#🕊️ headcanon.
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cdpr denying ciri her agency in wild hunt is especially maddening now after having read bits from the tales.
she goes from being terrorized and abused by leo bonhart after hiding among a street gang (who were all horrifically murdered before her) and must go by the name ‘falka’ to ‘i’m not falka. i’m ciri, from kaer morhen. i’m a witcher. i came here to kill” at the very end of tower of swallows.
and then she manages to kill her terrorizer / abuser.
but what i think is especially notable is how ciri insists stop calling me lady of the lake. my name is ciri. her agency and name have been denied her for so long that now she is able to have them she will fight for them. i think this is also clear when she goes from referring to ihuarraquax as ‘little horse’ to his full name. she knows the power of names and naming, how to deny one their name is denying them their identity and who they are.
and then cdpr seems to miss the point because they do not permit ciri to keep her own agency at all. as i’ve said, it’s extremely effective as a game from geralt’s point of view, but in terms of how ciri and her narrative are treated it is a let down.
ciri also should have been the one to kill eredin (and imlerith) herself, especially now she is stronger and a more skilled fighter than when she had been able to kill her previous abuser (bonhart).
ciri is opposed to killing, but i also don’t see her as wanting geralt and yennefer to solve all of her problems after lady of the lake. she’s several years older in the games, has had to be self sufficient, and cut corners morally.
she can’t retain her innocence, and that’s part of why she’s such a tragic character.
she does have her name, though, part of which she’s chosen for herself: ciri, daughter of yennefer.
#🕊️ headcanon.#🕊 study.#ciri was forced to grow up too fast .#she seems both older than she is . and extremely childish .#~ just childhood trauma things ~#she’s been repeatedly traumatized and denied her identity and used .#anyway also . ciri would never call emhyr ‘papa’ or father . cdpr insults me !!!#ill be like ‘im fine’ and cry over a dumb fictional character . :(((#anyway . :( i love her so much . :(#that’s my baby girl …
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i. stardust; azriel.
synopsis : azriel x half-seraphim!reader. your first starfall with the inner circle, nerves dizzying you like wine. what's worse? watching your love for azriel go unrequited as he dances with anyone but you. but ... is it really unrequited?
warnings : mild swearing, insecure reader / comparing herself to elain, fast-paced emotions, rushed ending, unedited.
a/n : this is my first fic writing for acotar here so pleasee bare with me ( this is also unedited / not proof read, so i apologize for any mistakes ) <3 i hope i did azriel some justice :,) no huge warnings here, just fluff with a hint of angst in between. and absolutely no hate to elain !! she’s the loml tbh.
word count : 6,271
Seventy years.
That’s how long you’d known Rhysand’s family. How long you’d known Azriel.
Seventy years, and yet, this was your first Starfall with them. After all, you had felt too guilty, leaving your boss – Madja – lonely on such a beautiful occasion. The woman wasn’t one for extravagant parties, and often stayed in as the two of you cooked together, much like a mother and a daughter would. Sure, it wasn’t much . . . And it certainly didn’t feel any different from your typical weekends. Yet, the warmth of the moment always had you savoring it. Madja was hard on you, but it was undeniable, the maternal instinct she seemed to possess.
But no amount of beef stew or spiced tomato soup could ever amount to what you felt now.
You stood before Morrigan’s bedroom mirror, unsure of what to do with yourself. Was that even you, staring back? Your eyes were wide, lined with kohl and a strange, silver paste, almost hidden behind your curled lashes. Your lips, parted in a small gape, were the color of aged wine – shining. Dark.
Tempting.
You wanted to congratulate Mor on the work of art she had produced out of you – but before you could utter another word, your gaze fell to the dress.
And, oh, was it breathtaking.
Your bodice cupped your chest like it was molded to you, skin-to-skin, the velvet softer than anything you’d ever had the pleasure of feeling. The deep cobalt blue shifted in the light, almost like molten lapis, placing perfect emphasis on your curves, catching the glow of faelights in just the right spots. You’d never worn anything sleeveless before; you’d always thought them to look boring. But looking down past the sweetheart neckline, to the thick ribbon wrapped around your waist, lacing up your back, ending in that long, perfect bow … Even you had to admit it was a work of art.
