AEP MUIRE

THE WAYS OF PROGRESS ... BURN AWAY DEATH ... AND FEAR—

his offer hangs in the air, suspended for her to pluck apart. but for once she doesn't. she simply considers it, weighing it in her palm. it feels almost forbidden, to dream so far ahead.

❛❛ you have heard me speak of the gods in my people’s beliefs. they are tied to every aspect of our existence, from sowing fields, to warfare, to raising children. there is one, we regard him as the king of gods. a creator deity, named odin. ❜❜ try as they might to contain emotion, eivor’s next inhale to continue on with the thought is shaky.

❛❛ as far as i can remember into my past, odin was with me. i thought him to be a guide, or mentor. i foolishly thought myself to be favored, and that i was lucky. when we ravens sailed south, conflict arose between us and other humans already living in the lands we chose to settle. conflict also arose inward, between myself and odin. in time i came to see he was— he was trying to puppet me. ❜❜ focus returns to eivor’s gaze, but now the glint in them is harsh, angry. wounded, even deeper than that.

❛❛ as he sensed that i would make to bite him, he captured me, brynn, and he kept me for, i do not know how long. each hour of my defiance saw him stretch his creativity to unfathomable lengths to hurt me. i do not need to be specific for you to imagine the ways in which powerful men can be cruel. ❜❜ nose crinkles halfway, before the young king breathes in deeply and relaxes their shoulders.

still she doesn't stop her, making only a quiet sound of agreement that she needed no details, knowing well the sorts of cruelties men could conjour in their minds. and throughout eivor's tale, not once does brynn trip on a feeling of insincerity. not once does she stumble, finding fault or exaggeration, or some clue as to another explanation for something so wholly outside of everything she thinks to know about the world. indeed, perhaps it is eivor's sincerity that strikes her the most.

she studies the raider, whose brilliant eyes seemed always to her true and keen as the northern winds, her face sharp and handsome as the cliff upon which the sea breaks. she looks the same still, if cracked open slightly. and perhaps very little could now change how brynn's heart has grown around them.

"i've seen many things," she finally begins, brow knit in contemplation. "most i could explain. even those i couldn't, i believe have some cause somewhere." no, she's saying this all wrong. "what i mean is i don't ... understand this. but i believe you. even if ... well, call it what you will, i s'pose. 's not really the point, is it." gods will never quite fit into her world, but she would not argue semantics now.

some prompts exploring the affectionate side of lust. mature audiences only; do not interact if you are a minor. add +reverse to reverse the roles. combine prompts by sending multiple at once. only use these prompts to portray consensual scenarios.

[mwah.] sender kisses receiver slowly, keeping their mouths joined even while moving inside them.

[stroke.] sender gently runs their hands through receiver's hair during sex.

[nestle.] sender buries their face in receiver's neck, planting kisses against it mid-fuck.

[safety.] sender and receiver experiment together as friends.

[held.] sender intertwines their fingers with receivers while having sex.

[steady.] sender holds receiver's trembling hands down gently against the sheets.

[comfort.] sender makes love to receiver after a rough day.

[borrow.] sender wears receiver's shirt/sweater while they have sex.

[confession.] sender murmurs "i love you" against receiver's skin.

[tease.] sender peppers kisses at receiver's stomach before dipping lower.

[worship.] sender worships receiver's body / chest / thighs / arms / back with touch, kisses, and praise.

[tender.] sender gently traces their fingers along receiver's scars.

[guide.] sender moves receiver's hand where they need it most.

[check-in.] sender pauses every few thrusts to ensure receiver is handling things okay.

[grind.] sender ruts against receiver through their clothing.

[first.] sender, being more experienced, guides receiver through their first time.

[cup.] sender holds receiver's face in their hands and kisses them tenderly.

[hurried.] sender hikes receiver's clothing just far enough to push inside of them.

[savor.] sender deliberately slows their rhythm, intent on lasting as long as possible.

[vice.] sender holds receiver close while finishing inside of them.

still, though he isn't averse to killing and has done so on more than occasion, his earlier outburst admittedly in self - defense unsettles his stomach even more so than the poison he's working through. Vann doesn't look up, partially due to the gloom that suddenly blankets him and partly because his eyes hurt. ❛ You know, let's just ... let's just say they won't try stabbing another witcher again, huh? Yeah, I ❜ He tenses, lets out a strangled groan, as a knot of pain passes through his side and seems to squeeze itself through his kidney. His breathing soon resumes, and he forces himself to control it. ❛ Again ... you would've been proud. ❜

"Here." She pulls the vial from his pack as instructed and hands it to him, before turning back to his wounds. "We'll stay another week. See how you feel then. Unless you think there will be more ...?" Her voice trails off in a question that is perhaps less concerned than it ought to be. But such threats are nothing new, and she can't help but notice that as monsters become scarce, the witchers' presence is tolerated less and less.

The heat of Vann's skin under her touch concerns her. Brynn bends to pour more of the dwarven spirit over her hands to clean them. "Ready for stitches?" Her eyes search for his, impatiently awaiting his permission. It isn't the first and will most likely not be the last time they've pieced each other back together. As their days go, this isn't the bloodiest she's ever seen him. But it is perhaps the mundanity of it, a simple small knife dipped in poison, at just the right angle more by accident than skill she realises suddenly that, had the attacker been a more skilled herbalist, or pushed the knife much deeper, she may never have seen Vann alive again.