit," you whine. "That damn thirty-two."

"What about it?" He asks a little curiously. Pauses his hips until he gets the go-ahead from you again.

"I've forgotten what comes after it."

"Shit," he grins, playing along with you. "Start again?"

"Maybe," you nod. "But this time, maybe go faster? Might jog my memory?"

Jeongguk smirks. Sits up on his heels, cock still buried inside you, knees on either side of your ass. He grips your waist. Spanks one of your tits, then softly caresses it as an apology for letting the intrusive thought win. His hips pulse gently.

He's fucking you.

Jeongguk is fucking you.

He lets the hand that was playing with your chest trail down your torso until it reaches your pussy. It's swollen and needy, just as much blood rushing to your clit as there is to his cock. His thumb presses down right when it needs to. Rubs in tiny circles as he gently thrusts into you slowly.

"Faster?"

You nod.

"Okay," he rasps. "Let's jog that memory of yours. You're so smart, Byeol. Look at you, and your pretty little head. So smart. So fucking smart when my cock's inside you."

This time you don't count. He grips your waist. Rams himself into you like a man possessed, lips resting ajar as his brows knit together all prettily like they did when he was eating brunch. So incredibly focused, and yet there's not a single thought up in that gorgeous head of his, just that he's fucking you so hard his neighbour will definitely be able to hear his bedframe hitting the wall. Good .

The noises he makes are lewd. You think he'd make bank with an only fans. Know that you'd pay good money for it. With a cock as pretty as his? A body like a marble statue? Gorgeous little whimpers when his cock is all needy for you? Yeah, bitches would go wild for him.

Funny, how you refer to them as bitches, almost like you're jealous over imaginary women who'd find him sexy. Very strange, indeed.

After all? You're just friends.

His pace eventually eases, and you pretend like you were counting the entire time. "Two... One... Times up."

Jeongguk sinks back down, hooking one of your legs over his elbow as he does so, opening you up even further. He wants to be deeper. As deep as he possibly can be. Wants to press down on your cute little tummy and feel himself inside you.

"Whoever fucks you next better worship your pussy," he mumbles, pressing kisses up your neck. "So fucking good. Shit. If you dare fuck another guy who doesn't make you cum like you know you deserve to cum-"

"You'll what?" you tease, a smile plastered all over your face. "Die?"

He laughs. Shakes his head. You know him so well. "What use would that be? Nah..."

Jeongguk pulls away from you again. Withdraws himself fully for the first time. Watches your pussy as your arousal seeps from your tight cunt and onto his sheets. Wants to lick it all up. Doesn't think he's allowed to, though.

Instead, he moves your legs, finally noticing the extra bruises from pole. You were right. They do look like watercolour bruises.

He squeezes your thighs together and uses his gentle hands to twist your hips, so that your legs are curled to the side, but keeps your back flat against his bed. He lines himself up with you again. Grunts as he sinks into you. You're tighter now, like this. He thinks it's gonna make him cum. He has to go slow.

"I'd get you like this," he says, holding onto your hip and pushing deeper, deeper into you. He nods over to his desk and smirks. "And that chair over there? That's where they'd be. And they'd have to watch me fuck you how you like it."

He doesn't mean to, but he finds himself fixated on the fact you routinely have sex and don't finish. He can't wrap his head around it. He'd had the luxury of witnessing you cum a handful of times. Had felt it once. Knows first-hand how fucking good it is. Thinks about it as he fucks into you, now, then lets the intrusive thoughts win again as he begins to ramble.

"Can't believe how many people you've let get away without making you cum. You know how good that shit is? Fuck. You feel like heaven. They wouldn't even deserve to watch it - but I'd do it. I'd make them fuckin' watch - 'cause not being funny, B, but you should see yourself right now. So fucking hot I might die. Hopefully then if they fucked you again, they'd know what to do."

"Never realised you were such a good teacher, Mr Jeon," you tease.

He stills his cock inside you. Smirks. Shakes his head. Picks up the pace again.

You know what ' Jeon ' does to him. The ' Mr ' ahead of it? Yeah. Gets him.

And so gives you a friendly threat, as he fucks his cock a little deeper into your tight, warm cunt. "I will fuck you so hard my bed breaks if you don't shut the fuck up."

"Oh?" You grin, trying not to moan and failing miserably. "Would you prefer Sir ?"

"Final warning," he growls, his hips slowing but deepening. He's close. You know it's not gonna take much.

"Whatcha gonna do? Give me a detention?"

"If you get to call me stupid fuckin' names, then I get to kiss you."

"Kissing isn't very friendly, is it?"

"Byeol, my cock is inside you."

"Yeah? Just a friendly fuck."

He knows you're joking, but Jeongguk doesn't think there's anything friendly about this.

He doesn't insist on kissing you any further.

"You're unbelievable," he smiles, easing slightly before reaching for your hand. "C'mon, let's make you cum."

"Oh? You want this to be over?" You flash a grin, as if you haven't been fucking him for God knows how long by this point, knowing full well he could have cum in 10 seconds flat at any given opportunity. He repeatedly edged himself for you.

"No, but if I don't cum soon, Byeol, I'll d-"

"Die, yeah yeah," you grin. "Alright. Put yourself out of your misery."

He laughs. Looks at you with such fondness that you think you'd quite like to orgasm on his cock for him like a good friend should. "You make me sound like such an asshole."

"I don't," you promise sweetly - before you also decide to let the intrusive thoughts win. "Also, just on the subject of assholes, thoughts on pegging?"

"Literally what the fuck is wrong with you," he laughs, rolling his hips to remind you of the more pressing things at hand. You moan a little, but all you wanna do is banter with him. You enjoy it. Like it when he's all hard and needy and impatient, and you're winding him up. You like frustrating him.

"You've got a nice ass," you shrug, shoulders pressed deep down into his white sheets. You look angelic, he thinks, hair haloing around your head, chest flushed, tits covered in teeny tiny hickies from his mouth.

"Well, maybe if you'd have picked a different plane..." he teases. "You'd know by now."

Holy shit.

"Wait. You wanna get peg-"

Jeongguk covers your mouth with his hand, a subtle grin on his pretty little face, dewy nose scrunching just for you.

"As much as I enjoy your chitchat, Byeol, I'm gonna fuck you so hard you can't talk at all. That good?"

You laugh. Twist your torso over to reposition yourself on your front. He gives you a playful spank straight off the bat, and it makes you roll your eyes - as if you hadn't turned over just to give him a view of your ass. You'd known what you were getting yourself in for.

Adjusting you slightly, Jeongguk pulls one of his spare pillows over, and lifts your hips to scoot it beneath you. It's his favourite position. Every last part of it. The way he can pull on hair and spank asses? The muffled moans into his pillows? Fuck .

You love it just as much. Always helps to have your body weight adding to the pressure of your fingers massaging against your cunt. As Jeongguk pushes into you, he watches your hand slip beneath your body, and curses.

"That's it, B," he husks. "That's a good girl."

He fucks himself into you - slow, deep, hard - and picks up the pace with every pathetic moan that escapes your lips. Tells you how good you sound, how much he wants to hear you come undone - and then you are.

The pleasure waves through you like an electrical current, Jeongguk's thick cock unrelenting as he fucks into you and drags your high even further than you thought possible. There's a numbness to your body, save for the overwhelming pleasure that pulses around his cock. It's all you can feel. Everything else is void. For a moment, the only important thing in your life is Jeongguk's dick and the way it fills you like nothing else ever has.

"Shit," he husks. "B, where?"

"Back," you just say, unable to move because your body is still fucking shaking. You don't even get the chance to mourn the loss of his cock inside of you, because he has to pull out so quickly.

His hand grips his cock and wanks faster than the speed of light. The pressure in his balls builds and builds and then it can build no more.

He squeezes your ass and whines as thick, creamy spurts of cum begin to paint your back.

The sound of his grunting makes you moan with every new rope of cum emptied onto your skin, and Jeongguk's pretty sure nothing in Taehyung's 'passion' collection could even come close to the sight in front of him.

The final drops are wasted on your ass cheek as Jeongguk holds it to the peachy flesh, watching the way he stains your skin. Holding his cock by its base, he spanks it against your ass once, twice. Smirks. Takes a moment to squeeze your ass just because he can.

He fucked you. He knows he should be concerned about the friendship, but he's not reached post-nut clarity yet.

Eventually, he flops down beside you.

"You know," you mumble, eyes closed, a smile on your lips. Jeongguk's grin is so serene that it's a good job your eyes aren't open. You might accidentally get your feelings confused if you saw him look that pretty. "I actually think it's a bit mean setting these poor girls up with you."

"What? Why?"

He sounds genuinely affronted. You just smile harder.

"Well, it's a bit cruel, isn't it? Us pretending like they'll be dating some great guy, only for them to later find out you're really average in bed."

He knows you're joking. Knows that a fuck like that could never be described as average. Plays up to your teasing just because he finds it funny.

" Average ?!" He exclaims. You can hear his smile in his tone of voice. "Nah, you're chatting shit just to piss me off, Byeol. What is it, huh? Want me to fuck you again? Want me to remind you exactly how average I can be?"

"Maybe."

He grunts. "Call me when you can walk straight."

"Pass me my phone."

"Fuck off."

The afternoon descends into casual chaos. You shower together, and bicker over who gets to stand beneath the water for longer, then battle it out for Jeongguk's fluffy towel in the aftermath. In the end, he lets you have it - only 'cause he likes the way you oogle at him when he's naked.

You dry your hair, and style Jeongguk's into pretty little French braids. Tell him that he has to keep it like that. He says he will. By the time Jimin gets home, you're just sitting on the sofa watching shite TV. He's none the wiser you were naked on his kitchen counter a few hours earlier. Probably is best he never finds out about that part.

He studies Jeongguk's hair for a moment, then shrugs. "Suits you. What have you guys been up to?"

Good fucking question.

"Not much," Jeongguk hums. "Gym this morning. Met this one -" he pokes you with his foot, earning a grimace from you. "- Afterwards for coffee. Been stuck to me like a bad smell ever since."

Jimin laughs. Shakes he his head as he comes to sit by you both with a box of dry cereal that he's eating straight from the bag.

"You've got the most sensitive nose known to man," Jimin teases. "If you've kept her around, it's cause she smells good."

"Nah," he begs to differ. "Just gone nose blind."

"Prick," you laugh, then ask Jimin about his day.

Conversation takes place of the shitty TV show, the three of you easily finding a million different topics to talk about.

It's times like this you regret ever fucking Jimin. Part of you fears you'll always just be 'the girl Jimin fucked that one time'. No identity within Jeongguk's friendship group beyond the fact you shagged his mate.

It's stupid. They barely remember Jimin even so much as looked in your direction. You're Jeongguk's friend. Jeongguk's.

Funny how you don't seem to mind being reduced to no identity outside of the confines of Jeongguk. Did you really heal after Seokjin? Or are you just making even worse decisions than you used to?

Thing is, Jeongguk's friends would be right in thinking that of you.

You are his friend.

As you head off into town the next morning to arrange his blind date, you know that's all you'll ever be.

And somehow, you think you're okay with that.

AO3 | MASTERLIST | MINORS DNI

#jungkook smut #jungkook fanfic #jungkook fluff #jungkook x reader

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thetarotwitch111 · 1 month

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What's your dark side?

When you understand better your darker aspects and take steps to balance them, you can enjoy fully their potential without falling into their traps. Each of these dark gifts offers you the opportunity to live the best life, aligned with who you truly are,but only if you approach them with the right perspective...

✨I hope this reading brings you some clarity and guidance. If it resonated with you, I’d love to hear about it!

✨ And if you’re looking for something more personal, I also do individual readings—just DM me anytime.

🌟TIP JAR🌟

Some of my energy works : PERSONAL READINGS | PENDULUM READINGS | CHAKRA BALANCE | RADIONIC TABLE

Now, let's go for your reading!

Close your eyes, concetrate, take this moment for yourself only and ask your guides and the universe to tell you in which pile is the message meant for you.

Cards from: The Magickal Botanical Oracle by Maxine Miller

💚 Pile 1:The Witch's Garden

Your Dark Side: You possess a unique ability to delve into the depths of life where most fear to tread. This dark side makes you a seeker of hidden truths and buried secrets. However, the darker aspects of this ability lie in your potential to become consumed by the shadows you explore. Your curiosity for the unknown can lead you into obsessive or compulsive behaviors, as you dig deeper into the mysteries that others would rather leave alone. There’s a danger in becoming too comfortable in these dark spaces, where the lines between reality and illusion can blur. This can manifest as an attraction to the morbid or the macabre, pulling you into thoughts or environments that are difficult to escape from.

Perks of having your dark side: Your deep understanding of the darker aspects of life allows you to see and appreciate the full spectrum of human experience. You can help others navigate their own darkness, providing a guiding light in times of despair. This makes you incredibly empathetic and resilient, able to face life’s challenges with a calm that others admire. Your willingness to confront the uncomfortable truths of existence gives you a wisdom that is rare and valuable.

Cautions: The danger with your dark side is in becoming too absorbed in it. Your fascination with the hidden and the obscure can isolate you from others, as they may not understand or share your interests. This can lead to feelings of loneliness or alienation. Additionally, your comfort with the darker aspects of life may attract negative energies or entities that feed off your interest in the macabre, leading to a draining of your emotional or spiritual vitality. There’s also a risk of becoming overly cynical or pessimistic, as constant exposure to life’s darker side can skew your perception of the world.

Witch’s advice: To maintain balance and protect yourself from these darker influences, work with moonstone to keep your emotions steady and your intuition sharp. Incorporate a bath ritual with lavender and rosemary to cleanse any negative energy you may pick up during your explorations. You can use a white candle (as it represent all colors) during meditation to honor and contain your shadow side, and ask your spiritual guides to balance your energy and remind you of the light (with the laws of universe). Regularly burn sage or palo santo to purify your space, ensuring that you are not overwhelmed by the energies you encounter.

💚 Pile 2: Belladonna

Your dark side: Your charm is a powerful tool, but it comes with a darker edge. You have the ability to manipulate others, bending their will to serve your own purposes, and this can lead you to have some behaviors and make some decisions that are ethically questionable, using deceit or seduction to get what you want. The darker aspects of your charm are tied to a potential for narcissism, where the focus on your own desires eclipses any concern for the well-being of others. You may find yourself using people as pawns in a game, not fully considering the impact of your actions on their lives. This can lead to a cycle of destructive relationships, where trust is eroded and connections are shallow.

Perks of having your dark side: Your charm gives you the ability to achieve goals that others might find impossible. You can navigate complex social dynamics with ease, making you a powerful force in both personal and professional settings. Your ability to influence others means you can often turn situations to your advantage, leading to success in areas where others might struggle. This dark side also gives you a strategic mind, allowing you to plan and execute with precision.

Cautions: The danger with Belladonna’s dark allure is the potential to lose touch with your authentic self. The constant use of charm and manipulation can create a façade that becomes difficult to maintain, leading to feelings of emptiness or dissatisfaction. There’s also the risk of alienating those around you as they begin to see through your manipulations. Over time, this can result in a lack of deep, meaningful connections, leaving you isolated despite your social success. Additionally, the power you wield can lead to an inflated ego, where you start to believe that you are invincible or above the rules that govern others.

Witch’s advice: To keep your darker tendencies in check, carry obsidian to ground yourself and maintain a connection to your true intentions. Brew a tea with mugwort to enhance your clarity and ensure that your actions are aligned with your higher self and to amplify your charm without falling into manipulation, indulge in a bath with white rose petals and jasmine—these will help you connect with your heart and maintain sincerity in your interactions. You can also light a red candle and ask for help to your spiritual guides (with the laws of universe) to focus your ambition, but also to be mindful of the impact of your actions on others and your own path. A lavender and camomille tea is always a good choice too.

💚 Pile 3: Thorn Apple

Your dark side: You are a natural risk-taker, unafraid to venture into the unknown or push boundaries that others fear to cross. This fearlessness is part of your dark side, but it also has a darker aspect, recklessness and your attraction to danger can lead you to make impulsive decisions without fully considering the consequences or others feelings. You might find yourself drawn to self-destructive behaviors, or seeking out adrenaline-fueled experiences that put you or others at risk. There’s a potential for addiction to the thrill, leading you down paths that are difficult to return from. This dark side can also manifest as a tendency to challenge authority or rules, not out of principle, but for the sheer thrill of defiance.

Perks of having your dark side: Your willingness to take risks gives you a unique advantage in life. You are able to achieve things that others would never attempt, simply because you’re not afraid to fail. This boldness allows you to live a life that is full and intense, rich with experiences that most people can only dream of. Your dark side also gives you the ability to inspire others, encouraging them to step out of their comfort zones and embrace life’s challenges.

Cautions: The flip side of your fearlessness is the potential for chaos. Your attraction to extremes can lead to instability in your life, where you constantly seek out new thrills without considering the long-term impact. This can strain relationships, as those around you may find it difficult to keep up with your pace or understand your need for intensity. There’s also a risk of burnout, as the constant push for more can exhaust your physical, emotional, and mental resources. Additionally, your tendency to defy rules and authority can create conflict and put you in situations where the stakes are dangerously high.