You lifted the satin skirts, peering down, wondering if –
“Don’t do that!” Mor playfully hissed at your side, swatting your hands down and away from the delicate material. “You’ll wrinkle it … I spent good money on this dress, you know.”
But you didn’t have the heart to banter, now. Your mouth felt dry as you gravitated towards the mirror, fingertips grazing its surface. “This doesn’t feel real,” you admitted with an exhale, so quiet that your friend barely even caught it.
Her gaze softened a fraction, swiftly standing at your back, fingers adjusting the material lacing you together. Honestly, you were thankful they were there; it felt like the only thing keeping you from crumbling. You had been longing for this for years after meeting the Inner Circle. But, now? Coming to their little Velaris party made you feel as if you were officially one of them. Their friend, their family.
You almost trembled as you – gently, this time – swept your skirts off the floor, taking small steps towards the door, making great attempts not to trip over the blonde’s brand new heels, the ebony leather so fine it barely cut into your flesh. She stifled a laugh at your poor attempts, offering you her bare arm to steady yourself. You graciously accepted, sheepishly gripping your billowing skirts tighter in your free palm. Not that you could admit such a bold claim aloud, but it wasn’t the shoes that had you dizzy. You had worn ridiculous heels many times in your life; boots, stilettos . . . This shouldn’t have been an issue.
Instead, what shook you was the knowledge that he would see you. You, in your sapphire dress. You, clumsily dancing for the first time in years. You, always embarrassing yourself. Always the fool.
The shadowsinger, your muse. He was so graceful, so lovely. Untouchable. Everyone could see that he deserved someone of pure light. Someone soft, like a blanket of warmth. Something you could never be, you supposed. For all you were good at was healing flesh wounds. You never knew how to navigate a faerie’s heart, how to soothe the cracks and wounds.
A muscle ticked in your jaw as the two of you pushed Mor’s bedroom door open, your expression only relaxing as your friend let you go once you’d reached the great, spiraling staircase. The sisters, on the other hand, filed out of a room to the left – each one striking. Nesta in death’s black, ink dripping down every pore. Feyre, in a familiar shade of starlight silver, practically glowing with joy as she bounced little Nyx in her arms. And Elain . . .
You felt a twinge of jealousy upon seeing how stunning she looked tonight. Mauve sweeps of tule and silk hugged her hourglass figure like it was art, the draping sleeves like wisps of petal. Her skirt fell to the floor in great volumes – she looked a bit like a flower, herself. You suddenly felt that confidence, blazing and bright, dwindle down to nothing but a spark. A new reminder that you were like her shadow. Pretty, but never enough to be seen, not while Elain existed. You bit down on your cheek to keep yourself from potentially hurling, stepping to the side in a swift bow as the Archerons passed, teetering down the staircase as one. Feyre had ordered you not to do so, as you were ‘family.’ Even so, you could never suppress the urge.
It was pitiful of you, you had to admit. Elain … She’d never done anything wrong. Perhaps it was merely nature to blame another on your shortcomings, but even when that sinking feeling dove deep beneath your skin, guilt plagued and ate at your heart. Again and again she’d bake sweet cakes and cookies for you – again and again she’d bring you flowers, bright smiles. All because she knew you were unsteady, afraid. Yet you couldn’t stop. Not when Azriel’s gentle smiles only seemed to bloom for her sunlight.
Only when you heard hushed chatter and laughs did you spring back up, sucking in a breath. You peered over the edge, stomach churning as you watched the shadowsinger transfixed by the doe-eyed female. How could you join them, now, when you realized you had no one to talk to? Cassian and Nesta. Amren and Varian. Rhysand and Feyre. Azriel and Elain. Even Mor had found her place beside a newly bashful Emerie. You had been hoping that Gwyneth would join you – but the Nymph stayed in the Library, tending to books with Clotho.
Ripping the handrail, dark nails scraping, you quietly made your down, inch by inch, silently, in hopes no one would see, and –
“Oh, you sure clean up nicely,” came Cassian’s whistle of approval. You groaned, stopping halfway to the floor to dramatically hang over the railing.
“Did you really need to do that? I was trying to be discreet,” you huffed, hands on your thinned waist. You quickly finished your descent, ready to knock heads with the male, his chest puffed out in rather unnecessary pride.
And you would have, if the weight of a certain gaze tore at your focus. Your eyes slid to Azriel’s, and for once, he didn’t shy away. He only watched, those smooth, pretty lips parted in something resembling awe. Elain glanced between the two of you, and for a moment, you could have sworn excitement – anticipation – flash in her lovely brown eyes.
You practically floated towards the Illyrian, drinking him in. That dark hair, clumsily styled into a dark pool of voluminous strands. The way his white blouse – a shade you rarely saw him in – was ever so slightly unbuttoned, revealing hints of his tattoos. But what really caught your eye was the velvet blazer of deepest blue. An article of clothing that perfectly matched your gown.
You, painfully, let your eyes drift to the blonde fae, raising your brows, as if you say, you did this? Mor only grinned, looping her arm through Feyre’s ignoring your inquiry.
But, in the meantime, Azriel hadn’t stopped watching you, from the moment he saw you take the first step towards the hall. He knew you’d be wearing cobalt tonight. He had specifically asked Mor, in fact, smitten and riddled with nerves. But what he didn’t anticipate was how it made him feel. It was the same blue that shone in his siphons, and his heart stirred, a strange sense of warmth rising to his head and chest. It was as if you were his. His to hold, his to touch, his to kiss. His shadows danced, a wisp curling around your neck and winding through your hair, like a necklace. He could feel them giggling like children.
Before he even had the chance to get ahold of the shadows, you were already laughing with them, a finger gently coming up to examine your newfound jewelry.
The male stepped closer to you, rose dusting his cheeks. “They seem to be in a good mood.” He watched you play with them, the one laying on your collar bones shifting to wind itself up and around your forearm, like a serpent, loyal to its mistress. “They like you, I mean,” Azriel clarified as you peered up at him.
“How cute …” you murmured in awe, feeling them pulse against your skin. You met his hazel eyes once again, unable to wipe the grin off your face. “They’re beautiful.”
Beautiful beautiful beautiful. He couldn’t help the small, careful upturning that graced his lips as he let a million thoughts wander through his head. You’re the one who’s beautiful, he wanted to respond – but for the sake of his nerves, and yours, he held his tongue. Instead, he hummed, “We match, you know.”
Your eyes widened, as if you had hoped he wouldn’t notice. “Ah … Right,” your eyes widened, pupils dilating further, “I swear, I didn’t plan this. It’s a coincidence. If I knew you were already wearing blue, I would have asked to change – I don’t mean to steal your thunder.”
Azriel barked an uncharacteristically joyful chuckle, throwing his head back for a moment, the blush dusting his cheeks only glowing a bit brighter. Something you failed to see, eyes stuck to the arch of his throat, the way the muscles moved, his tattoos coming to life. “No,” he gently countered once he’d come down from the clouds. “I think it looks nice. You – we – look nice. Blue suits you.”
And as your lips curled, Azriel thought his heart may have stopped. Had he done that? Him? A sense of pride sparked in his blood, his shadows flaring in reply, still ever so unresponsive to their master. You could feel the way they seemed to shy against you, the dense air they washed over your skin warming – you could’ve sworn it felt like a flush.
You were so enchanted with the creatures, with the peace they brought you; the way it washed over your senses, so much so that you completely missed the velvet-smooth voice that filled your ears. It was an effort to look up from the shadows – after all, you were more than content to sit right there on the floor and play with them all evening, dress and all. But nothing else mattered when a gentle shiver spread through your body, a silken sensation blooming at your shoulder. Your eyes narrowed to the – albeit, gloved – hand that rested on your skin. You didn’t need to see the scars beneath, to know who it was.
Azriel gazed down at you with eyes so full that something in your chest ached in response, drowning under the waves of thousands of words unsaid. You couldn’t read them, each syllable too muddled, too deep to reach – but you knew something was there, lurking beneath those amber irises. “Could you repeat that?” you finally murmured, clasing your hands before you. Your tone was sheepish, the very admission an embarrassment.
“I asked if you would save me a dance,” he clarified. You could hear it, the slight tremor in his voice. He was a master of physical arts, and his body didn’t often betray him – only you knew Azriel well enough to gauge the nerves in his words. “I know you have a duty to dance with Rhys, and Cass is going to snag you, as he does to every pretty lady. But I think I’d regret it, if I didn’t get at least one with you.”
How could you say no? How could you be sensible, think of the consequences, when that stare was so sweet? It was a look you could never refuse, not even when you knew accepting would break your doe-eyed friend’s heart.