Witch’s advice: To protect yourself as you navigate these intense experiences, carry a black tourmaline as a shield against negative energies and to keep you grounded in reality. Cleanse your spirit regularly with a bath infused with hyssop. (This herb will purify your energy and remove any residue from your daring ventures). You can also light a purple candle for your guides to ask (with the laws of universe) for energies of transformation, transmutations and protection when embarking on new challenges, ensuring that you are guided and guarded. Burn myrrh or frankincense incense to clear your path and sharpen your focus, helping you maintain clarity and strength even when faced with the most extreme situations.

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ponett · 1 year

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with the fallout of bandai namco's idiotic "it's up to interpretation" bs, do you think that it's possible to enjoy queer media made in a corporate environment in addition to independent works? is it even worthwhile to attempt making queer media in a corporate environment? i find it special how well the g-witch production team managed to tell the story they wanted even with the challenges and pressures they faced, but i have to admit that independent works like slarpg are always going to more completely tell queer stories. as someone who has resonated with both slarpg and g-witch, i was curious to know your perspective.

i'm probably less cynical about this than a lot of my peers are - not that i can blame anyone for feeling cynical about queer rep from corporate-owned media. (we've been through so many First Ever Gay Disney Characters at this point, and lord knows blizzard loves to tease that another overwatch character might be gay every year or so as a PR move.) unfortunately it's just extremely hard to get something like a full season of an animated series funded and produced independently, so the artists looking to enter these fields and pour their hearts and souls into meaningful queer stories as a full-time job don't have many options

going indie gives you theoretically endless creative freedom to tell your stories without corporate censorship, but it's also a massive gamble. only an extreme minority of indie creatives in any medium are actually able to make a living. the fact that i came out the other side of slarpg's development with enough money that i can keep being a full-time indie instead of being in massive debt makes me one of the lucky ones. and even with my modest success, i sure as hell don't have the money to hire a whole team, which limits the scope of what i can make. so i can't turn my nose up at the queer people writing disney channel cartoons where they can't say the word "gay" out loud. they have health insurance, i don't. for most people, what i do is simply not an option

with the corporate-produced Queer Stories i enjoy, i'm often able to squint and see what the creatives were trying to do, wishing that they could have done more while understanding that they probably had to fight tooth and nail for what's there

in the realm of children's animation in particular, i'm thankful that the people working at these studios ARE fighting for more, because it means that kids today have so many more positive queer stories to relate with. i didn't have a single gay character i felt i could relate to until i read scott pilgrim at age 16 and saw wallace wells. before that, i felt so alone in the world. i denied who i was for years because it felt like there would be no place for me. i didn't know anyone openly gay in real life, growing up in the south, and in fiction gay people either existed as the butt of a joke or not at all. the fact that queer kids are now able to see people like themselves in so many shows means something, even if we still have a long way to go and the big studios continue to be a major obstacle

on the subject of g-witch, i'm honestly unfazed by the statement from bandai-namco. i guess i wish they could've let suletta and miorine kiss, but like... the text of the show is extremely blunt about them being a couple by the end. it's not up for debate. and it's not like a gundam series having a meaningful story in spite of the wishes of the toy-producing overlords is anything new, this is just our latest example

all that being said, i do think people should branch out more and explore more weird indie shit if they want more wholeheartedly, openly queer stories. people gotta suck it up and embrace more outsider art instead of only valuing things with studio-level production values. start looking at ren'py visual novels, rpg maker games, obscure webcomics, zines drawn in sharpie, artists on bandcamp who aren't signed to a label, all that jazz. maybe part of the reason why i'm not more fazed by the state of affairs with corporate-funded fiction is that i'm constantly surrounded by furry artists who are telling their own little gay stories

#tamamayfox #ask

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slytherinslut0 · 1 year

Text

SEVERUS SNAPE ONESHOT- Yours, Always.

Tags: Breakup, Love Story, Fluff, Poet Severus, Heartbreak

It had been almost an entire year.

Almost one whole fucking year since you and Severus broke up--the challenges that you'd faced within your relationship were simply too big to overcome, and as a result, the wedge that formed between you two proved to be insurmountable. But despite your issues, not a day has gone by where you don't find yourself thinking about him, thinking about how much you fucking loved him, and all the reasons in which caused you to fall so hard for him in the first place.

You loved Severus for the enigmatic depth of his soul, the way his piercing intellect and hidden vulnerabilities intertwined. His profound understanding of magic and his fierce loyalty, despite his often aloof demeanor, were entirely captivating.

Beneath his stoic exterior, you'd seen glimpses of a wounded heart yearning for redemption, and you were drawn to the complexity of his character. It was his ability to love so fiercely, even if it was sometimes obscured by the shadows of his past, that made your heart ache for him, and you believed that beneath it all, he was deserving of the love and understanding you longed to offer; and you still believed that, even now, almost a year after you'd broke things off.

Leaving Severus was one of the most agonizing decisions you've ever made. It came from a place of deep pain and frustration, stemming from the insurmountable challenges you'd faced. Your love was undeniable, but it was also a source of constant turmoil and heartache. The emotional distance, the secrecy, and the external threats became overwhelming. You yearned for a love that was more stable, open, and free from the constant fear and tension that shrouded your relationship. It was a heartbreaking choice driven by a desperate need for emotional and physical safety, even though it meant letting go of a love that had once felt like the most magical and intense connection in your life.

And even though you'd had other partners, been with other men--nothing has ever compared. Not a single soul has ever come close to making you feel the way Severus did. Not a single one.

So on this chilled September evening, as the room feels like a sanctuary of solitude, heavy with the weight of time gone by, you find yourself frozen in grief. Shadows dance upon the walls, casting long, wistful silhouettes, as if the very atmosphere mourns a love lost to the sands of time as you sit and reminisce, allowing yourself to wallow in the suppressed pain for a while.

Just as you begin to feel the salty warmth of your tears gliding down your cheeks, you're snapped from your thoughts when your owl, Percy, glides in through the open window, holding a letter between her claws--her wings rustle softly, a mournful symphony that mirrors the heartache in the room. Her eyes, dark and penetrating, seem to hold secrets of the past, and her hoot, though eerie, carries a touch of empathy.

With trembling hands, you take the letter, your fingers tracing the familiar seal with the serpent emblem, Severus's signature. The very sight of his signature stamp sends a pang of longing through your fucking heart, your pulse increasing to an unfathomably quick rate--what the hell could this be? Severus solemnly ever writes you these days.

Upon opening the letter, the inked words appear to bleed with emotion, each stroke of the quill bearing the weight of a love that was, and perhaps still is, unextinguished. Tears gather in the corners of your eyes, blurring the elegant script as memories of your shared moments flood back in vivid detail.

"My Dearest Witch,

How many years must stretch their relentless fingers between us to prove that we are no longer inlove? Seasons have come and gone, the passage of time marked by the whispering winds of summer and the quiet melancholy of September. For how long must we persist to scour the earth for someone new to fill the others shoes?

Do not doubt that there have been others, for I have wandered through the corridors of time seeking solace after facing the reality of your absence; though none could replace the unique cadence of your voice, the way you lulled me with words, the way you breathed my name into the hollow of my neck.

Have you, too, found sanctuary in another's arms? Did they manage to provide the same reverence that you'd experienced from my hands? I ask, if I may, if you have experienced a touch as patient as mine, lips that tasted of desire and warmth that filled the silences between words? Has your heart risen like a crescendo, a wave crashing upon the shore, in the company of another?

Remember, as I whispered to you, 'Love is the only thing that time cannot touch.'

I have never spoken words more true. After all this time, my love for you remains an eternal flame, my guiding light, my morning star. Time itself bears witness to the enduring power of this ancient love, a love I will carry with me across the eons, through vast oceans of existence, down to the tiniest, most fragile inches of my soul, forever guiding me back to you.

If you too find that your heart still calls my name in the silence of your nights, then do write to me. It's time we end this madness, my dear love.

Yours, always,

Severus."

The room seemed to close in around you, the walls echoing with the echoes of your laughter and whispered confessions. Your owl, perched nearby, watches with unblinking eyes, as if understanding the depth of the pain embedded in every word.

As you finished reading the heartfelt letter, a profound sense of genuine happiness enveloped you like a warm embrace. In this unexpected moment, a radiant smile graced your lips, and your heart felt lighter than it had in years. The words in the letter had transported you back to a time when your love burned with an intensity that defied the world. It rekindled cherished memories of shared laughter, whispered confessions, and the depth of your connection.

It was as though the letter had unlocked a treasure trove of emotions that you had thought were lost to time. You felt a surge of joy knowing that, despite the passage of time and the trials you had faced, Severus still carried a flame for you. It was a validation of the profound bond you had once shared. The happiness you felt was not just for yourself but also for the recognition that your love had left an indelible mark on both your hearts.

This letter from Severus is a poignant reminder of a love that, despite its ending, still lingers like a haunting melody. You immediately grabbed your quill and began writing him back.

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zeciex · 4 months

Text

A Vow of Blood - 82

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 82: The Coward's Heart

AO3 - Masterlist

TW: Self-harming tendencies/suicidal ideation. 15K Words

As Aemond traversed the shadowy expanse of the throne room, he felt the oppressive gaze of the past kings tracking his every step. Their faces, emerging from the enveloping darkness, seemed to scrutinize him, their eyes a silent jury casting judgment. This phantom court stirred a deep-rooted dread within him, a chilling sensation that something menacing was skirting the fringes of his awareness. It felt like an icy claw were delicately poised at the edge of his mind, ready to tear through the veil of his thoughts.

Aemond’s gaze was drawn to one of the statues, its face not just obscured by the surrounding darkness but intentionally concealed beneath a hood carved from stone. It was a deliberate mark of shame, an eternal condemnation of a king whose reign was stained with terror and bloodshed. A kinslayer who had sealed his own damnation in the eyes of both gods and men–and whose death was delivered by the very thing he had killed so many for.

Shadows stretched across the vast expanse of the stone floor, clawing up the walls and deepening the sense of dread that filled the room. The sparse torches along the walls flickered against the encroaching darkness, their flames casting a weak, trembling light that struggled to penetrate the overwhelming gloom. And somewhere in the distance, outside in the obsidian sky, thunder rolled ominously, each boom seeming to herald the feeling of impending doom.

His gaze settled on the Iron Throne, its silhouette menacing in the flickering torchlight. Shadows coiled around the jagged steel, which thrust upward from the stone floor like a cluster of fangs poised to pierce flesh. The throne loomed ominously, each twisted metal bar and sharp edge appearing to twitch in the dim light, as if alive and eager for the taste of blood.

A chill ran down Aemond’s spine, the fine hairs at the nape of his neck standing on end as a disquieting rustle filled the throne room. It sounded like the billowing of sails or the beating of wings against the wind, the sound echoing through the darkness.

Whirling towards the source of the noise, Aemond narrowed his eye, attempting to penetrate the shadows. The darkness around him seemed to pulse, its movements malevolent and fluid, echoing an unnerving rhythm that seemed almost alive. His hand instinctively found the hilt of his dagger, gripping it tightly, ready to confront whatever might emerge from the consuming blackness.

“Who’s there?” Aemond demanded, his voice cutting through the creeping silence. His challenge hung in the air, unanswered, until the room seemed to shudder under the sudden crack of thunder outside. The windows vibrated as if in response to his query, the glass humming with the force of the storm, threatening to break inside. Rain pelted the panes relentlessly, as if the heavens themselves were enraged, the wind wailing as it swept across the castle’s ancient stones.

In the moment, nestled between the crack of thunder and the flash of lightning, a cruel laughter unfolded–its sound twisting through the air with a malicious glee that seemed almost tangible. The eerie laughter seemed to swirl around him, carried by the shifting shadows that danced and deepened, clawing against the dimming light. It echoed through the vast, darkened hall, reverberating off the stone walls and filling the space with an oppressive sense of dread.

“Show yourself!” Aemond demanded, his voice echoing in the cavernous room. His heart hammered against his ribs as his eye darted through the thickening shadows, seeking the origin of that sinister cackle.

“Vengeance hungers,” a voice murmured from the darkness, chilling and cruel. “You have fed the beast; now, it shall feast upon you.”

Suddenly, a pale hand appeared, pressing against the cold stone of a nearby column. Thunder boomed overhead like a war drum, and a sharp flash of lightning momentarily illuminated the room, casting ghostly shadows that flickered and danced. In the brief light, the hand vanished as quickly as it had appeared, leaving Aemond staring at the empty space where it had been, the sound of crashing waves blending ominously with the storm’s wrath outside the windows.

“Show yourself, you coward!” Aemond shouted into the darkness, his voice tinged with venom as his gaze darted through the encroaching shadows. He felt the chill run down his spine, an ominous sensation akin to a cold draft sweeping across his neck. The sound of crashing waves melded with the howling wind, intensifying around him like the beating of distant wings.

Whirling around, his fingers tightened around the hilt of his dagger, seeking solace in the familiar weight of the weapon. Nothing. There was nothing.

And then…

“I am right here, uncle,” the chilling reply came. “The object of your ire…”

Aemond spun towards the voice, his eye locking onto the figure standing at the base of the Iron Throne’s steps. Lucerys’s figure emerged from the shadows, framed by the menacing blades of the throne that jutted out like fangs of a monstrous beast. His skin was deathly pale, almost merging with the dark, shifting shadows that surrounded him, but his eyes shone with a malevolent gleam, bright against the gloom.

Aemond’s heart plummeted as Lucerys appeared before him, his voice a tremor of disbelief, “You’re dead.”

Lucerys responded with a smile, chilling and distorted, that seemed to make the surrounding shadows stir menacingly. As his smile receded, the shadows dispersed slightly, revealing more of his youthful features–his thick curls a testament to his bastardry. He cocked his head, mimicking the inquisitive tilt his sister often used when observing Aemond.

The gesture twisted a knot in Aemond’s stomach. His voice came out flat and hard–a dry accusation, “Have you come to haunt me then?”

“A man unburdened by guilt wouldn’t be haunted by his actions,” Lucerys answered, his voice calm and eerily confident as he took a step closer.

Aemond instinctively retreated, pulling his dagger halfway out of its sheath, a clear threat, yet Lucerys advanced without apparent fear.

“I bear no guilt,” he spat, firm in his conviction–he refused to be swayed by guilt; in his eyes, the death of Lucerys was nothing more than the scales of justice finding their rightful balance.

“Are you so sure?” Lucerys challenged, his voice a whisper against the howl of the wind outside.

“You got what you deserved.”

“You lost an eye, I lost my life,” Lucerys remarked calmly, his gaze piercing “Does that seem fair to you?”

Aemond’s response was cold and immediate. “You know nothing of what is fair.”

The thunderous crash of rain against the windows set a dramatic backdrop as Lucerys’ voice hummed through the growing chaos, “I thought you said it was a fair exchange. An eye for a dragon. And yet, you demand more–you claim I owed a debt.”

Aemond’s fury surged like the storm outside. With a fierce step forward, a single drop of rain struck his face, as he thundered, “It wasn’t a fair exchange!”

He closed the distance between them, his voice echoing off the stone walls. Lucerys watched him with a disquieting calmness, his gaze unwavering as Aemond vented, “I never should have paid a price for claiming what was free to claim! Vhagar chose me, and accepted my claim! You took my eye for that–how was that fair?”

“You think it was fair, killing me?” Lucerys’ question sliced through the din of the storm. “You think it was justice, killing me?”

“It was justice,” Aemond sneered, his voice filled with conviction. As his words hung in the air, the thunder boomed menacingly above, the storm’s fury echoing through the high arched ceilings of the throne room.

For a fleeting second, a lightning flash illuminated his figure, revealing a grotesque visage–eyes hollow, flesh torn, limbs missing, his dark hair matted against his ghostly pale skin, as if ravaged by the grave. The horrific image vanished as quickly as it appeared, leaving only the lingering shadow of his figure in the dim light.

Another flash of lighting briefly lit up the throne room, casting stark, flickering shadows across the vast stone walls and the Iron Throne itself. But as quickly as it exploded, darkness swallowed everything again. Silence pervaded, oppressive and thick. Lucerys was gone–vanished as if he had never been there to begin with. Aemond stood alone amid the chilling darkness, his heart racing, the echoes of Lucerys’ voice lingering like a cold draft that slipped through the crevices of the ancient walls. Rain slipped down his back, sending a shiver through him as he searched the dark corners of the room, his heart pounding with a mix of anger and dread.

“You hunted me down like an animal,” Lucerys’ voice echoed suddenly, disembodied and haunting, swirling around Aemond in the tempestuous darkness.

Lightning flashed violently, slicing through the thick, clouded darkness, casting intermittent, ghostly illuminations on the solemn faces of the kings who had ruled before–each one silent and judgmentail in their eternal watch.

Aemond whirled around, his hand instinctively drawing his dagger entirely. As he drew the blade, lightning illuminated the steel, casting sharp glares that flickered menacingly in the gloom. The subsequent clap of thunder was so loud it seemed to shake the very walls of the throne room, its vibrations resonating deep within Aemond’s chest.

“You could have ended it by giving me your eye!” He roared above the storm’s wrath. “I wouldn’t have pursued you if you had paid your debt!”