Yes; you saw how Elain looked at him, how her rosy lips parted when he walked into a room. She sat up straighter beside him, seemed to speak louder. Like a star hidden by the mountains, rising into the sky to be admired by all. Around Azriel, the girl bloomed. And every hushed compliment from the Shadowsinger was a seed planted along that pale skin, growing until she could one day love herself as much as everyone else seemed to love her. It was shameful, to live off another’s joy … But watching how smooth they were together, you couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like to be loved by him. Selfish. You knew she loved him first, yet you craved him more than all else. You knew you had no right to want his touch, to crave him like air, but you did both. He was your air, yes – the kind that burned your lungs, coughing on stardust, too much to look at, blinding, suffocating –
“Yes.”
The word came choked, pulling you from the waters of your mind. “Yes, of course,” you repeated again, softer this time. You were never a dancer, could never drift across the ballroom like shallow water. But with him, it felt different. Wings could sprout from your back – you could fly, when his spotlight was on you.
The male’s face seemed to relax with the acceptance, warmth spreading to his cheeks. You were in your own little world, a fragile bubble that you wanted to stay in forever … Until a louder, feminine voice put a pin in it.
“Right, we get it, you want to tear each other’s clothes off,” Mor teased with a groan, red gown twisting as she faced the two of us, Emerie peeking out from behind her. “But I’m not missing Starfall because two insufferable idiots refuse to get a move-on. I’ve got things to do.” She winked, and with the click of her tongue, Rhysand nodded. Nodded – but you could see the smirk on his lips when his gaze fell on Azriel.
“As refreshing as this is,” he agreed, “we have a duty to make an appearance. Lest you want to be chastised by our people, I suggest we leave.” He had taken Nyx from the bundle in Feyre’s arms, bouncing the babe in his own large embrace. The boy was grasping at his fathers blue-black hair, pulling at the strands.
You brushed past the Illyrian to stroke Nyx’s head, cooing for the small child. Barely a toddler, and you could tell he’d grow to be as strong as – if not stranger than – his father. But it certainly brought no fear, often surrounded by the coddling of the adults around him.
As a half-Seraphim, yourself, you were less on the … Territorial side. Your instincts were more like a soft duvet, contrary to Azriel and Cassian’s hammer-like tendencies. Thanks to this, the Night Court’s heir had grown quite fond of you – of course, not nearly as much as his mother and father, but you were a close third. You swept the black-haired boy into your arms, holding him at eye-level with you, his chubby fingers reaching for your pearls and jewels. “Ah-ah,” you tutted, a mock frown placed on your painted lips. “I know these are pretty, but your Auntie spent her hard earned money on these. You can touch when you’re older.”
Nyx seemed to deflate with the rejection, and you almost felt guilty for the poor thing. His mother, donned in white, cupped his little face in her hands and pressed a kiss to his head.
“Now, let’s not get pouty … You’ll perk right back up when you see the treats Elain made for the party,” the High Lady hummed. At the word “treats”, he seemed to glow once again, tiny wings flapping as Feyre took him back, bouncing him against her chest. You couldn’t help the giggle that slipped past your lips, the scene painted perfection. You were glad to see your friend with such a loving family around her – she deserved it.
A cool breeze grazed your back and you strained your head to peek behind you, eyes drinking in a torso covered in black, white, and blue. “Let’s not keep Nyx waiting. He’ll grow impatient,” Azriel suggested, that quiet, smooth voice loud in your ears. You could feel his shadowed smirk, that silent humor. He reached a gloved hand out to you and your heart seemed to melt. Was he really asking to escort you?
You slid your fingers between his, feeling the rough, charred skin mold to the tight fabric of the gloves. It was a familiar sensation, comforting. The nice thing about loving the Shadowsinger? You always knew. You knew it was him when he’d touch your arm, scarred fingertips all too easy to feel. You knew it was him when you saw shadows snake across the floor of every room, moments before you saw him. Mother, you even knew him down to that night-chilled mist and cedar scent. It blanketed you on drunken nights in which he walked you back to your room in Feyre’s estate, lingering even when you’d crawled into bed and fallen asleep like a rock. His hand tightened around yours, sliding his arm so it supported yours, linking your bodies together. Something about his shadows seemed more careful than before, like summer air.