Lucerys’ form reappeared amidst the jagged swords of the Iron Throne, a specter bathed in the transient light. Rain plastered his dark hair against his forehead, his cheeks flushed with a vitality that belied his ghostly nature.

“Even an eye wouldn’t have quenched your thirst for vengeance,” he retorted, his voice cutting through the rumbling echoes. “You wanted more than reparation–you wanted my life. Your chase wasn’t for justice; it was a hunt for blood.”

Aemond’s chest heaved, breaths ragged as the storm raged around him. “No–”

“You pursued me relentlessly!” Lucerys berated him. “You sought my death! You did this!”

Aemond’s anger flared, and he jabbed the dagger towards him accusingly, “You attacked me first!”

Lucerys moved among the Iron Throne’s menacing blades, his voice sharp as he countered, “I was defending myself. You were the hunter, and I the unwilling prey. To you, it was a game, a cruel hunt. I was nothing but a terrified child–”

“So was I!” Aemond’s voice broke, raw with past grievances and present turmoil.

Lucerys met his gaze, the rain streaming down around them, his expression chillingly composed. “But you are a boy no longer. Nor am I.”

In the wake of another blinding flash of lightning, Lucerys vanished, his presence dissipating yet lingering palpably in the air. The storm continued to unleash its fury around Aemond, who turned slowly, his gaze piercing through the shadows and the pouring rain, searching for any sign of the boy he had condemned. Aemond stood alone yet he felt watched, haunted not just by the ghost of Lucerys but by the weight of his own actions, now irrevocably defining his path forward.

“You taunted me,” Aemond declared, his voice thick with accusation. “You humiliated me.” His fingers tightened on the blade, rage flaring within him, a familiar and relentless flame fueled by years of resentment. “You and your cohorts ambushed me–you attacked me, gouged out my eye. I thought only to claim a dragon, to claim something for myself for once, and you punished me for it.” A bitter sneer twisted his features as the rain streamed down his face, soaking his hair. “Do you have any understanding of how I’ve suffered? The relentless pain? The insults? The humiliation?” Aemond spat. “I wear the constant reminder of it on my face!” He paused, his gaze sweeping the gloomy expanse of the throne room, haunted by shadows. “No matter my learnings, no matter the knowledge I acquire, no matter how I refine my swordsmanship or compose myself, I remain trapped in that moment–that profound injustice.”

Lucerys’ ghostly voice broke through, soft yet insistent. “I apologized–”

“That’s not enough!” Aemond spun, his blade slicing through the air. It would never be enough–not for what he did to him, not for all he’s suffered and faced because of it. He glimpsed flickers of movement just out of sight, always skirting the edge of his vision, taunting him. “It will never be enough!”

“And so, you killed me.”

“I wanted you to feel as helpless–as utterly powerless–as I did,” Aemond growled lowly.

“You’re a coward,” Lucerys’s retort was sharp, his voice like a blade skittering across stone. “You wanted me dead.”

“Yes, I wanted you dead!” Aemond’s response was a roar, his voice rising with his fury. “I wanted you to fucking die for what you did to me.”

Lucerys’s words came with a chilling calm, his voice seemingly echoing around the throne room. As he spoke, a macabre trickle of water and blood seemed to pour from his mouth, pooling ominously on the floor. “Vhagar was merely an instrument of your deepest wishes. She exacted the vengeance you were too cowardly to claim yourself. This was never about justice–it was always about your need for revenge.”

Aemond clenched his jaw, the harsh truth reverberating around him as he swung his blade through the chilling air, desperate to silence the specter. “Yes, It was revenge.”

“And yet, you remain too much of a coward to face the consequences of your own cruelty,” Lucerys concluded, his tone dripping with disdain. “You understood the consequences when you demanded my eye, and yet, you pursued it relentlessly.”

His form blurred slightly in the shadows, his voice rising over the sound of the storm. “You chased me through the tempest, fueled by nothing but rage and a desire for vengeance. You know full well the devastation my death will bring upon her, and yet you’re too cowardly to confront the aftermath…”

Aemond’s voice was thick with scorn as he responded to Lucerys, clinging to his justification amid the swirling accusations. “I granted her the mercy of one more night believing you were alive.”

His words were laced with forced conviction as he struggled with the reality of his actions. His sneer masked a deep-seated fear, the acknowledgement of his cowardice for not facing her immediately. Each word was a feeble shield against the truth that Lucerys laid bare–the truth of his own weakness.

“You’re a hypocrite, Aemond ‘One-Eye.’ You are pathetic and weak.” The voice of the boy he murdered echoed in the darkness–chasing after him as he spun trying to confront the boy, haunting him. “You are a coward and a kinslayer.”

A guttural growl erupted from Aemond as he continued his frenzied spinning, his blade cleaving through the empty air where Lucerys had just been–a ghostly figure always out of reach, his form dissipating like mist before he could ever really catch a glimpse of him. Each accusation from Lucerys bore into him, the words burrowing deep, festering like barbs under his skin. With every slash and turn, the inner beast of wrath within him thrashed against his ribs, desperate to break free.

“That’s all you’ll ever be,” Lucerys’s voice haunted the cold air, reverberating off the stone walls. “That lonely little boy–without a dragon, without a rightful place in this world, destined to walk this path alone.”

Bitterness coiled around Aemond’s throat like a serpent, the inner beast clawing at his heart, ripping through the old wounds of feeling lesser, sidelines, mocked, and lonely. Anguish from his youth surged, fueling his rage.

“And you are a fucking bastard that got what he deserved,” Aemond hurled back venomously, his boots thudding against the stone as he pivoted, his dagger slicing through the relentless downpour.

“Could she ever truly love you after what you’ve done?” Lucerys’s words sliced deeper, making Aemond’s breath hitch, his heart tearing into pieces. “How could she ever look upon you and see anything but the monster you are? How could she ever take your bloodstained hands–that crimson guilt–and place it tenderly upon her face?”

A chill ran through Aemond, the weight of Lucerys’s words sinking deep, twisting together resentment and fear into a choking tangle that felt as if it might rip his heart apart. A bitter, piercing ache swelled in the back of this throat, like swallowing jagged shards of sapphire–each as large and merciless as the one filling his eye socket–scraping painfully against the tender flesh as they embedded themselves deep within him.

A deep, menacing growl erupted from Aemond’s throat as he roared, “Come out and face me!”

“Why should I, when you can’t even face her?” Lucerys’s voice slithered through the air, dripping with taunt. “You’re terrified of what she’ll see in you. Afraid of the revulsion in her gaze. Afraid she’ll recoil from you.”

Aemond’s sneer deepened as he lunged at the disembodied voice, his blade slicing through the thick air.

Lucerys’s words continued to lash at him, relentless as the storm within the walls. “You once vowed to destroy her–to ruin her… How right you were…”

Aemond’s fingers tightened around the hilt of his dagger, his movements driven by a visceral rage–a visceral fear–as he lunged forward, aiming to strike the ghost that tormented him. The blade cut through the air, diving upwards–

And suddenly the relentless rain ceased.

Her eyes, as blue as cornflowers, widened in utter shock–those beautiful eyes now clouded with pain. His gaze dropped sharply to the dagger, its cruel blade buried mercilessly in her flesh just below her ribs, angled upwards in a brutal attempt to pierce the heart. The steel shone ominously, slick with crimson, as it protruded from her, a silent testament to the violence it had wrought.

Daenera gasped, a small cry escaping her lips as she staggered backwards, pulling herself free from the cold embrace of the steel. Her hand trembled as it reached to touch the crimson that stained her, her expression transforming into one of confusion and betrayal as she looked up at Aemond, her eyes searching for his explanation.

The sound of the dagger hitting the floor reverberated through the throne room, its clatter loud in the sudden stillness as the storm’s rage subsided and the echoes of thunder faded into a heavy silence. Aemond, gripped by a sudden surge of desperation, lunged forward to catch her as she stumbled backwards. Her descent was abruptly halted by steps leading to the throne, just short of the menacing swords jutting from the cold stone.

He dropped to his knees beside her, his hand–stained with her blood–pressing desperately against the wound in an effort to slow the bleed. Her eyes, widened with shock and fear, locked onto his.

“A–Aemond?” Her gasp was faint, her hand weakly clutching his, her nails scraping against his skin, clawing with fading strength, as if trying to push him away–as if trying to pull him closer.

“Please,” Aemond’s voice broke, trembling as rainwater trickled from his brow, dripping off his nose to mingle with the tears on her cheek. “I didn’t mean to do this–I never intended…I’m sorry. I never meant for this to happen. I love you, please believe me.”

Desperation tore through him, a silent, inward plea for a different outcome, for anything but this calamity–He could endure her anger and withstand her hatred, but the sight of her suffering was unbearable. His hands shook as he tried to stem the warm flow of life slipping between his fingers.

A cruel laugh sounded, “My apology wasn't enough, why should yours be?”

Tears burned in Aemond’s eyes–tears that had always remained unshed.

“Everything you touch, you destroy,” Lucerys’s voice echoed with chilling disdain, as he appeared beside him, sitting cruelly upon the throne, accusing and untouched by the storm–dry and boyish looking, eyes dark and cold. “You are a monster. A kinslayer. Damned. Cursed. You don’t know what love is.” His whisper was venomous, almost intimate. “She could never love you. You will never hear the words you so desperately want fall from her lips. She will always see you as nothing more than the monster who killed her brother.”

Aemond broke the eerie silence, calling out in anguish as he cradled her closer, drawing her onto his lap. His plea was frantic, carrying across the stormy silence. “Help! Someone, please! Save her!”

“What is a little more blood?” Lucerys hummed, rising from the throne, that damned seat seeming to crown him with its iron teeth.

Aemond tenderly brushed Daenera’s hair back from her face, feeling her body grow disturbingly still in his arms. His heart seemed to cease beating, mirroring the slow stillness of hers. Desperation laced his whisper,” No, no, no, Daenera. Ñuha jorrāelagon. Please, I didn’t mean to–don’t leave me…”

He caressed her face gently, wiping away the tears that mingled with his own, pressing his forehead against hers, begging for her to stay. When he finally pulled back, her eyes stared back at him, empty and void of the spirit that had once burned brightly within them.

“Perhaps it is a mercy,” Lucerys’s chilling voice sliced through the thick air as he stepped forward into view, his appearance more ghastly than before. Soaked and grotesque, his gray skin a patchwork of missing flesh, leaving chilling trails of water on the otherwise dry floor .“For both of you. Her without the sting of betrayal, and you without a heart. To end her would be a kindness.”

Aemond sneered at the apparition of the dead boy, clutching Daenera tightly, as though by sheer force of will, he could keep her from fading into eternity. “Lucerys wouldn’t say that.”

“No, he wouldn’t,” Lucerys agreed, his voice low and haunting. “He won’t be saying anything ever again.”

Crouching to meet Aemond’s eye, Lucerys stare was icy and relentless. “You set this in motion. An eye for an eye. Blood for blood. A life for a life. Vengeance hungers, and now it shall feast.”

A horrifying scream shattered the silence of the throne room–

Aemond’s eye snapped open, his heart hammering against his ribs, a painful throb that resonated in his ears. The scar on his face felt as though it were aflame, and the wetness on his cheeks–tears he hadn’t realized he’d shed–stung bitterly. Confused, he ran his fingers across his damp face, shocked to find them slick with tears–tears he had never allowed himself in his worst moments of pain or fury.

Glancing out the window, he noticed the sun perched high in the sky, much later in the day than he anticipated. It was nearing noon.

Then, another scream, raw and harrowing, echoed down the hallway, dragging over the stone with the harsh grating of steel against rock. It was a scream drenched in despair, a scream he recognized all too well. His stomach dropped, a sense of dread coiling tightly around his heart as he realized what had happened.

Aemond surged from his bed, his movements rushed and ungainly as if his limbs were still entwined in the remnants of sleep. His body felt sluggish and unwieldy, muscles sore and protesting from the relentless hours atop dragonback in the recent days. His body was tense and fraught, a testament to the prolonged vigilance he had maintained–even in his sleep. Grasping a fresh pair of trousers, he shed the ones worn through the night, dressing swiftly. He yanked a new shirt over his head, roughly shoving it into the waist of his trousers, and then wrestled his feet into his boots.

The haunting echoes of her cries lingered in his ears, raw and piteous like those of a wounded animal. The remnants of his nightmare clung to him, seeming to claw at the edges of his being and at the fringes of his consciousness–prickling at the very tip of his fingers. They slowed the world around him as he fought through a fog, each movement and thought muddled as if he were pushing through water.

With a swift–deliberate–motion, he cinched his belt around his waist, and ran his fingers through his tangled, unruly hair. There was no time for his usual grooming rituals, no moment spared for vanity as he pushed through the chamber doors into the corridor beyond.

As Aemond advanced towards her chambers, the cries and clamor of destruction grew more distinct and harrowing. With each step, his heartbeat thundered unevenly in his chest–forceful and strained–echoing his mounting dread. He had justified his actions as a mercy, allowing her one more night of peace, shielded from the grim news of her brother's death and his role in it. Yet, the ghostly accusations of Lucerys haunted him, murmuring accusations of cowardice that gnawed at him.

The air was filled with her screams, each one piercing the false serenity he had tried to preserve. These sounds, stark and vivid in the daylight, tore through the veneer of clam, imbuing the air with a palpable despair that belied the brightness of the day. Her cries resonated through the corridor, each one a sharp reminder of the heavy costs–both of his duty and his thirst for vengeance.

As Aemond strode down the hall, he was acutely aware that the news of Lucerys’s death had leaked into the realm, just as he had anticipated. He disregarded the judgmental stares directed at him, letting the whispers and mutters of ‘kinslayer’ burrow under his skin.

So what if he was? It was not anywhere near the worst he had done.

Aemond approached Daenera’s chambers to find a small, agitated assembly gathered outside. Lady Mertha was briskly brushing off her skirts, while a young maid and a guard stood by, their expressions drawn in shock and apprehension. The chamber doors barely contained the chaos within: the sound of objects crashing to the ground, steel scraping across the floor, and items being hurled against the walls and shattering. Amidst this tumult, Daenera’s screams of rage and torment resounded, interspersed with guttural snarls and growls as she wreaked havoc within.

“She is behaving like a rapid animal,” Lady Mertha hissed venomously, her face contorted in a scowl of disdain. “Were she truly one, she would be put down–”

“Prince Aemond,” the young maid interrupted, her voice trembling as she noted his approach, drawing the attention of the others to his presence.

Lady Mertha’s eyes snapped to Aemond, her mouth briefly parting in a gesture to speak before halting as her gaze inadvertently drifted to one side of his face. Aemond caught the fleeting expressions of shock, revulsion, and discomfort flit across their faces as they struggled, and failed, to avoid staring at the sapphire filling his eye socket and the jagged scar tissue surrounding it. He realized then, that in his haste, he had forgotten to wear his eyepatch, revealing the unsettling replacement that often drew such reactions.

“The girl has lost her senses,” Mertha declared sharply, her voice thick with scorn as she gestured towards the door, then clutched her reddened cheek, which showed the beginnings of a slight swelling. “She struck me and threw me out! Look at what that wretched girl did to me! And now she’s gone completely mad–”

“You told her?” Aemond interrupted abruptly, his voice heavy with anger. The irritation surged within his chest, and a dreadful anxiety coiled in his stomach, fraying at his patience. He was indifferent to the fact that Daenera had struck Mertha; he was almost certain that Mertha had made herself deserving of it. What truly irked him was the contemptuous tone Mertha used to describe Daenera.

“No, my prince,” the young maid replied hastily, her body tensing visibly as Aemond’s gaze fell upon her. She flinched again as another crash sounded from within the chamber, her youthful face creased with worry. “We haven’t told her–we were told you would–”

Her words were abruptly overshadowed by the sound of glass shattering, followed by a furious roar that melded a growl, a hiss, and a guttural scream into a single horrifying outcry.

“The princess insisted on one of her daily walks,” Mertha assumed, her mouth tightening with disapproval. “We intended to visit the Sept, but the Lord Confessor approached us before we could get there…”

Aemond’s hands clenched into tight fists at his sides, and he gritted his teeth forcefully averting his gaze as he fought the urge to turn on his heels and seek out that cripple, Larys Strong, to pummel him half to death with his own cane. Larys should have known better than to be the bearer of such news; he should have understood that Aemond was to be the one to tell her–and that was precisely why he did it.

It was far simpler for Aemond to cast blame on Larys for stepping in, rather than confront the truth that he himself had faltered. He had stood outside her doors the previous night, hesitating, too overwhelmed by his own cowardice to face her then.

He had called it mercy–intended it as such. But it was far from it.

Now, as he stood there, the harsh truth of his own failure gnawed at him.

“The wretched girl will destroy everything. We should send for more guards to help with subduing her,” Mertha declared harshly, looking towards the one guard there. “She should be confined to a more secure place where she can’t wreak such destruction.”

“No,” Aemond interjected sharply before the guard could leave, his gaze fixed on Mertha with an intensity that bordered on steel. “You will summon a master, and you will stay here. I will see to her.”

He did not linger for her to acknowledge his command. Striding forward, Aemond reached the doors to Daenera’s chambers. His hand hesitated momentarily on the doorknob, bracing himself for the scene that awaited him inside. The chaos had given way to an eerie silence, more daunting than the sound of her prior outbursts.

A cold shiver of dread washed over him, mingling with a deep-seated fear of what he might discover. Clenching his jaw, he took a steadying breath and pushed the door open, stepping inside and shutting the world out behind him.

The devastation within her chambers were staggering, resembling the aftermath of a storm–a storm similar to the one he had flown through when he had pursued her brother with a heart full of rage and a taste of retribution on his tongue. It mirrored the storm that had plagued his nightmare, the very one that had seemed to have spilled into the throne room, echoing thunderously between the columns and under the arched ceilings–now it seemed to have poured in here as well.

With a sinking heart, Aemond observed the path of destruction. Shelves had been upended, their contents strewn across the floor. Every surface had been swept clean, its former decorations now shattered remnants at his feet. Tapestries that had once adorned the walls were now torn and tattered, lying in disarray. Feathers were scattered like a macabre snowfall, and the crunch of broken glass and porcelain shards under his boots punctuated his every step as he ventured deeper into the chaos with apprehension twisting in his stomach.

A dreadful sense of foreboding coiled around Aemond’s heart as his eye finally settled on her, her figure nearly obscured by the settee placed before the hearth in a small sitting area.

There she sat, arms wrapped around her knees, her gaze fixed intently on the dancing flames. Her hair cascading wildly around her form–a dark shroud that contrasted sharply with the bright light pouring in through the windows. In that light, she appeared diminutive and fragile, utterly consumed by the depths of her despair–her eyes empty and unseeing.

With cautious steps, Aemond moved through the chaotic remnants of her fury, the crunch of broken objects under his boots echoing in the quiet room. His gaze remained on her, unwavering even as he treaded over the debris. He did not sidestep the scattered ruins; instead, he walked straight through them, forging a direct path to her. His heart pounded within his chest, each beat echoing a painful rhythm that seemed to amplify his trepidation.

As he drew closer, he noticed the disturbing smears of blood on her hands, which streaked up her arms and marred her pale skin, tainting the white chemise she wore. He approached her cautiously, as one might approach a startled animal, careful and with bated breath, wary that any abrupt movement might send her spiraling into further despair or provoke a sudden outburst.

The sight of the blood unnervingly echoed the visions of his nightmare–the horrifying moment when her blue eyes had widened in shock, the ease with which his blade had plunged into her flesh without any resistance, the way she had gasped and stumbled backward, removing herself from the cold steel as blood blossomed like a terrible flower. He could almost feel the warmth of her blood on his hands again, that all too familiar stickiness–could almost feel the dead weight of her body in his arms.

Aemond crouched down beside her, bringing himself to her level. As he did, his mouth became dry, his throat constricting with emotion. Yet, he summoned a tenderness that ached in its depths, and he whispered her name, his voice dreading through the heavy silence like a delicate whisper. “Daenera…”

She did not react to her name, her gaze fixed on the flames before her. Her body remained still, save for the subtle tensing of her muscles. As the orange light flickered in the blue of her eyes–like a burning sun against a night sky–Aemond felt a falter in his heart, a deep, unsettling stir of emotions.

“Daenera…” Aemond murmured again, reaching out to gently brush a strand of hair behind her ear, an attempt to coax her back from the distant recesses of her mind. Her lips parted slightly in a soft exhale, her face turning a little before her eyes finally followed, meeting his.

Carefully, he cradled her head, his touch tender, meant to offer some measure of comfort–if he could even do that. He couldn’t discern whether it was for her benefit or his own, but Aemond felt that familiar prickle in his fingertips when he touched her, a fluttering of weakness in his heart that made the darker part of him want to withdraw solely because it was all too much–because it made him vulnerable to whatever poison she may impart him with.

Daenera neither withdrew from his touch nor leaned into it as she usually did. Instead, she remained unnervingly still, her eyes red and puffy from tears, the tracks of her weeping still etched clearly on her cheeks.

Aemond held her as if she were something delicate and precious–and by the gods, she was. He held her the way one would hold a bird with broken wings, gently. And he felt that horrible beast within him clawing at his chest–felt that awful need for her that softened his heart, making him weak and more susceptible to the savage grip of his inner turmoil, threatening to rip it apart.

“Tell me,” she murmured hoarsely, her voice raw and scratchy from crying. A tremor passed through her lips, the corner of which turned downward even as she fought to suppress it. “Tell me it isn’t true…”

Aemond maintained a carefully neutral expression, fearing that any crack in his composure, any slip of the mask, might worsen the situation. Her words pierced him like a slow, excruciating blade, weaving through his defenses and aiming straight for his heart.

Unable to provide the comfort or the denials she desperately sought, he remained silent, his expression enough to reveal the grim truth. It was clear in his eye–he had done it. And he knew she’d see it on his face.

“Tell me it isn’t true,” she implored him, her voice thick with desperation as she begged for him to lie to her. “Tell me that what they said isn’t true–that you didn’t do it.”

Her head shook slowly in disbelief, her eyebrows arching in an expression of utter devastation. Yet, she seemed to cling to a sliver of hope, a desperate plea for him to refute the truth.

“It’s true,” Aemond confessed, his voice soft yet laced with the rawness of an open wound–bleeding with honesty. He could not bring himself to lie, not when no falsehood could adequately shield her from the truth of what he had done.

Brutal honesty was the only offering he had left for her–and that had no mercy at all.

A choked sob ripped through Daenera’s throat, and she turned her face away from him, as if to shield him from the devastation that his confession swept over her. Yet, even in her attempt to hide, he saw the clear signs of her anguish–the way her shoulders trembled, the way her hand twisted and clutched at the fabric over her heart as if trying to reach in and hold her breaking heart together.

When she faced him again, her eyes blazed with accusation and pain. “What happened?!”

Aemond welcomed her scorn like a sinner might accept his penance. He would have gladly knelt before her and begged for forgiveness if he believed it would relieve her of her grief. Yet, he knew that forgiveness would not come from her–not justly so–and he could not bring himself to ask for it.

Forgiveness seemed like a double-edged sword–it would be selfish of him to seek it, fully aware that granting such absolution was beyond her heart to forgive. By even contemplating absolution, he would only cut himself open–would only leave him to bleed.

His action had been those of monstrous retribution, and monsters, by their very nature, did not seek forgiveness for their deeds. Instead, they swallowed the decay of their actions and carried the burden silently, festering within them like a relentless rot.

“How could you do this? Why would you do this?!” Daenera’s voice crackled with fury as she sneered at him, her features contorting with scorn. Abruptly, her hand shot out, seizing him by the shirt with such force that Aemond nearly lost his balance. She clung to him desperately–as though fearing he would slip away like smoke between her fingers–her grip anchoring him in place as a vicious snarl parted her lips.

Through the storm of her anger, Aemond couldn’t help but think she looked beautiful–her eyes ablaze with fury, lips curled as if ready to rip his throat out with her teeth, tears streaking down her anguished face, her eyebrows arched in a poignant mixture of sorrow and rage. She looked both devastated and hauntingly beautiful–a vision he knew would torment her to his dying days.

“Why would you do this?” She repeated, her voice teetering on the edge between a soft demand and a raw accusation. “How could you do this?” As her voice broke, her eyebrows knitted together, and a steely hardness settled into her gaze as she hissed, “You killed him.”

Aemond had to look away, unable to withstand the sting of her hatred as it slipped beneath his armor and cut into the tender flesh beneath. He swallowed hard, gritting his teeth, before forcing himself to meet her gaze once more. Her eyes searched his face incredulously, flickering across his features as if trying to pry open his expression and expose the truths hidden within–even those he refused to face himself.

The urge to reach out to her prickled at his fingertips. He longed to cup her face in his hands, to gently wipe away her tears–or even taste them if she would permit it. He yearned to press his lips to hers, to feel their dry, soft touch, and to bury his face in the crook of her neck, losing himself in the warmth and scent of her. More than anything, he wanted to lay his head against her chest, to listen to her heartbeat–strong and steady, so alive and vibrant, unlike the lifeless echo in his nightmares.

And yet, Aemond wanted nothing more than to rid himself of such vulnerabilities–knowing that they would only expose and cut him open, making him more susceptible to a world that regarded him with disdain.

With a sudden, forceful shove, Daenera sent him staggering backward. He lost his balance, tumbling to the ground and bracing himself with his hands on the cold stone floor. He winced as shards of glass embedded into his palms with a sharp sting. Righting himself, he met her gaze once more, finding horror etched across her features as she stared back at him with a mix of revulsion and disbelief–and utter betrayal.

“I presented your brother with a choice,” he began, his voice even and collected, though he tasted the bitterness of his words on his tongue. “I demanded he put out his eye as payment for mine–that he repay the debt he owed.”

As he spoke that familiar bitterness surged within him, the ache of a festering wound that no act of retribution could ever hope to heal.

Killing Lucerys had not restored Aemond’s eye; instead, it had taken something deeper from him–leaving him as incomplete as before, perhaps even more so. This only deepened that festering resentment. If only Lucerys had complied, had cut out his eye as demanded, Aemond wouldn’t have pursued him. He wouldn’t have killed him, and he wouldn’t be tormented by this festering, weeping wound within him that no act of vengeance could heal.

Yet, a cruel, boyish voice whispered from the dark recesses of his mind, mocking his justification. Even an eye wouldn’t have quenched your thirst for vengeance.

A pain that began as a mere prickle wove its way through Aemond’s scar, burrowing deep into the socket, settling somewhere behind the sapphire. It curled cruelly within his eye, intensifying into a searing agony that forced him to grit his teeth. This pain, both familiar and merciless, was unknown to Lucerys; he had never felt how it honed Aemond into a sharp, cold blade, how it made him cruel and unforgiving–how it had planted a seed of a beast within him that yearned to destroy and lay ruin to everything around him.

“He refused–” Aemond ground out through clenched teeth, swallowing thickly as he was cut off.

“He was a child,” Daenera spat, her voice thick with accusation–he felt it sting along the curve of his scar, felt it like a slap to the face. The corners of her lips pulled downward, her head shaking slightly as a pained expression crossed her face. “He was only a child.”

“So was I,” Aemond replied, his voice maintaining a strange evenness despite the surge of that familiar, burning resentment curling within his chest like a serpent poised to strike. He felt the relentless beast within him pace, its claws scraping at his resolve, the urge to lash out growing stronger. And even then, his voice came out soft, almost sad. “Everyone seems to forget that I, too, was a child when he gouged out my eye.”

Why was it always him who had to rise above? Aemond’s thoughts churned with these questions, his frustration palpable. When would it be his turn to receive justice? Why was he expected to endure suffering while the one who had wronged him had remained unpunished?

“Your brother permanently disfigured me,” Aemond stated, his voice growing cold and hard, as he felt the flames of that burning resentment lick at his heart. “And for years, he faced no consequences for his actions–years during which the injustice remained unpunished.”

His pursuit to right the wrong done to him had been an attempt to balance the scales. Yet, those scales had bent under the weight of his will, tipping more towards vengeance than justice–but it had been meant to be justice.

“For years, I’ve endured insults and humiliation, years of enduring pain and torment because of what he did… You may think he only took my eye, but he took so much more than that.”

Every slight and affront had only fueled the festering darkness within Aemond–he absorbed each stinging comment, endured each humiliation with a stoic mask. He had borne the excruciating pain, experienced every invasive treatment, he had weathered it all, and for what? For the wrong to remain unpunished?

“I wanted him to understand the full extent of what he did to me, and so I demanded his eye in return,” Aemond rationalized.

It seemed only fair, didn’t it?

He had been told by Viserys to let it go, to forgive and forget the harm that had been inflicted upon him without any real remedy–there had been no apology or acknowledgement of the wrongs that had been done to him, so how could he ever let it go? How could he ever forgive? How could he accept an apology when his assailant could never truly comprehend the depth of his suffering?

Daenera’s gaze fell on him with such despair that Aemond felt as if shards of ice were piercing his heart. Her eyebrows drew downward, intensifying the blaze in her blue eyes–a blaze that mirrored the flames dancing in the hearth but seemed to stem from a deeper, more ferocious inferno.

“And that justified you taking his life?!” Daenera hissed, her voice dripping with disdain as her chapped lips were tightly drawn over her teeth and her brows furrowed deeper in rage. “He was defending his brother–protecting him from when you went to cave Jace’s head in with a fucking rock!”

Aemond wanted to say that he wouldn’t have killed Jace, but that would have been a lie. He didn’t know his true intentions when he had lifted that rock; all he knew was that he was defending himself after they had attacked him. Was there a part of him that, in that moment, had wanted Jace dead? Yes. But would he have gone through with it? He didn’t know, he hadn’t had the chance to decide. And they would never know. All Aemond knew was he had a right to defend himself.

Any sharp retorts that formed in the fire of his resentment, died on his tongue as he witnessed the despair on her face–her tears overflowing, tracing paths down her cheeks.

“Did you know,” she choked out, her voice trembling with emotion, “that he’d sneak into my bed at night, tormented by guilt for cutting out your eye? Even when it was in defense of his brother?”

Aemond stared at her, absorbing her words as if they were something rotten and poisonous. He had never witnessed any sign of guilt in the boy, never detected a trace of remorse for what he had done–and to hear now that Lucerys might have felt guilty only hardened something within him. He struggled with disbelief, finding it impossible to accept that the boy who had mocked him so brazenly would have felt guilty for what he had done.

No, Lucerys apology had been nothing more than mockery–just as he had mocked him with the pig. The apology had been insincere and hollow, devoid of any real acknowledgement or genuine remorse for the harm he had inflicted, for what he had done to Aemond–for what he had made him into.

And Aemond refused to harbor any guilt for killing him. He refused.

Aemond’s gaze stayed fixed on her, observing the trembling of her lips and the tears that shimmered in her eyes. He saw something vicious stirring within the deep blue of her gaze, reminiscent of a storm brewing beneath the ocean’s surface. This tempest seemed poised to shred sails and splinter any ship upon its sea, dooming those onboard to the merciless whims of a hungry sea–and he was no different, he felt that he too would break apart on unforgiving waves.

Her face twisted into a vicious sneer as she lashed out at him with piercing words. “If only he had aimed lower. If only he had slit your throat.”

Her words shot through the air like arrows, each one striking him with cruel, unyielding force. Aemond fought against the instinct to flinch, instead straightening his back to carry the weight of them. The beast within him stirred, provoked by the sting of her accusations. It clawed at his chest, urging him to retaliate, to inflict wounds as deep as those she had carved into him. Yet, he battled this urge, striving to maintain the mask of cold detachment he wore, restraining the tempestuous emotions that threatened to break free–to lay waste to all he held dear.

Aemond resigned himself to her cruelty–after all, what else had he expected? Did he imagine she would take his bloodstained hands and gently place them upon her cheek? Did he hope she might caress his cheek and press her forehead to his, offering a moment of solace?”

As sharp as her rage felt as it slipped beneath his armor, he didn’t expect anything less. He would endure her cruelty, withstand her disdain, as long as she lived, as long as her heart continued to beat–however dissonant it was with his own.

“I never meant to kill him,” Aemond found himself murmuring, his voice not entirely his own. The confession emerged on its own, not entirely a conscious choice–they slipped from his lips like those of a sinner seeking absolution at the altar of the gods.

Yet, he did not truly seek repentance, for he knew that there was none to be found. Indeed, he was a sinner, a monster–but a monster that was made, not born. And now, sitting before her, watching his words settle over her like snow upon a desolate landscape, he saw her eyes widen, tears flowing freely, her face painted with utter betrayal and despair. In that moment, he felt less a monster and more a boy–a boy who yearned to hold something gently but had never learned how.

“I only meant to scare him,” Aemond confessed softly, his voice barely above a whisper as if fearing that his words might shatter her further. His heart thudded erratically within his chest, each beat a painful reminder of what he had done. He needed her to understand what had driven him, why he had lost control. “I wanted him to feel the same fear that I felt when you all ambushed me. I wanted him to feel as scared and powerless as I did when he cut out my eye…”

Truly, that had been his only intention, hadn’t it? Yet, that dreadful, boyish voice in the back of his mind clawed at his soul, demanding recognition of a darker truth. He had wanted Lucerys dead. And Lucerys had died. What more was there to say?

A pained expression etched itself across Daenera’s face–an expression wrought with despair, heartbreak, and betrayal. It distorted her features into a cruel mockery of their usual beauty, mirroring the haunting visage he had seen in his nightmare–when she had staggered away from him, her hand brushing against a fresh wound only to come away stained with blood, and she had collapsed, he had cradled her desperately, pleading with her not to leave him.

Yet, despite the torment reflected in her eyes, Aemond found himself unable to halt the harsh words that drove a blade into her heart.