You supposed you wouldn’t mind if your hair got ruined if it meant Azriel got to fly you there. Mor could deal with it.
***
By the time the Illyrian set you on the pavement outside The Rainbow, you were already exhausted. Yes, you were a night owl – fitting for the court you stayed in – but the heavy jewels stuck to your arms, your neck, and the weighted material of your dress – it all had you wanting to sit down and doze off for a good few hours. You knew your feet would ache by the end of the evening. You could hear the booming music, the orchestra’s melody brighter than the stars, the cheers of Rhysand’s subjects as he led his mate and son down the stairs. You could almost picture it without seeing it then; the Lord and his Lady, glorious like the moon.
You let the Spymaster set your hand on his, leading you down the steps, ebony wings never quite dragging as you followed him. You had wanted to thank him for the fly, an excuse to talk to him amongst the vast expanse of people –
But something else caught your eye.
The sky.
Your lips parted in wonder, a sort of floating sensation spreading through your body. It was beautiful. You knew starfall wasn’t about the actual glowing dots in the sky, but the spirits, coming to visit in star-shaped forms. And you watched the large bodies descend from the pool of black, silently colliding with the streets of velaris, leaving the pavement sprinkled in glittery, illuminated substances. it painted the streets, the buildings – you felt like you were standing in a fantasy. things felt … peaceful. soft.
“Pretty, aren’t they?” Cassian smirked from behind you, an arm slung around Nesta’s waist – much to her teasing dismay, as she mouthed a short “possessive baby,” to you. You nodded at the warlord, the corners of your mouth lifting … only for them to fall right back down when he added, “Yeah. They’re dying out every year. One day, they’ll be gone.”
You gasped, brows dipping. Your stomach seemed to churn, your gaze on the spirits suddenly grew heavy, sorrowful. Your excitement died down to a sort of mourning. You knew you’d be alive another, what, five hundred years? More? Would they be gone by then? Out of the corner of your eye, you watched Nesta jab her mate in the stomach, scolding him for the sudden trainwreck of angst.
You spent most of the party sitting around members of the court, sipping expensive wines and gazing up at the glass roof, coated in that glowing powder. You couldn’t keep your gaze off of it – not when Rhysand swept you into a waltz, his dancing skills smooth as you remembered from Under the Mountain. Elegant as the dark, night incarnate. He certainly lived up to the name, gliding across the marble floor with such ease that you almost slipped on your own two feet, practically being dragged around like a ragdoll. You excused yourself shortly, handing him off to his wife, who scowled when he seemed to pout, clearly enjoying torturing you, ever the brother-figure. You knew he’d be in it for a mouthful at home. It made you chuckle, even when Cassian took the chance to wrap his arm around yours, that boysterous demeanor louder with the consumption of so much alcohol. You could smell it on his breath, and see it in his sloppy dancing – and when he asked you to twirl him, the male practically playing limbo to try and fit under your raised arm. You sniggered, mocking his height – until those wings slapped you square in the face when he finally succeeded. You grumbled, excusing yourself to find a drink as his warm, hollering laughter followed you down and across the ballroom.
That left one dance owed.
Azriel.
It wasn’t that you weren’t looking forward to it. Quite the opposite, actually. Rather, it was that the shadowsinger was nowhere to be found. You knew he had the tendency to slip off into the security of his shadows during large gatherings … But what were you to do? It was nearly two in the morning, and things were coming to a close. Or, at least, the music was. It had grown softer, suitable for smalltalk and laughter, rather than dance and partying.
Plus, Elain was missing, too, and for some strange reason, it made your skin itch. Was she with him? Had they snuck off alone, to admire the moonlight? You couldn’t blame them; she had looked lovely that evening. You admired her for it. You always had. She was there for you when others were not, an angel in disguise, fallen from the heavens. You hadn’t known the Mother was capable of creating a fae so perfect. Didn’t want to know. At least, not while it made you feel so … average. Good for nothing.
You gripped your arms, turning to gaze at your friends, huddled and chattering like a flock of birds. Radiant. Untouchable. Did you belong there, with them? Placed on a pedestal, to be admired and feared and loved? It had you wanting to hurl, a shiver making its way up your back. You swiftly jerked your head forward, heels clacking, feet aching as you slipped down a dark hall, relishing in the way the voices and music seemed to die down the further you walked.