“So, I chased after him,” Aemond murmured, his voice sounding distant, even to his own ears–and so awfully cold. “So, I chased after him. I just wanted him to experience that fear and powerlessness… I never set out to kill him. I didn’t intend to–”

“You…” Her voice was clipped, and she drew in a desperate breath as if his words had stolen the air from her lungs. Her eyebrows knitted together in a mix of confusion and pain. “You never meant to kill him…”

Aemond closed his eye for a moment, unable to bear the sight of her pained expression–unable to watch as her gaze shifted from him, her confusion deepening. Slowly, that bewilderment transformed into disbelief. She inhaled sharply, her expression hardening into one of betrayal. Her hand rose to clutch at her chemise again, gripping it tightly. The fabric twisted under her grasp as if she were trying to reach inside her own chest to hold her breaking heart together with her own bare hand.

“I lost control–” Aemond began, attempting to bridge the chasm that had opened between them, standing precariously on the edge of an abyss. “Arrax attacked Vhagar–”

“You chased after him,” Daenera interjected sharply, her voice tense like a bow pulled too tight, the wood cracking beneath the force of it. “You pursued him with your dragon. You.” Her words were edged with a fierce snarl, her teeth bared in a display of raw anger. “What did you think was going to happen?”

Again, each word struck him like an arrow, piercing through his armor and embedding itself into his flesh, tearing at him with a pain as vivid as when the blade had sliced through his eye. And yet, as he had when they had stitched his wounds, he endured it with a steely resolve.

“Don’t you dare blame Arrax for trying to protect his rider. He would have sensed his fear,” Daenera sneered at him, her fingers digging into the flesh of her thighs, her anger palpable and ever so pointed. “I’ve witnessed the bonds they forge with their riders. It was your anger, your resentment that Vhagar reacted to. She would have felt your hatred, and she acted upon it–acted upon your desire for revenge. You didn’t lose control, Aemond, you wanted to kill him. The moment you choose to chase after him, you made your decision.”

Aemond watched her as her temper flared–watching her like one might watch an approaching storm, bracing for its inevitable impact. He knew what was coming, and in some dark part of himself, he welcomed it, ready to face the full force of her wrath.

And the force of it, he felt as she shoved him roughly, her movements sudden as she shifted onto her knees heedless to the shards of glass on the floor. She straddled one of his outstretched legs, rose up in front of him with a sneer on her face. Aemond could smell almost her wrath emanating from her–a metallic tang of blood that clung to her skin and the heat of a crackling fire, and something else, something sweeter that seemed almost incongruent with the moment.

“You killed him! You did,” She accused, the sharp sting of her nails digging into the skin of his shoulders, the muscles taut beneath the touch.

Aemond tilted his head back to look up at her, her words slicing through him as sharply as the shards of glass that dug into the skin of his palms. He could feel the glass grinding between his hand and the stone floor beneath them. Swallowing thickly, his heart twisted painfully inside his chest, the taste of wrath and resentment lingering on his tongue. Inside, he felt the beast of his darker impulses strain against his control, threatening to break free under the weight of her words–it writhed to sink its claws into something, to tear at someone mercilessly, to ruin and destroy.

“You wanted him dead,” Daenera sneered, each word an indictment–a condemnation of his soul. “You wanted revenge. And now you’re too much of a coward to admit it–”

In that heated moment, Aemond cloud almost hear the crack of thunder and the echoes of Lucerys’s voice haunting the back of his mind, accusing him relentlessly; you hunted me down like an animal.

Even an eye wouldn’t have quenched your thirst for vengeance.

You wanted more than reparations–you wanted my life.

You pursued me.

You sought my death.

You are a coward.

You wanted me dead.

You are a coward.

You’re a coward.

You’re a–

“Yes!” The word erupted from Aemond with the same ferocity as when Vhagar had burst forth from the stormcloud, her jaws clamping viciously around the boy and his dragon, consuming them whole. The beast within him bared its bloodied teeth at her, seeming to break free from any semblance of restraints. It unleashed itself upon her with the force of his words, raw and merciless. “I wanted him dead–I wanted revenge for what he did to me. I wanted to kill him for it… and I did. I killed him.”

How many times had Aemond imagined ending Lucerys’s life? How many years had he harbored such thoughts? How long had he contemplated it at night before falling asleep? For how long had he longed Lucerys’s death, foolishly believing it would make him whole again, that it would return that which he had lost?

But he wasn’t whole–and it seemed, he never would be.

Instead, the act had taken even more from him.

It left him feeling empty and disappointed, if not lost–and fearful, terribly, terribly fearful and alone.

Had he always been a monster?

Aemond had been the one to give chase through the storm, his desire for Lucerys’s death a smoldering ember that had perhaps ignited fully the moment he mounted Vhagar. The dragon had merely acted in accordance with her nature–responding to his own dark desires. Was this cruelty not embedded in his very nature? It seemed all he had ever known, all he could comprehend even now he couldn’t help but be cruel, couldn’t help but admit to it.

“I’m not sorry that he’s dead–”

In the brief space between heartbeats, in the mere blink of an eye, the chilling sound of steel being drawn slicked through the air between them like a discordant melody. He felt the cold press of metal against his throat, an eerie familiarity to its touch. It bit into his skin, not deeply enough to draw blood, but sufficiently to leave a stinging reminder of its presence.

The sheer wrath and devastation etched across her face burned fiercer than any flame, her eyebrows furrowed deeply, the corners of her lips trembling, and as she towered over him, resembling a fiery goddess of fury and vengeance, her eyes blazing with a fierce intensity, he couldn’t help but find her strikingly beautiful–even with the blade pressed against his skin, even amidst the looming threat of retribution and bloodshed. It was a terrible realization, recognizing the beauty in devastation, finding allure in the midst of violence.

Her lips trembled as they parted for a ragged breath, and his gaze was irresistibly drawn to them. Despite their dryness, they appeared incredibly soft. Her chest heaved, the fabric of her chemise hanging flatly around her, subtly revealing the familiar contours beneath–the gentle curves he knew so intimately, the fullness of her breasts, the softness of her skin that he had once felt against his own.

To steady himself, he pressed his palms harder against the shards of glass beneath him, grinding them into the floor as he sought control over his frayed emotions.

Aemond tilted his head back slightly more, bearing his neck to her. He felt the tremble in her fingers, the way her nails dug into his shoulders as if to steady herself. His eye locked onto hers as her expression shifted from a sneer to bewilderment, then hardened into determination. He felt the blade’s cold edge graze his sin; it burned, and a trickle of blood began to run down his neck.

Aemond could see the conflict raging within her–the intense desire to slit his throat and exact her vengeance, to take his life as he had taken her brothers. This impulse to draw blood and finde justice in his suffering was palpable, tasted like copper on his tongue. Yet, alongside this raw, vengeful desire, he saw another force play within her, something equally as devastating but far more bittersweet.

In that moment, a resigned thought crossed his mind; kill me now, as long as it is by your hands, and come find me in the seven hells.

Oh, how she had poisoned him.

Love was a poison, wasn’t it? Terrible and devastating with its sweetness, and yet he had willingly drunk her poison, becoming hopelessly dependent on the taste of it. He would accept her poison in any form–on the edge of a blade, if not her lips.

“You’re a monster,” Daenera hissed, her voice laden with both accusation and a need to reaffirm the truth to herself as much as to him. “You’re a fucking kinslayer.”

Aemond made no attempt to deflect her condemnation. Instead, he allowed her words to pierce him like sharp claws, cutting through the armor he had constructed around himself. They tore into his flesh, cracking open his chest to lay bare his heart–vulnerable and pathetically soft–ready for her to devour. There was no denying the cruel truth; he was a kinslayer–a monster condemned by both the gods and man. He had become exactly what he had been shaped to be.

If she despised him, every decision he made henceforth would be easier, he thought. Yet, buried deep within the shredded, tender confines of his heart, Aemond harbored that dreadful yearning for her love–a love for the connection that his actions had mercilessly severed. He was pathetically in love with her, and he loathed himself for it as intensely as he wished he could despise her for igniting such feelings.

A monster shouldn’t know love, nor should it crave being loved.

Yet, he did.

Just as he bore the constant pain within the scar over his eye, he would carry this–a scar upon his heart, an unhealable wound. He wondered whether this, too, might fester like the enduring resentment tied to the loss of his eye.

Aemond let Daenera’s fury envelop him, hoping it might purge him of the sin of loving her or steel him against the hatred burning in her eyes. He would not deny her condemnation–he was a monster, he was a kinslayer. “I am.”

Despite his intentions, he found himself irresistibly drawn to her. Compelled by a force he could neither fully control nor understand, he reached out and placed his hand gently on her hip. He neither pulled her closer, as his heart desired, nor pushed her away, as his mind urged. His touch seemed to surprise her, causing a reflexive jerk that made the blade nick his skin, drawing a thin line of blood.

The frown on Daenera’s face deepened, with a line etching itself between her brows, her eyes aflame with disgust and resentment. “I should fucking cut your throat and be done with you.”

Her sneer carried a profound bitterness that seemed to cling to her tongue as much as it did his, and there was a palpable agony in the way the corners of her lips trembled.

“You deserve it,” she hissed, pressing the blade further into his throat, her body weight bearing down on him as if to compel her own hand. “You fucking deserve it!”

Aemond bared his throat to her, a defiant challenge in his eye as he dared her to end the wretched existence she had forced upon him. “Do it.”

But she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

And as if to twist the knife of their shared misery, he taunted her with that familiar ease of cruelty. “Make a kinslayer of the both of us.”

Her face contorted with a painful realization then, and she recoiled from his touch as though it had seared her skin. Scrambling back, she withdrew from him, settling onto the cold stone.

Glass chimed against the floor, scattering from her bloodied and bruised knees, while the sound of steel scraping over stone filled the air as she curled in on herself. A scream erupted from her, tearing through the room and slicing through Aemond–a sound he knew would haunt him in the dead of night. It cut deeper into him, inflicting a wound more profound than the blade had ever delivered.

She gasped for breath as if surfacing from underwater, as if she’d been drowning, and a strange emptiness settled over her. Her gaze dropped to the blade in her hand, and Aemond saw a flicker of something dark within her expression–a terrible resolve taking root. His heart plummeted as she lifted the blade to her own throat. Reacting instinctively, Aemond lunged towards her, wrapping his hand around hers to steady the blade and prevent her from doing any real damage.

His heart pounded painfully and erratically within his chest, his brows furrowing deeply as he stared at her with indignant fury. The mere thought that she might consider harming herself–that she might slit her own throat and bleed out in his arms while he desperately pleaded for her to stay with him–enraged him.

Daenera’s hand clamped down on his wrist as he attempted to pull the blade away from her neck. Her nails dug into his flesh, painfully prying her hand from his grasp. Her skin, already marked by scrapes, suffered further as the shards of glass embedded in his skin caused superficial wounds on hers.

With force, she pressed the hilt of the blade into his hand, making his fingers curl around it. The glass dug deeper into his skin as she cruelly guided his hand–and the blade–back to her throat, pressing it against the delicate column of her neck. A trickle of blood emerged where the blade nicked her skin, streaming down her neck as she struggled to hold his hand there, while he fought to pull it away without hurting her.

Deliberately, she tilted her head back, exposing more of her neck to the blade, and challenged him with a haunting demand, “Murder me like you murdered my brother.”

Aemond’s breath caught, halting as he stared at her. His heart ceased beating for a moment, then began to pound painfully against his ribs, threatening to cut itself open on her words. Fear clawed at the back of his throat, his gaze locked on her, utterly dismayed by the cold expression on her face.

“Go on,” Daenera said flatly, her voice void of emotion,” murder me like you murdered my brother…”

Aemond’s head shook in disbelief, dread filling his veins.

“Kill me,” she urged “You wanted to kill bastards. Slay me as you did my brother, Kinslayer.” Her grip tightened on his hand, her movements forcing the blade to nick her skin further. “Murder me like you murdered my brother!”

“I can’t!” Aemond’s voice erupted furiously. The admission felt as if it had been wrenched from the depths of his soul–against his will. Part of him longed to be rid of this agonizing, pathetic weakness she had kindled within him–a part of him wished to rid himself of her as if it might purge the tortuous ache pulsating in his heart, the yearning for her love that itched in his veins.

“Don’t you see?” His voice cracked, laden with desperation. Couldn’t she see what she has done to him? Couldn’t she see how she possessed his heart, defying all reason? Couldn’t she see the extent to which she had poisoned him? “I love you.”

Her eyes widened, a flicker of shock passing through them, and he felt the pressure on his throat lessen as his confession hung in the air between them. Her brows furrowed, her head shaking slightly in disbelief, and then her features twisted into something cold and vicious.

His heart beat furiously against his ribs, enveloped in dread–and terror, it seeped into his blood and poured into his body like poison. He knew his admission was cruel, but she needed to know–needed to understand the depths of his turmoil.

“Daenera,” Aemond barely managed to utter, her name escaping his lips as a desperate plea, imploring her not to force his hand, “Please, let go of the blade…”

His voice was thick with emotion, each word soaked in a mixture of fear and plea, begging her to step back from the dark precipice she teetered upon–the narrow point of a knife's edge.

A trickle of blood etched another path down her neck, meandering over her collarbone to disappear beneath the edge of her chemise, staining the fabric. His gaze followed the crimson line, then lifted to meet her eyes–cold and vengeful, a sneer curving her lips. “Kill me now, Aemond. Or I swear, I will take from you that which you have taken from me.”

Aemond recognized the venom in her threat– a dark, binding vow of vengeance. He saw within her the same festering darkness that had driven him, the relentless force that had propelled him to chase her brother through the storm in search of something darker than justice.

Blood for blood.

A brother for a brother.

The threat against his family–against his brothers–should have instinctively driven him to press the blade tighter to her throat. The need to defend and protect his family was deeply ingrained in him, both an inherited duty and a learned one. Yet, he found himself unable to do so. He couldn’t. He couldn’t.

Her voice was as chillingly cold as the look in her eyes, her words delivered with an almost gentle cadence, “It would be a mercy, wouldn’t it? What is a little more blood on your hands?”

A crack of thunder echoed from the dark recesses of his mind, sending a shiver of dread up his spine. For a fleeting moment, something ghastly caught in the gleam of the blade–a spectral image with pallid skin, dark hair plastered wetly to its forehead, milky eyes, and patches of flesh missing. It vanished as quickly as it had appeared, yet the whisper of that voice lingered hauntinly in the back of his mind; what is a little more blood? Perhaps it was a mercy. For the both of you. For her without the sting of betrayal, and you without a heart. To end her would be a kindness.

With a furious sneer, Aemond wrenched himself away from her, forcefully pulling the blade back from her neck. In his abrupt movement, the blade grazed her skin slightly, a trickle of blood marking the path down her neck. The blade clattered harshly against the stone floor as he pinned it down with his hand, struggling to hold himself upright. The sting of glass embedded in his skin had become a distant sensation, overwhelmed by the surge of anger and bitterness that consumed him.

How could she ask this of him? How could she even harbor such a desire?

It was cruel. She was cruel.

Daenera released a humorless chuckle, her head shaking as a smile played across her face–a smile that pain and betrayal quickly twisted into something grim and mocking. “I will make you regret this.”

Aemond closed his eye, feeling her words sear into his very bones. He swallowed hard, struggling to contain the tumult of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him, fighting to control the devastation that echoed through his heart.

“I will make you regret letting me live,” she vowed, her voice steely. “I will take from you that which you’ve taken from me.”

Aemond rose to his feet and sheathed the blade. His response was a solemn acknowledgement, laden with the weight of inevitably, “I know.”

He observed as the fiery intensity in her eyes slowly extinguished, replaced by a colder, more distant expression. Her gaze shifted from him to the flames crackling in the hearth, dismissing his presence and letting a heavy silence envelop the room. She sat before the fire like a specter, her skin pale, marred with scrapes and bruises, and her chemise stained with smears and dots of blood.

An intense urge to reach out to her prickled at his fingertips–to brush her hair back, to assess and soothe her wounds, to clean her hands of glass and blood. But he knew he couldn’t offer such comfort, and even if he could, she wouldn’t accept it.

As he turned to leave, her voice halted him–small and strained, it carried an anguish that seemed to rise above the destruction on the floor, crawling up his spine and clawing into his very being.

“I love you too,” Her words, barely more than a whisper, resonated with a poignant intensity that pierced the thickening silence.

His heart stilled, and he turned back to her. Pain prickled behind his eye as his throat constricted, suffocating his breath. His chest tightened painfully as he absorbed the words he had yearned to hear–words that had always seemed just beyond his grasp.

She could never love you, Lucerys had taunted. You will never hear the words you so desperately want to fall from her lips.

Yet, here they were.

And how terrible it was.

These were the words Aemond had always longed to hear from her, but receiving them now, amidst the ruins of their love, felt almost unbearable–it was almost better not to have heard them at all.

“I loved you. How terrible is that?” She continued, her voice heavy with pain. “I hate myself for loving you. I wish I didn’t…”

Aemond clenched his teeth and balled his hands into fists, finding a twisted comfort in the pain that bit into his them. Any physical pain was preferable, easier to endure than the raw emotional torment her words inflicted–and yet, he remained still, heart bared for her to sink her teeth into.

“You made me love you, and you killed my brother…” A sob shook her as she inhaled sharply, her breath ragged, tears streaming down her cheeks. “And still, there’s some terrible part of me that loves you, as if it’s yet to understand what you’ve done…”

Despite the warmth of the sunlight streaming in from the windows and the heat emanating from the fire in the hearth, a chill coursed through Aemond’s veins, the weight of her words chilling him to the core.

“What does that make me?” She asked with a quivering voice. “To still love the man who murdered my brother? Does that make me a monster too, or just a fool–a stupid, naive fool?” The words were laced with contempt. “You are a kinslayer… and I…”

It was almost unbearable to hear–too overwhelming as she offered him the very words he had longed for, only to snatch them away again, like some capricious and cruel god. He loves her–he had loved her when he had demanded her brother’s eye. He had loved her as he pursued him through the storm. He had loved her even as Vhagar had closed her jaws around the boy, swallowing him whole. He had loved her when he had become a kinslayer. His love persisted, tainted with blood on his hands and a beast raging in his chest.

Yet, now that love would never suffice.

Love would not redeem a monster, and he was undeniably that–a monster.

But still, he loved her.

Desperately.

Painfully.

Monstrously.

He loved her, deeply and irrevocably.

“You didn’t even have the courage to tell me yourself–to face me as you ripped my heart to pieces with your vengeance,” Daenera said, her voice laden with accusation and heartbreak.

“I meant to grant you one more night with your brother still alive,” Aemond said, maintaining an even tone despite the strain of the words catching in his throat, threatening to turn into something entirely different. He swallowed hard, pushing down both the words and the swell of emotions they brought, forcing them down beneath the surface of his cool composure.

“What you meant doesn’t mean anything,” Daenera said coolly, her tone dismissive and edged with bitterness. “It doesn’t matter now. The only thing that matters is what you’ve done… You are a coward… And I, the fool that loved you.”

Daenera curled in on herself like a withering flower, her face buried in her knees as she closed herself off to the world around her.

Aemond swallowed thickly, sensing a hot trickle down his cheek. Reach up, he brushed it away with a finger, his frown deepening as he looked down at the mixture of water and blood from a cut on his finger, the stinging sensation sharp. He quickly wiped his face with his sleeve, a surge of disdain for his own perceived weakness washing over him.

He had cried out years ago when the blade had sliced through his eye, when the hot blood scorched down his face. Since then, he hadn’t shed a single tear–not through the countless stitches, not through the painful procedures to remove scar tissue, not even when he had replaced his eye with a sapphire. Since then, he had not allowed himself the release of tears.

And now, the prickle of tears burned behind his eyes–both the real and the sapphire one. He swallowed them bitterly, finding within himself a gentleness he didn’t feel moments before. “Let the maester tend to your wounds.”

Then, turning away, Aemond moved through the destruction and stepped out into the hall. There, he was met by Lady Mertha, impatiently wringing her hands, the other serving girl, and Maester Orwyle.

“Mother have mercy, what has she done to you?!” Lady Mertha exclaimed, her voice laced with shock as she took in his disheveled and wounded appearance. “That wretched girl is more animal than human. First, she strikes me and forces me out, then she thrashes the place, and now she’s attacked you! The girl has lost her senses. We must confine her somewhere more secure where she can’t harm anyone–or herself–”

“You will not move her,” Aemond interjected sharply, his voice icy as he glared at Lady Mertha, a blaze of annoyance and anger burning within him.

“But, my prince, she poses a threat to everyone around her!”

“You will do as I command,” Aemond snapped, his patience worn thin. “Clean her room, tend to her needs, and keep her comfortable. She is a princess and soon to be my wife. Is that understood, Lady Mertha?”

Lady Mertha clenched her teeth, her frustration evident, but she acquiesced with a curt nod. “Yes, my prince.”

Turning his attention to Maester Orwyle, Aemond cordered, “See to her wounds.”

“You should have someone look at yours as well–” Maester Orwyle started to suggest, but Aemond cut him off by turning and walking away.

As he stormed in, the room’s tension spiked; the servant tending to the water basin startled visibly at his tempestuous entrance. The servant’s eyes widened, a flash of fear passing over his face as he hastily made his way out of the room, avoiding any confrontation with Aemond who was too consumed with his own turmoil.

Aemond paced his room, his heart seething with a tumult of rage and bitterness, the pain of a fresh wound on his heart throbbing deep within. It felt as though Daenera had ruthlessly laid him open, her hands cruelly digging into his chest to wrench at a heart he had believed had turned into stone when he had killed Lucerys. Yet, to his dismay, he found it still tender, easily shaped and squeezed by her will.

What a cruel and burdensome affliction it was to own a heart, Aemond thought bitterly. And how terrible it was that it remained irrevocably bound to her.

Aemond despised the vulnerability Daenera had exposed in him. He believed he shouldn’t be tormented by conflict over Lucerys’s death. He shouldn’t feel the desire to fall to his knees before her, like a penitent sinner begging for absolution, nor should he crave punishment from her hands as a means of purging his sins. Yet, the shameful truth was that he would crawl to her if she merely hinted at the desire.

This realization gnawed at him, branding him as both pathetic and weak in his own eyes.

In a surge of frustration, Aemond grabbed the water basin and hurled it to the floor. The metal clanged against the stone, water splashing out in a reckless display. It was a childish outburst, he knew, and it filled him with shame.

Just then, a soft voice called out, “Aemond.”

He turned, weary and tense, to see Helaena standing in the doorway. Her presence, poised and concerned, momentarily stilled the room. Her expression softened as if she understood the turmoil he was in, and she quickly instructed someone outside.

“Bring me a new basin of water and some cloth.” She then stepped inside, moving gracefully to the table and taking a seat before turning her gaze upon him with an expectant expression, her eyes then subtly gesturing towards the chair opposite her, inviting him to sit.

Aemond felt his rage twisting within his chest, threatening to become something pitifully weak. He shifted on his feet, swallowing back the sharp retorts teetering on the tip of his tongue, words that would undoubtedly wound her if he spoke. He craved solitude, yearning to stew in his misery and rage–and sadness–alone.

Despite his reluctance, he moved to the table and took a seat across from Helaena just as a servant entered, setting down a bowl of water and some fresh cloth next to a small jaw and a pair of pinchers that Helaena had brought with her. She placed her hand openly on the table, her gesture expectant, silently prompting him to offer his own hand to her to tend to his wounds.

He almost wished she wouldn’t.

“She hates me,” Aemond confessed in a raw, low voice once the servant had departed, somehow needing to tell someone. His words carried the weight of his turmoil, hanging softly in the quiet room.

Reluctantly, Aemond extended his hand, placing it in Helaena’s open palm. His hand was a testament to ruination: blood smeared across his skin, some cuts superficial, other’s deeper. Jagged shards of glass were embedded in the flesh of his palm, particularly in the softer, more vulnerable areas devoid of calluses.

“Love and hate are two sides of the same coin,” Helaena murmured contemplatively as she picked up the pincers to gently remove the glass from his palm. She worked with precision and attentiveness, much like she would when handling one of her insect specimens. “One is rarely without the other.”

Aemond clenched his teeth, bracing himself as she carefully extracted one of the larger shards embedded in his flesh. His heart thudded painfully against his chest, each beat a heavy discordant trump that felt disjointed from its usual rhythm. The sound of glass clinking as she dropped the shard into a small blow next to the water basin punctuated the heavy silence that filled the room.

“You’ve always been better at enduring physical pain than emotional,” Helaena observed quietly, her brow furrowed in concentration as she worked to remove a stubborn piece of glass from his palm. Each failed attempt caused a sharp sting, aggravating the wound further, yet the pain in his palm was bearable–a mere discomfort to the deeper, more insidious pain lurking at the edges of his mind.

“Do you regret it?” Helaena asked, her voice barely above a whisper as she successfully gripped the stubborn piece of glass. With precise movements, she extracted it, letting it fall into the bowl with a tiny clink. She then washed the pincers clean of blood before returning to his palm to remove another shard.

“I have nothing to regret,” Aemond replied, his voice flat and devoid of emotion–echoing with the hollow numbness that began to settle within him. “He deserved to die for what he did to me.”

Helaena’s eyes lifted to meet his for a moment, her expression a mixture of incredulity and a deep, sorrowful understanding.

“I regret the pain it is causing her,” Aemond continued, his voice low, almost blending with the subtle sounds of the hearth as he braced against the pinch of the pincers on his skin. “I never meant to…”

His words trailed off, faltering as he grappled with the contradiction. How could he claim he never meant to hurt her when he so clearly desired her brother’s death? He was acutely aware of the pain it would inflict on her; he knew the depths of grief it would cause. Though he had sought revenge, perhaps he had not envisioned the consequences unfolding exactly as they had–not as a chaotic, uncontrollable act, but the intent had always been clear in his mind. He had always wanted her brother dead, and that desire for vengeance had driven him. What was left to him now?

“He was her brother,” Helaena murmured gently, her tone soft but carrying an underlying weight.

“I’m not sorry he’s dead,” Aemond admitted, his gaze fixed on the blood that welled up on his palm as Helaena carefully removed another shard. She dabbed at the wound with a cloth, her touch gentle yet methodical. “I only… I only wish the circumstances had been different. Had I met him on the battlefield, had it been a matter of first blood already drawn…”

His voice trailed off as his throat tightened. He swallowed hard against the constriction, his teeth gritted as a wave of bitterness gripped his heart.

“Had it not made you a kinslayer,” Helaena concluded, her voice tinged with a melancholic sadness. Her touch remained gentle as she moistened a cloth and brought it to his palm, washing away the blood. She tended to his wounds with such care, as though she believed she could cleanse not only his skin but also wash away the deeper stains–the blood that would forever mark his hands, his name, and his soul. “There will be more kinslayers by the end of this war…”

“It’s different,” Aemond responded firmly. His expression hardened slightly.

And it was different. They had been in the initial stages of war–a war waged with ravens and diplomacy, however foolish he thought it was, a time of making preparations and gathering allies. These beginning stages had come to an end when Vhagar’s maw had closed around the boy and his dragon, when Aemond had spilled the first true blood of the war–when he had earned the title of Kinslayer.

“It is all I’ll ever be now,” Aemond muttered solemnly as Helaena continued to extract glass from his other hand. The bow beside them slowly filled with shards of bloody glass. “It is all I will ever be to her.”

Helaena hummed thoughtfully, her head tilting as she carefully removed another shard from his palm. “It is not all you’ll ever be. It is not the only thing you’ll ever be… You’re a kinslayer, and nothing will ever erase that stain, but you mustn’t let it define you. You mustn't allow it to be the only thing you are.”

“I’m a monster,” Aemond said, words laden with disgust.

“Are you truly a monster or a beast who obeys its own nature? Or a boy who is neither and both at the same time?” Helaena mused aloud, carefully removing the last shard of glass from his palm and gently cleansing it with water. “There is certainly a beast within you, as there is within all of us. We are all capable of monstrous deeds, but does that alone define us as monsters?”

“I don’t have the answers to your questions,” Aemond replied wearily, his voice trailing off as he lacked the energy or inclination to engage in philosophical debates.

Meeting his gaze with her pale blue eyes, Helaena spoke in a voice that was both firm and gentle, “You have fed the beast, Aemond. Vengeance is insatiable, and once it has tasted blood, its appetite only grows. She, too, will feed it, offer it names and blood. Cursed twice over by deed and desire… There’s a debt to be paid…”

“The debt has been settled,” Aemond asserted, lifting his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, signaling his frustration and exhaustion. He was not in the headspace for her riddles.

“Has it?” Helaena challenged softly, taking his hand and placing it back on the table. She then opened the lid of the small jaw, releasing a herbal aroma into the air that made his heart twist. “A son for an eye–is that a fair exchange?”

“It is,” Aemond responded sharply, his teeth clenched as he struggled to maintain the gentleness he always tried to extend to his sister, despite the irritation kindled by her probing words.

“The seed grows strong; it will continue to grow until it breaks through the darkness into the light,” Helaena murmured softly, a sad frown marking her features. Her gaze remained fixed on his hand as she carefully applied a bit of cream to each wound. “It will flourish and grow–one turn, two turn, three–fueled by love and hope. And in its growth, it might offer reconciliation.”

The cream, a concoction of Daenera’s making, delivered a wonderfully sharp sting that made him wish it was her applying it.

“She’ll never forgive me for this,” Aemond said, his voice drawn out with weariness.

“Do you seek her forgiveness?” Helaena challenged, securing the lid on the jaw before she began to wrap his hand in cloth. As she finished, her eyes met his once more, reflecting a sad yet understanding shade of blue.

“How could she forgive you?” Helaena spoke gently, her words laden with empathy but unflinching in their honesty. “Forgiving you would be akin to condoning her brother’s death. You can’t ask that of her; it would be selfish and cruel. Seeking her forgiveness might ease your conscience, but it wouldn’t alleviate her pain but only deepen it. Don’t do that to her.”

Aemond’s heart wrenched painfully inside him, and he felt that all-too-familiar prickling behind his eyes and tightening at the top of his throat. Turning his gaze away, he curled his hand on the table, his jaw clenching as he gritted his teeth, struggling to swallow her words.

With a soft sigh, Helaena stood up from her chair, her hands briefly running through his hair in a gentle, rare gesture of affection. Her touch, though fleeting, seemed to convey an understanding of his deep-seated pain–the heavy, insistent thud of his heart beating against his ribs.

“Will you see her?” Aemond asked, forcing his gaze back to her. His company wouldn’t offer Daenera any comfort, but he hoped that his sisters might.

Helaena offered a small, knowing smile as confirmation, then paused at the threshold, and gave him one last meaningful look before she disappeared through the door. “The council has called another meeting. You should attend.”

Aemond let out a weary sigh, forcibly pushing down the ache in his heart, transforming it into something cold and hardened. Methodically, he reassembled the mask of composure, resigning himself once more to the role he was expected to play.

#a vow of blood #hotd #aemond targaryen #aemond fanfiction #hotd aemond #aemond x reader #aemond one eye #aemond smut #prince aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x oc #aemond x oc

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𝖙𝖔𝖚𝖌𝖍 𝖈𝖔𝖔𝖐𝖎𝖊 || s.mg x reader

An alternate universe of wizards, witches, and celestial beings

ꜱʏᴘɴᴏꜱɪꜱ: In the tales created by the rulers of mystic society, all the magic in the world came from a single stone —the White Diamond— and was bestowed to the world by the very first sorcerers that hailed from the heavens; the Keepers. Those tales turned out to be true. And now, an evil force seeks the the power of the White Diamond. This evil overpowered the Keepers, leaving you who had retired from being of high power. Now it is up to you to fight this evil and await the hero from the prophecy that is said to be the saviour of the world.

contains: angst, fluff, a dash of humor, slightly suggestive (just squint maybe?), combat and blood, fantastical, names and themes derived from greek mythology, angels and demons, use of spells and incantations, (an attempt) made up greek chant, telepathy, wizards and witches, and wands, extensive backgrounds

word count: 8.17k

[an: yes, there is a part two (and quite possible a three) after this week]

⛦ ᴊᴏɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ!

𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐮𝐭 .ᐟ -ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

You’ve laid out a new batch of freshly baked cookies, straight out the oven and still bathe your face with steam. The smell of different cooked sugars and the aroma of the dozen flavors you had to offer whistled for customers that roamed the outside world. It was a heavenly time of the day, where wizards, witches and their children came with such delightful faces that wanted nothing more but a bite of your warm and delectable pastries.

“Lemon chiffon please, five slices.” the velvet-haired witch smiles at you with her pearly white canines, holding her son’s hand. The boy was about the height of your shoulders and he wore a junior wizard badge on his blazer.

“Coming right up!” your voice, jolly and as sweet as your baked goods, made them smile. You’d watch them from the corner of your eyes as you got them five slices of the lemon chiffon cake from the display case.

The bells chimed right as you went back to them. More customers had arrived as the sunshine warmed up the sorcerous lands.

Those were simpler times. When magic was as wonderful as they’d be in children’s fantasies. It was all gone. A dark force took over what was once the land of joy and enchantment, now an ominous place where it was all shades of black, gray, and blood. Then, no one would dare challenge the sentinels that watched over the mystic grounds, but they were all gone with what seemed like a snap of a finger. Evil reigned upon the kingdom of sorcerers, the king they praised and loved was slain and his head was hung at the Fountain of Tears, the very center of the land.

You had failed to aid the sorcerers at battle, concealing the last shard of the White Diamond —what the great Ahriman seeked that would give him all the magic in the world. He’d be unstoppable. You had it with you, ever since being brought down on Earth as a Keeper. The White Diamond was the source of all magic that ran through the very land you walk on. The dawn of mystic society began with the Keepers shattering the White Diamond, releasing its magic and finding its way to the wizards and witches of today. There was no use for the Keepers to hide such power as you were already granted with eternal life and sorcery at birth. Each shard was kept between twelve Keepers —including you, and with the progression of mystic society, you left the guardian life behind, settling at a cozy spot in town as a baker. It was no ideal life for some, but for someone like you who had endured thousands of years and hundreds of wars, it was the best gift life could offer. Living amongst the mortals, you carried a shard of the White Diamond, keeping it hidden with an obscuring spell.

You knew the time was bound to come, that one vicious soul would one day seek the power of the White Diamond. It was the sole reason why the shards were kept separately. It was in the prophecy.