You reached a small archway, illuminated only by the bright moonlight, a small breeze leaking in through it. You stepped past the threshold, finding yourself on a familiar balcony – familiar not by memory, but by description. Feyre told you about it many times, about how she’d shared her first genuine moment with Rhysand there. You scoffed and shook your head, the irony lifting your mood. Leaning on your forearms, the railing cool on your skin, you let the wind ruffle – if not ruin – your hair, eyes fixated up. You’d miss it, when those little glowing shapes were nothing but a whisper of dust in the world. Despite being pissy at Cassian for soiling your spirits with the fact, you were also grateful, because it meant you could savor their presence just a tad bit more.
“Feeling overwhelmed?”
You instantly knew who that voice was. Without turning, you responded with a hum. “I needed a bit of quiet. You Illyrians can be insufferable.”
Azriel barked a laugh, the sound so genuine and rare that you felt your chest stir. He sounded like pure starlight, and you wanted to fall into it. “Maybe so, but I don’t see you leaving.”
“Because you fools would go batshit insane if I ever did.” I manage to roll my eyes, fighting back a love-struck smile. “What’ve you been doing all night? I thought you’d be more into the celebration. I know parties aren’t your thing … But I was told you adored Starfall.”
Az considered, the material of his suit creasing. “Elain asked me to take her to The Rainbow’s gardens. We watched the spirits from there – better view.”
Truth. You could tell by the way his voice softened, the corners of his eyes relaxed, his shadows hiding nothing. Your stomach dropped, as though you hadn’t seen it coming. Of course he was with Elain. When was he not? You pressed your lips together before replying, eyes dropped from the sky to your clasped fingers. “Mm. Had I known, I would’ve stayed outside … Cass and Rhys practically danced the soles of my feet off.”
You heard a deep, joyous rumble to your left. “Did Cassian step on your toes?”
I sighed dramatically, neck craning. “Obviously. And gave me one Hel of a nosebleed”
“I’m sure I could do better. I like to think I’m in control of my own body.”
You shook your head, lips twitching. “Finally offering me that dance you wanted?” I joked, lifting my skirts.
“You know I’m not one to break a promise,” came his reply, that dark smirk on the panes of his face. You giggled, turning to exit the balcony and make my way down to the ballroom. “Race you?”
Rather than complying like he usually would, the male caught hold of your wrist – gently, but hard enough that you halted.
“Stay.”
Your heart couldn’t have thundered as loud as it did then. Heat rose to your cheeks and you turned your head to look at him – really look at him, for the first time in hours. And, gods, did you regret it. Flushed by the cold in the wind, hair disheveled, falling into his eyes … You were done for.
“Stay?” you parroted, head cocking to the side. “There’s no music up here.” Half truth; music leaked from below, but it was so quiet, our hushed voices could easily cover it.
“I know. But if we go down there, we’ll be bombarded with those busybodies. I want it to be –” he shook his head, a glow rising to his cheeks. “Just … Stay.”
Your heart melted, shoulders slumping, the grip on your skits loosening as you faced him. He wanted you to be alone. Just the two of you. He may not have outright admitted it, but you could see it on his face, the hopeful shimmer in those hazel eyes, like honey. It was often like this, with you two; unbeknownst to your friends, your relationship wasn’t all teasing and joking. No – outside their gaze, in the shadows, the two of you oftentimes dwelled in silence together. You had trouble sleeping most nights, and came shuffling out of your room for milk and tea, a book clutched in your hands. And Azriel? His shadows simply never shut up. Sleep wasn’t much of an option for him. It became tradition, your nightly meet-ups on the roof of Feyre’s manor, laughing and indulging in Rhys’s good wine. It was the first time you’d seen the large man drunk, suddenly becoming needy and sensitive, like an oversized baby.
You’d been staring at him a moment too long, eyes locked onto his parted lips, those flushed cheeks. Shaking your head, you finally turned your body, nearing him with a carefulness akin to approaching a wounded deer. “Okay,” you finally breathed. You knew you were a mess, so late into the evening. Tangled, frizzy hair, wrinkles on your dress. But little did you know, you’d never looked more beautiful to Azriel.
Without another word, his hands were on you. They cupped your waist, guided your hands to his shoulders, with such grace that you swore he had experience. Maybe the Spymaster was a playboy, as strange as that was for a male of his kind.
But all thought emptied from your head when he guided you by the hips so you were centimeters from him, face so close to his chest you could feel the warmth coming in waves. Could feel his shadows tenderly stroke your cheek, winding around your neck and shoulders like scarves. You couldn't even bring yourself to touch them, play with them – not while your hands were on him, feeling muscle shift beneath his skin and clothes as he swayed you, ease and relaxation working its way into his step. Even with no real music, no tempo, Rhysand and Cassian’s dances paled in comparison to this (not that Cassian’s had much appeal … That man was like an ostrich with a broken ankle on the dance floor). This, with those eyes gazing down at you with such peace. This, listening to his every breath, the way it seemed to catch when you moved to sling your arms around his neck, bringing you impossibly closer. This was what you loved most.
You knew Azriel couldn’t go farther than touching a female’s hands without beating himself to a pulp – knew he ridiculed himself too much, as too afraid. Yet, something changed in him when he brought a hand previously on your waist to your head. It was by no means a harsh action, but rather something done with such softness that your heart fractured. He cupped the back of your head, fingers buried in the soft strands of your hair, and brought your head to his chest, letting you rest your cheek against the soft silk of his dress-shirt and blazer. You were no longer dancing – you were moving, like plants in the wind. But it was too intimate to be labeled a dance. You were simply holding one-another. Holding on to something you couldn’t quite place.
“I’m … Glad I got one dance in tonight.” His voice seemed to vibrate across his body, sending waves down your cheek. You couldn’t see his face – not when yours was stuck to his chest, but you could hear something sweet in his tone.
I huffed against the silks and cotton, inching back to get a good look at his expression. “You didn’t dance with anyone else? Not even Elain?”
He raised a dark brow, shadows swirling around his back. “Lucien would gut me if I dared to try.”
“Lucien isn’t here tonight.”
“Mm. Something Elain was awfully upset about. It wasn’t on my bucket-list, though.”
Surprise coursed through your veins, going right to your thundering heart. He didn’t want to dance with her? The female who was practically the belle of the ball? And she … Was waiting for Lucien. You couldn’t quite believe it, but you knew the shadowsinger wasn’t one for lies. For a spymaster, he was a terrible actor to anyone who knew him. He could lie to enemies, to his brothers when it counted. But otherwise, those cheeks would be dusted in pink, gaze practically oozing nerves.
You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled from your throat. “Well, I am more than honored to be your first pick,” you teased, jabbing him between the ribs.
But Azriel was unfazed. Where you had expected a laugh, there was only his heavy stare, his parting lips. “You’re the only one I ever want to dance with.”
Your heart seemed to stop its beating right there and then. Your throat, dry like sandpaper, seemed to keep so many thoughtless words as you could only stare up at him, quite aware of the heat rising to your face. You’re the only one I ever want to dance with.
What the hell did that mean?
“I know I’m one hell of a dancer, but you need to give Rhys some credit, too,” you finally bit out, the breezy jest you’d intended to lead into your tone coming out strained, nervous.
Azriel bit his lip, those shadows swirling to cup his face, his neck, peeking over the expanse of his wings. He was … Embarrassed. “You don’t understand,” he murmured, a scarred – and gloveless, you noted – hand reaching to cup your face – then stopping before it could reach the skin you so desperately needed him to touch. “I – you don't …” he huffed, raking those fingers through his hair. “You are much denser than Cassian tried to let on.”
Denser.
It hit you like an arrow to the chest, a zing of shock shaking you to your very core. Was this him confessing? You mindlessly blinked, makeup-covered lashes fluttering. The male you had been pining after for years wanted you. In retrospect, it made sense. He always sat by you, always did things for you, always protected you, first. But there was always an excuse to bypass the information like it was nothing. The way he once loved Mor, that he was simply a kind soul … Which was the truth, beneath the hard mask of the Night Court’s Spymaster.
Then, Elain. But Elain wasn’t in the picture anymore, not when Azriel had just revealed her little affairs with Lucien. Not when he was admitting that this was all so, so real.
“Az –” you choked out, reaching for his hand, taking it in yours. His scars were warm, and despite how he refused to look you in the eye, his fingers clutched yours so desperately that you swore you felt tears well, burning you. “Are you trying to – do you … Fuck, this is hard.” You exhaled, a sudden wave of nerves hurling at you. You didn’t know what to say, what to do, where to look – and hell, he looked so pretty, with those rosy cheeks and messy hair. You opened your mouth to finally just say it, the words bounding up your throat, ready, and –
Snap.