“Destruction awaits your haven, and a sword with the devil’s essence…”

Ahriman was once a loyal servant of the south kingdom where there was no magic. He lost his family to an unforeseeable attack that killed a few dozen families. There was no truth to who might be the culprit, but Ahriman believed it was the mystic society. Blue flames and glittered fumes, it was magic, and he was certain it was the work of a sorcerer. Yet, there is no motivation for the mystic society to attack. With the lack of reason, Ahriman was hindered with his mission to seek vengeance and was locked away by the king. He spent two decades inside that dungeon, with pent up wrath and anguish. The spirit of Belial sensed the great power he withheld. Belial was banished under the oceans of eternal agony —Keeper Cordelia’s prison for banished spirits— but his power remained puissant, as his remaining disciples chanted his name he was able to whisper to Ahriman and grant him the strength of six armies. Ahriman escaped, leaving the walls of his prison obstructed. He was to come back to the south to kill the king, but not without the power of the White Diamond.

At the occurrence of those events, you were already retired from being a Keeper and surrendered your magic to the old Keepers’ well. You blended in with the mortals, using incantations and spells, and a wand granted to you by Keeper Zephyr as a token. They were your family, and they understood your reasons. Never did they question nor oppose your decisions. You’ve served well, and it is you who gave the mystic society its mystique. You found the White Diamond from the caves of the lost tribes, and the spirit of the tribes told you to shatter the diamond, and the fate of the society would be in the hands of the Keepers. It was from those spirits that you’d be given that prophecy. Along with Ahriman’s rule, was the rise of a hero.

“Young eyes you’ll meet, and he will wear the darkness when he returns. He is the might of the society, his heart is the true yielder of the White Diamond and he will save a Keeper’s soul.”

The hero was yet to come. But you had to wait. You hoped that the hero was a sorcerer who can help you revive your magic from the well. Because after Ahriman’s attack on mystic society, what was once your sanctuary for your passions of tending to the wizards and witches, would become a desolate place for potions and wands bound to no possessors. You were in no power to resist nor attempt to fight the circumstances. You’ve had futile attempts at the well, unable to solve the Keepers’ riddles, and your magic would remain with the well’s dew. Ahriman’s soldiers would come into your shack thrice a week for duneberry serums to get rid of any wounds, relieve any pain. On occasion, they would stop by to retrieve special potions —that you had received a mandate letter for— that you could only guess was for battling and slaying the mystic beasts of the society woodlands. You’ve been given an order to brew silver hare drops at the time of Aries. It was used on weapons, splayed on blades. Once the solution is mixed in with a being’s blood, their heart will stop within the count of five seconds for smaller bodies, and twelve seconds for larger ones. You knew they visited your shop for a cruel purpose, under vengeful orders. You knew you shamed Keeper Fauna’s values. The mystic society was meant to house and protect those beasts because they protected the mystic from monsters that dare threaten the society’s inhabitants.

For years, you’ve been devising a plan to escape this land of chaos, and retrieve your powers from the well. And soon you’ll meet the hero in the prophecy and save the mystic society. It just won’t be very soon. Escaping was harder than living under Ahriman’s ruling. The sentinels became punishers, minds corrupted to serve the great evil. You did not have enough strength or magic to get past them, and they were near every means of escape. It was a seemingly impossible dream that you’ve fostered for a decade. And Ahriman was still on the hunt for the White Diamond’s missing piece. You knew by then that he had killed the other Keepers with Belial’s influence. You could hear Belial’s whispers again, that’s when you knew that he was coming back once he’s garnered all the power Ahriman had to offer to him through bloodlust. He would rise from the oceans of eternal agony with his army of undead wizards, then he would yield all the gold of Earth and call for the wrathful dragon, undefeated and fated to destroy the world, the gateway to Ragnarök, Flauros.

As long as the last shard is with you, Ahriman’s malevolent schemes will be thwarted. Nights left no room for sleep as you studied the shard. Tapping the end of your wand against its sharp edges, it creates small sparks that produce puffs of smoke and magic dust. It smelt of dew of the caves from which the White Diamond was found. The shard would illuminate when held, but it would be very meek. The first time you held the White Diamond —when it was still intact— its shine lit up the entire cave. The diamond as a whole emitted sparks of endless magic dust that landed all over your hands and all over your silk, translucent robe. The shard alone that you held in your hand at this very moment does not behave the same if not thoroughly meddled with.

“...his heart is the true yielder of the White Diamond…

and he will save a Keeper’s soul…”

It was midnight, and the sudden knock to your shop’s locked door spiked the fear in your nerves. It could be Ahriman’s soldiers —or Ahriman himself, coming to seize that last shard. You are defenseless without your magic, your wand and spells will never be enough to fight him or his men as they were granted power by Belial and were under his control. Belial’s spirit would only grow stronger, and soon, fragments of his consciousness would live within their souls. You feared that when you answered the door, you'd look straight into Belial’s eyes, like you did before when you sought to capture him. It was you who battled him with telepathy —the gift of your magic— and loss, your soul almost being eaten by him. Taking a deep breath, you unlock the door, sliding the latch off, you release some air, right before opening the door, just enough for you to peek.

But you would be met with nothing but the darkness of night. “To who’s knock have I answered?” you’ve counted the few seconds of silence —twenty long seconds, before a hand slightly pushes the door open. “You mustn't enter without your answer. To who’s knock have I answered?”

It was a man, and he would clear his throat before he sounded his response, “I am looking for the sorceress Y/n.”

He tried to push the door open, but you’d keep it still with your hand from the inside. “To who’s knock have I answered?”

“I am Mingi. I’m the son of the head witch of Celeste’s manor.”

Celeste —the name given to you by the Gods as a Keeper. You were one with the celestial bodies, their light giving you power to look into the minds of mortals and immortals alike, and control them. But you no longer had that power with you. “Inside.”

You spread the door open, finally seeing his full figure. He was dressed in black, a long coat and a homburg on his head. You meet his eyes that were the color of silver. You knew him, and his mother most of all —the only mortal that knew of your true self, the witch you’ve entrusted your treasures, crystals, and manor with, head witch Verbena. Your manor was a shelter to young witches who attend collegiate courses for sorcery, alchemy, and psychomancy at the mystic academy. You used to visit when you had the time, dropping off pastries for the witches, and for the little boy that ran through the halls to ask if you had brought his favorite. The little boy who asked for lemon chiffon cake, was now the man who stood before you.

“Why do you seek me?” you ask, rushing to lock the door behind him.

“You do remember me, right?” his voice was deep, yet anxious. “You knew my mother too.”

“Yes I do, Mingi.”

“Mom was killed by Ahriman’s soldiers.”

You were suddenly breathing thick air, your huffs becoming audible amidst the silence. “Verbena…” with your feeble utterance, Mingi removes his hat, revealing his fawn-colored locks, then he discards his long coat, hanging it over his forearm. He wore a black suit underneath, posh looking with silver motifs all over.

“I was called here by…” he avoids your eyes, looking for his next words within the cracks of the floorboards. “It was a voice in my dreams. I know it sounds crazy but—”

“Mingi, nothing will ever be crazy in our world.” you interrupt him, a soft chuckle leaving your lips as you speak.

“Right.” he clears his throat again. “The voice told me to go here. I know this used to be the town's favorite bakery, the voice was showing me that and told me to find the missing piece.”

Your eyes dilate, realizing he might be sent by Ahriman to steal the last piece of the diamond. “Mingi, who do you bow to?”

“Me? I-I bow to the Keepers.” he stutters, and you took a minute for yourself to grasp the tone of his voice and his mannerisms.

“The truth, Mingi.”

“I am telling the truth, sorceress.”

You find it pleasurable for him to refer to you as sorceress, you figured perhaps he must know you were a Keeper yourself. If you had your magic, it would be easy for you to tell whether he was being honest. But now you have to rely on your mortal instincts.

“Then, what is the missing piece?”

His eyes wandered around again for mere seconds before he sighed, “I don’t know for sure. My dream was quite discreet with the details.” he utters, eyes finding yours.

You watch as his gaze falls all over your features, examining your very stature. He motions as if he was about to say something, but then he hesitates and decides to not do so anyway. You walk closer to him, taking the coat off his forearm.

“Follow me.” you say as you walk to the back of your shop, into your room.

You could hear his heavy footsteps against the wood floor, creaking slightly. When you got inside, you realized you had forgotten to turn off the lights at the main area of the shop, “Sit down and settle yourself. I’ll be right back.” you placed his folded coat on your bed before you went and closed the lights.

It only took you a minute or two, but when you came back, Mingi was standing next to your workbench, where you had laid the diamond.

“Don’t touch that!” you kept your voice quiet, avoiding creating any noises that would draw in soldiers or punishers.

“I’m sorry.” he utters, dropping the wand in his hand that he used to poke the shard.

You walk over to him, picking up the wand. You were an inch apart as you stood from lowering yourself to the ground. You prod the end of the wand on his chest as a threat.

“I apologize, sorceress. I’ll keep my hands to myself.” his soft utterance made you gulp, for how matter how mellow he had intended for it to be, his voice was still deep, like Cordelia’s oceans.

“Sit down. Anywhere’s fine.” your back was already facing him when you spoke.

You heard your lounge chair squeak a tad, then silence followed after. You walk back to your workbench where you’ve laid out books and old scrolls, a few wands from the wizards that were executed by the Fountain of Tears, and a stack of papers —a map standing out amongst all of them. It’s a roamer’s map. You’ve met a wayfinder in one of your expeditions before. He was of tall stature, alike Mingi —but unlike the shadow dressed man, Yunho wore white and a cloak that could conceal anything beneath its material. He gave you this map just because it “felt necessary”. The roamers map shows everything within its area of perimeters —it takes up about the size of a country— and moving sites will change the map’s scope.

“Sorceress, can I ask you something?”

Your head averted from the map, snapping up at him. “Surely. Ask away.”

He nods, once again looking away like he’s forgotten his question. Though, it wouldn’t take him a while until he asked you, “You aren’t a mortal, are you?” you nod to his question, and he nods along. “You look exactly the same as when I was a kid.”

“Mingi, i’m…” you thought for a minute, thinking back to Verbena. Such a kind-hearted and honest witch. She’s raised Mingi all her life. You figured, you should trust him like how you did with his mother. “I’m Celeste.”

His reaction was calmer than what you had anticipated, he’d reveal just why quite soon. “So, that’s why you look like the portrait of Celeste in mom’s room.” he looks right into your eyes. “Why weren’t you with the other Keepers?”

“My magic is long gone, Mingi. Leaving the life of a Keeper means leaving the power granted to you too. I’m as equipped as any witch out there.” he nods at your words. You pick up the diamond shard on your workbench, holding it up for him to see. “This is the missing piece —of the White Diamond.”

He stared wide-eyed at the shard, taking in the way it shone softly in your fingers. “I— it’s real?”

“And the folktale about the mystic society being born out of the White Diamond is real, it’s our story.”

He stood up from his seat, still inspecting the shining diamond. “And it is you, Celeste, who shattered the diamond?” you breathed in, getting yourself seated at the edge of your bed. “When I was a kid, my mom would always tell me that Celeste had such a warm heart, and that she loved the mortals —you were all those things in our town’s folktales.”

You look away for a brief moment, wearing a soft smile as you reminisce about the kind of boy Mingi was. He shouldn’t be that different as a man —you think to yourself before bringing your gaze back to him. “Yes. I was all that —I believed all life on Earth deserved to be blessed with magic. Magic —it allows for one to truly understand the nature of the world.”

The corners of Mingi’s lips would rise. Then, he slid his hand beneath his suit at the area of his chest. He pulled out a red stone that hung from his neck, an amulet —and a familiar one at that. “My mom told me that my dad left this for her when he died but, I still don’t know what its purpose is.” his hands moved the back of his neck, reaching for the lock of the necklace.

He struggled for a while, and so you stood up and walked over behind him. He was startled to a fleet, but once he felt your hands undoing his necklace, he eased himself. You remove it from his neck once the lock is undone. You brought it closer to your vision, its back resting on your palm as your thumb brushed over the stone. It shone brighter as your skin glided on its surface, like the shard, only that this stone is red and slightly orange in the core. From the way it behaved in your hand, you could tell the stone was not in its purest form and was manipulated by sorcery, a spell of some kind.

“And your mother never mentioned anything else about it?” the stone remained in your hand, twinkling and glowing with every swipe.

“She said it’s for our protection. From Belial.”

“I see. It’s blessed with a spirit ward.”

The necklace would revert around Mingi’s neck, along with the warmth of your hand that sent currents throughout his body. He spent his whole life fantasizing about the tale of the Keeper, picturing himself as a Keeper, protecting and creating life, serving the people for the greater good. He was raised by a witch that honored the Keepers with her whole life, having been a close ally to one. Verbena was a witch rescued from Belial’s minions by Keeper Zephyr, and would serve great help with protecting the wizards and witches by keeping them in refuge. Mingi was born after the war with Belial, and it was also when you gave up being a Keeper. Verbena owed you her life, because it was from you that she learned how to brew potions of any nature, use any spells with ease, create talismans, and most of all, you entrusted her with your manor —and what used to be the Keepers’ headquarters. Ever since the war with Belial, the Keepers had agreed to guard the different bodies of the world. The oceans, the sky, the animals and the plants, and the people. Since then, the manor was unoccupied, and there would be no other wizard or witch worthy of your credence but Verbena. Mingi has heard all the great things about you, feeling almost as if he was undeserving to be in your premises, let alone your presence. His eyes never leave you as you move from behind him, back to where you sat.

“When I found the White Diamond, it came with… a prophecy.” you avert your eyes from his, setting your gaze on the tiny slit of your window that displayed half of the moon. “It was about Ahriman, though we'd never known it back then. But it also told me that there would be a hero to come.” you look back at him, right into his silver irises.

Mingi whose young eyes you’ve met, and now he’s returned to seek for you, wearing clothes that made him one with the night —he wore the darkness. And maybe, his heart truly is the yielder of the White Diamond.

“What’s taking him so long?” he questioned, like how he would when you could still lay a hand on top of his head.

You laughed. He would turn out to be a bit bewildered, but he’d smile, huffing out once but never laughing wholly. “Maybe he’s already here.” you chuckled when he shrugged, finding his actions adorable. “Then, Mingi, you must assist me. Your dreams brought you here for a reason.”

“Right, sorceress. I will do as I am told.”

You walked back to your workbench, urging him to come along with the tilt of your head. He towered over your figure, looking down at the variety of articles, looking down at you. Then, you were the one who had to kneel to meet his eyes, but now your head leaned backwards, looking up at him as you shared your plans. You would share your failures as well, and the hurdle of being unable to restore your powers, not knowing how it was even possible.

“Perhaps an incantation or spell would work?” Mingi’s overt suggestion only evoked a sigh from you.

“Believe me, I’ve tried everything. I won’t be able to regain my magic without any of the other Keepers. But we won’t be able to escape and meet any Keepers without that magic either.”

“Let’s visit the well. Maybe I might be able to help.”

“Really?”

“Really, sorceress. I wish for you to allow me to at least try. I promise none of us will get hurt.”

You spent the night with him, preparing for your little endeavor. You remember spending a whole night’s sleep by the well, crying to the Gods. It mustn’t be that difficult, yet you had no idea of how you’d be able to return to your Keeper-self. It only added to the weight of your sorrows, already a heavy load from the destruction of the mystic society and the loss of thousands of wizards and witches. When the people need you the most is when you’re unable to grant the aegis you had promised them.

The sun had just woken up when you and Mingi had set out to head to the Keeper’s well. You were both equipped with just enough in case of a mishap —bringing the shard along with you. You took the liberty of exiting from the back of your shop that led to a deserted alleyway. There were still a few eyes roaming around the area, but not very threatful ones. Reaching a more populous area, you stick close to Mingi, your hand holding on to the sleeve of his coat.

“Take my arm.” he says, and you would do just that, entangling your arm around his.

At a sudden instance, an Ahriman soldier catches your attention from the corner of your eye. If you weren’t so vigilant, you wouldn’t have caught up on the way he looked at the pair of you.

“Ahriman’s soldiers roam this area. You really should’ve left the coat.” you whisper to your company.

And he whispers back, “Oh, I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“It’s my trademark.”

“Tradema—” your query was cut off by a loud and excruciating bang, and a small fire building up at the little shack you and Mingi stood by.

“Sorceress, this is where we run.” he takes your hand in his, pulling you along with him, but you would only reach a meter before one of the soldiers came lunging at you.

Mingi was quick to react, drawing his blade from its sheath. His forearm catches the man by his chest, his blade moving to a speed the mortal eyes could never follow. A heap of blood escapes the soldier’s mouth as Mingi penetrates his abdomen. Another soldier came to strike, but this time you took care of it, ducking and booting his calf making him lay flat on his back on the ground. That’s when you whipped out your wand, casting a spell on him that made his mouth foam. Three other men would come running your way, and Mingi would rush in front of you to shield you from them. He takes one man by the arm, and it fascinated you. The man’s arm was out of reach, but it would seem as though a mass of wind blew the man to Mingi’s reach. And he was moving at a speed of no wizard. He kills off three men with little trouble, and when he turns to you, you have your eyes laid on him whilst also having a man's throat in your hand and you’d strike the man with the same spell you used earlier.

“Let’s take a run, shall we?”

“After you, sorceress.”

Just before the other soldiers came, you two had already disappeared from the site, running off to the mystic woodlands. Reaching the Keeper’s well meant following a maze-like path, or else, you won’t be able to go through the barrier that conceals it. It was an enchantment of protection by Keeper Fauna.

“That’s awesome.” was all that Mingi could utter once explaining to him how to get to the well.

You had the map in your hands. Yunho had marked the pathway you were to take, a thought for a thought, he knew you’d need it eventually, but he only took that extra step because you’re his favorite Keeper.

“You have to stick close, we can’t stray away from this path, not even a single step.”

“And the animals?”

“You won’t have to worry.” your eyes find his own, looking up at him the same way you did back in your room. “They know how to sort rotten souls from good ones.”

Mingi nods, taking a breath of the heated air. He takes off his coat, feeling the warm morning all over his body as sweat builds up all over him. A Keeper’s eyes are reserved —you repeat to yourself, but you’d be watching him through your peripheral as he wiped the sweat off his forehead with the clean side of his coat’s sleeve, then he removed his gloves, wiping his palm and the back of his hand on the sleeve.

“Won’t you remove your cloak? it’s getting real hot.”

You profusely shake your head, “I’ll be fine.”

He gives you a small smile for a brief moment before his eyes leave you. He started wiping the sweat on his neck, throwing his head back to wipe thoroughly. You felt a little silly just standing there, so you went and got yourself seated on an outcrop —a large rock. You could feel his eyes pinned on your figure as you moved yourself. Your back was facing him, allowing for you to have room to finally realize how hot it actually was. So with a sigh, you unfasten your cloak, allowing for it to fall down, leveled with your waist. The fabric hung onto the back of your elbow, your collar bone and bare arms now exposed. From the back, Mingi could only stare. Your top was cropped just above your waist, and the rest was covered with black, translucent silk, but maybe too translucent. You feel Mingi’s presence next to you. He sat in the opposite direction, but was right next to you. His bottom was aligned with where your knees rest, so he could see all of you, now from the front. You tilt your head at him, and he’d do the same, raising his brows. You shake your head, suppressing a giggle. Somehow, he captures your eyes. The silver shine in them was pure allure to you. It was like refined dark magic, lulling you, putting your surroundings to a stop, yet it was so beautiful. You feel a soft breeze against your face, softly drawing your hair back. You shy away from his gaze because of the sudden motion of nature. When you look back at him, your smile drops.

“Mingi…” his irises glowed a different color, and it went back to silver when the breeze had gone away. “You are not a mortal, are you?”

With a slight shrug, he tells you, “I’m not sure honestly. I know I have abilities mortals normally wouldn’t have, but I only know my mother. I have no idea where my powers hail from —quite possibly from my father, but I don't know him either.”

He shoves his folded gloves on to his pocket, and you’d see a few scars all over his hand, some worse than others.

“How about you, Keeper Celeste?” you blink once, you were never used to being called that name. You’ve been Y/n for so many years. You hum back to him to question what he was asking you for, so he’d add, “Where the Keepers from?”

You wore a bitter smile, eyes wandering on the grimy ground. “I know the folktales told people that we fell from the sky, and it’s true —in some way. We were created by the Gods. They were giants that lived in the heavens. The Keepers were molded by… they never told us what, but that was how we were made. We were sent down when we were a decade old, to protect Earth.” you could feel the tears from the back of your eyes, so you’d close them for a brief moment. “We were children. I was a child too before I was a woman. But I never knew what being a child meant. Even if we were small, we were at our most powerful state of being. Our powers were fresh, and so were our minds. Nothing could manipulate us because our faith was with the Gods. That was until we lived a century. We realized that the Gods are sloth personified. They create beings to do everything for them, and they would do it just so they wouldn’t get blamed when the world turns to ash. They live through the faith of people. Once people stopped believing in them, they’d shrink into useless mortals. They’re just as selfish as demons.”

Mingi kept himself quiet, basking in the way your voice harmonized with the sounds of the woodlands. His eyes urged you to keep talking as they softened.

“That’s why I chose to live within the mortals and gave up being a Keeper. There was no way for me to die —other than cutting through my throat or stabbing into my heart— but I could give up the power. So I did that. My immortality is my curse, and I coped with baking, you know the rest of the story.”

“You’re a great baker.”

“I know. You loved my sweets.”

“Believe me, I still do.”

You laughed amongst yourselves, thinking back to the good old times. No war, no extreme offenses, no conflicts. Just a life of bliss and magic. “I didn’t miss being a Keeper, well, not until now.” Mingi had his bottom lip in between his teeth, marveling at your features.

“Sorry, but, I can’t help but ask —how old are you?” you chuckle softly at his query.

“Almost ten thousand years. I stopped counting when I hit six thousand. It’s too many numbers.” a laugh went past your lips seeing his mouth agape at the revelation.

“And I look older than you?” his little quip only had you dispensing another guffaw.

Getting yourself composed, you reply to him, “Well, if I counted correctly, you’re about the age of thirty, am I right?”

“Spot on.”

“You look twenty-one and thirty at the same time.”

“Hearing that from you, I'm thinking maybe I might actually be immortal.”

He looked up to the sky, once again exposing the skin of his neck. The closeness allowed for you to see how spotless his skin was despite being a kind of vigilante, which proved to be a lot of work. He seemed to already be known to Ahriman and his soldiers, claiming his black coat is his trademark. “We can’t say for sure. You must last a century before claiming yourself immortal.”

“I will last a century. I promised my mom I will protect—” he stops himself, huffing briefly before he speaks again. “—the Keepers.”

“You did?” he nods at your little question. “You were such an ambitious child.”

“Still am.”

“Ambitious, or a child?”

“Can it be both?” his shoulders rose to a shrug, making you titter for the nth time.

You were soon headed to the well, wasting no time to stop for anything. This path was truly one for wonders as it concealed the both of you from the rest of the world, all except the creatures of the mystic woodlands. Mingi kept himself close by walking right behind you, though he thought it would be better if he was beside you instead —he just couldn’t risk it. Soon, his hand would find itself on your shoulder as you walked through the trees, tracing each of your steps with his own. It was quite the trek but relief would wash away your exhaustion once you spotted a tiny cluster of wisps. They ward off any uninvited guests, and Mingi —despite looking intimidating— was welcomed by the gentle spirits.

“Wisps?” his low voice chuckled against the little kisses the wisps gave him.

“They’re very dear.” you mumble as more wisps came to you, playing with your hair and placing soft touches on your cheeks.

Mingi’s eyes glistened with the glow of the wisps, and he watched as one hovered on your palm. You bring it close to your face, eventually giving it a sweet kiss.

“I wish I was a wisp.” you hum in question of his utterance.

“Wisps are spirits that were taken for granted. Powerful, but was subjected to the consequences of life, suffering death before their spirits were able to spread love and wisdom in the world. They’re nice, but I'm pretty sure they’d prefer to be like us, you know, living.” he understood pretty easily, a little disappointed, but quite amused that you didn’t get the hint with what he said. “I love them.”

You relaxed the muscles of your hand, raising it up a tad and letting the wisp fly off to its friends. Ahead of you, finally, is the Keeper’s well. Your curiosity was at its peak when you remembered Mingi said he wanted to help, to try at least.

You walk over to the well, your hope dwindling with every step. The wisps had consoled you through all instances of you breaking down over numerous feeble attempts of procuring your magic. This time you hoped, that the presence of Mingi would change the course of this venture you’ve gone on for decades now with no success.

Once your toes were only an inch away from the well’s body, you stopped, looking into the well, it was a ritual for you. Maybe your powers would peek back at you.

“Are you alright?” Mingi’s voice sounded of worry, now with both hands resting on your shoulders.

You breath in the cool air of your surroundings, magic dust floating away from within the well with a soft inviting glow. “Lead the way, Mingi.”

You saw the movement in his throat as he gulped, making his way around the well and standing across from where you had anchored yourself. His blade leaves its sheath again. Your eyes were glued onto the alloy that shimmered with the illumination emitted by the wisps and the well itself. He holds it over the opening of the well, and his amulet —it hangs onto the quillon of the blade. “I wanted to test out something I’ve read out of the books, or maybe, this is just some stupid idea I came up with.” he mumbles the last part, but you were able to read his lips. Still, you trusted him.

He closes his eyes, and he chants. From what you understood, it was an incantation, typically used in the area of fishery. Sounds odd for Mingi to be using such a spell, but you just stood there and allowed for him to work his magic.

His grip on the blade loosened, and by every finger he detached from the grip, the blade got heavier, and heavier, until it fell. You heard the strong gust of wind as it continued to fall.

“I wonder what the Gods are saying about this war.” it had been a while since the blade was dropped into the well.

Your anticipation had diminished completely. “Mingi, let’s just go.”

“I do hope they recognized the Keepers’ sacrifices.”

Tears threatened to fall from your eyes. “Mingi, we have to go before we get ambushed—”

“But then again, the Gods are none of our concern—”

“Mingi!” there was a slight crack in your voice, speaking as you fought the urge to break down again. “We must leave this place, now.”

“But I'm not done yet, Celeste.”

“Do not call me by that name, Celeste will never come back.” the tears swelled in your eyes, and you’d swallow your misery to deter from crying. “It’s impossible, Mingi.” your firm voice softens to one that is gloomy and reflects your despair.

With every step Mingi took closer to you, you’d only come close to breaking into a weep completely. A tear would trickle down to your jaw when he takes hold of your hands and makes you turn to the side to face him. You lower your head as the tears pour themselves out of you, you were breathing with a stutter. Mingi’s hand that was further from the well moves from your hand to your shoulder. Soon, you were laying the side of your head on his chest, the hand on your shoulder shifting to the back of your head whilst the other was entwined with yours. You felt Mingi’s heart thumping loudly in his chest, then he takes a deep breath and releases your hands at the side where the well was next to you both. His free hand hovers over the well’s opening. He was chanting again, but it was one you could not recognize even if you were hearing it right in your ear. You move away from Mingi’s body, watching his eyes change color like before. From silver to gold. The golden shine of his eyes reminded you of a pair that was very dear to you.

“Zephyr…” you utter to yourself, but only you would be able to hear.

Mingi was fully focused on his work, and you would hear that strong gust of wind again, now growing louder instead of the other way. Mingi stops his incantation, and looks into your eyes.

“Say it with me, Díno tin písti mou stous anémous tis aioniótitas.”

Zephyr’s language. “Díno tin písti mou stous anémous tis aioniótitas.” and your faith was with Mingi.

“Catch the blade Y/n.”

You hear the wind yelling, and it was getting louder. With a foot on the rim of the well and a hand over the well’s mouth, you were able to grab the blade by its grip as it came flying out. Mingi’s amulet blazed an angry red, and so did the well. He led you back to him by grabbing ahold of your free hand. You still held the blade the same way you had caught it from the well.

“Now hold the stone. Chant it again and close your eyes.”

Mingi frees your other hand so you could touch the amulet. You enclosed it in a tight grasp as you closed your eyes, and with the wholeness of your soul, you chanted, “Díno tin písti mou stous anémous tis aioniótitas.”

You lose your breath for a moment as the stone sparked in your hand. A strong flash of light struck your vision. It was like the whole world went back to being a small ball of light within the emptiness of space. The Gods have created such a beautiful world, but it was all for show. They act with no care, the care they had was for their vanity only. Then you were back to the moment you were molded from fine clay and the flesh of man, back to the very moment your power was bestowed to you.

“You serve the good, and only the good, and you will work to neutralize the evils from the very depths of hell, and you are never to betray your fellow Keepers, you shall love, but never turn against each other.”

You look around, seeing the younger selves of the other Keepers. And then there was Zephyr whose eyes glimmered with the gold the Gods would flaunt to each other and their servants. He was far, yet his voice spoke to you, loud and clear. He tells you, “Guide my son Celeste. He is the true Keeper of the winds and time itself. Believe in him, Celeste.”

Everything disappears, turning into dust. Zephyr’s words echoed in your mind and the image of his eyes never left your head.

“Celeste…” it was clear to you now. “I’m here… can you hear me?” Zephyr fell in love with Verbena, and their love bore a child. Mingi truly is immortal.

“Y/n!” you woke up, gasping from the shock of being awoken from such a profound dream.

You’d be even more shocked to find yourself on the ground with Mingi, him holding you closely in his arms. Mingi sets his hand on your jaw to hold it, gently guiding your head towards him so he could see you. You were in your true form. Before him was an image, surreal and captivating, enchanting him with the way your skin warmed up his cold hands. The night was cold, but you were as warm as day. And you felt like you were reborn. You meet his eyes, and he sees the entirety of the universe in your gaze —the planets and constellations he only read about in books.

“You’re beyond the beauty the tales make you out to be.” you hear the utterance in his mind. He seemed to have forgotten that you could read minds. “I’m so lucky.” you chuckled at his buoyant thoughts that just kept running. You wanted to confirm Zephyr’s message, and so you’d dig deep into his psyche. His whole upbringing flowed throughout every facet of your memory. And it revealed more than what you had intended to know.

You still held the stone in your hand, and you and Mingi’s surprise, the stone was no longer red. It had turned colorless, much like the shard you had with you.

“Mingi, this amulet, it’s a piece of the diamond.” Mingi loosens his embrace, allowing for you to sit up.

“Yeah, I see.” you examine Mingi’s face. His brows were furrowed, indicating that he was utterly clueless.

“It’s Zephyr’s shard, Mingi.” he looks back at you, with not much change in his expression. You hold back a smile. You speak to him with your mind to tell him, “Keeper Zephyr is your father.” his eyes grew wide and his hand clenched the skin of your bare arm.

“Really?”

“Really! he told me himself, when I was in a trance earlier.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry. I just didn’t want to get ahead of myself.” you communicated solely with the voice of your minds, then you would hear his velvet voice again, “I read about the Keepers all the time as a child, and even now. It stunned me how similar my powers are to Zephyr, but I thought maybe it was just a coincidence, and that there were others like me.”

Your hand finds its way on his cheek, your soft fingers gliding against his skin as your hand goes up to fix his hair. “There’s only one Keeper of the winds and time, Mingi.”

He wore the same expression of astonishment as before. “Me?”

“Yes, you’re a Keeper.”

“So I am immortal after all.” you hear his thoughts again, making you giggle.

“Yes Mingi, you’re immortal.”

He just stared at you, right into your eyes. For a short while, his thoughts were empty, just basking in your warmth and ethereal presence. You were a being of high power that everyone else believed were only true in folktales. But Mingi’s faith was with you from the beginning, and now your faith lies with him.

“Is it bad that I want to kiss you?” you flick your tongue over your top lip, a smile forming on your plush lips as you watch his eyes linger on them.

This was the moment you admit to having been enamored by him, right from the night you spent with him even if you had done nothing but administer your plan and prepare yourselves. His flawlessly structured face, his tall stature, his voice, his willingness to protect you —you had gone long without a lover, and maybe now’s the time.

“Kiss me.”

He was careful, and a lot gentler for the size of him. He was bewitched with the feeling of your lips against his. He kept repeating in his mind, “I hope this isn't a dream.” as he continued to kiss you, making you chuckle against his lips for a short while —a very short while as he chased the sensation of having his lips, and his tongue against yours.

“Mingi.” you spoke to him with your mind, not being able to escape the feeling he’s ensnared you in. “We have to get going.” he keeps going for a few more lengthy seconds. He pulled away, leaving the two of you hot-faced and panting. You were both still lost and enthralled in each other’s eyes, then you’d talk to him, this time, with your voice audible. “Seriously now, we must go.” your mellow voice made his eyelids drop once, and he’d plant another soft kiss on your lips before pulling the both of you off the ground.

“Can you stab me? just so I could be sure this isn't a dream or some sort of hallucination.” you titter at his words, the palm of your gentle hand playfully hitting his chest.

“It’s real!”

Suddenly, his hands were all up in your hair. “Look, your hair, it changed color.”

You watch with awe as he moves strands of your hair around. “It’s my true form, Mingi.”

“It’s a crazy form —driving me crazy, that is.”

After a shared guffaw, you were back on track. Now with your magic restored, it would be easier for you and Mingi to move onto the arduous steps of your journey. You had a long way ahead of you, and a new Keeper by your side. He wasn’t one that was molded by the Gods and put through rigorous training by being thrown into a dragon’s cage, but he was one with a pure heart, and it set him apart from the rest of the Keepers. He understood human nature to its core with the blood of a mortal coursing through him. And he wasn’t one to give up, because you found out that it took him thirteen years to configure his magic and be able to use it without losing control. And unlike Ahriman, he wasn’t a vengeful soul. He only wished that there’s a future for the mystic society, for the world. And he would keep saving it, just so the people of the future won’t suffer the same fate as him and many others, mortal and immortal alike.

“And he saved a Keeper’s soul…”

not proofread, not planning on doing so either so :D

#ateez #ateez au #ateez mingi #song mingi #ateez angst #ateez fanfic #ateez x reader #ateez fluff #ateez scenarios #ateez imagines #ateez fic

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