Your chest heaved, something missing for years, something hollow, suddenly full. Like you’d found an oasis in a desert, and you couldn’t waste even a single drop. You’d wondered since you were a child who your missing piece was. Who was tethered to your mind and body and heart, who was destined to be yours.
“Mate,” his shallow, hoarse voice cut through the thick air like a prayer.
All restraint snapped, all reason to be civil seemed to vanish as he cupped your face, thumbs running over your cheekbones. You could faintly see the outline of tears in the moonlight, coating his skin. Azriel, as you knew it, never cried. He never let himself cry, never even wallow in pity. Only that icy, silent rage. But seeing the emotion dripping down his face, all you wanted to do was hold him, tell him it was alright, tell him what you felt, that you loved him, to kiss him –
Just like that, his lips were on yours.
Fleeting, soft – but, gods, it was perfect. You could feel the trembling of his movements as they parted, the taste of him finer than champagne, a cocktail of bittersweet anticipation and fervent affection. Your hands slipped from his, rising to loop around his neck as he fluttered against your lips, a butterfly’s kiss. A sigh, scarcely audible, escaped you, carrying with it the weight of endless nights spent yearning for that exact moment. Your fingers tangle in the inky strands of his hair, and anchor to reality, prayer that it wasn’t a dream.
And even when you inched back for the breath that you were so bitter to need, the feeling of his touch lingered, his flavor coating your mouth, ever-present. You touched your forehead to his, and he didn’t mind that he needed to crane his neck forward to reach you. Not one bit – and especially not when you murmured into the night, meant only for his ears, a quiet “I love you.”
You felt it, the way he tensed in your embrace. Not in a defiant way, not something that spoke of regret for the moment you shared. But fear for something new – something unexplored.
“I love you, too.”
You could have gone and cried yourself a whole new ocean right there and then, even at the price of Mor’s scolding as your makeup dripped down your cheeks. But was it your fault? You didn’t think so – not that it mattered. All you saw was him, even when your eyes went blurry and your heart seemed to burst.
Then – footsteps, a familiar male voice. “Do you think they’re fucking out there?”
“Cassian!” Nesta hissed, a slap ringing through the dark hall behind them.
“He isn’t wrong …” Mor chirped, amusement echoing in each syllable. “Az looked like he was about to pass out when he saw her.”
Dear Mother. Of course your meddling friends wanted to stick their nose in your business. Indecent, perhaps, but you smiled all the same, rolling your eyes as the two of you listened to their ceaseless chatter.
“I think,” Azriel murmured, his wing curling around you, blocking out the moonlight and endless stars, “we should return before they start the next town gossip.”
“... Smart.”
#azriel 🕊️#acotar#azriel#azriel x reader#azriel x you#azriel fanfic#azriel fic#azriel angst#azriel fluff#acotar x reader#azriel shadowsinger#azriel spymaster#azriel acotar#acotar series#azriel headcanons#azriel imagine#acotar fanfiction#acotar azriel#acotar fic#a court of thorns and roses#a court of silver flames#a court of mist and fury#a court of wings and ruin#tbh idk what else to tag this#i <3 azriel sm#azriel is my wife real not fake !!
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Hi Hi (●’◡’●)ﾉ
It's me again. I loved your somno fic. On the theme of sleep, can you write some sleep hcs with Armin? Like how he likes to cuddle, what time he wakes up/goes to sleep, what he wears to bed, his bedtime routine and other fluffy stuff like that! You can add nsfw if you want!
Sorry if you've already written something like that, I'm not really good at navigating Tumblr. (◍•ᴗ•◍)
a/n: oh absolutely this is so sweet 🤍 i hope you are getting more sleep, nonnie! 💙
warnings: none! sfw | gn reader | no description of reader so reader is ambiguous in every way!
taglist: @i-literally-cant-with-this @ringsofsaturnnnn @milky-aeons
💤 𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐄𝐑𝐓 𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐏 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒
i imagine armin has a nighttime routine that became much more extensive upon entering a relationship with you. before moving in together, i imagine his nightly routine consisted of showering & laying in bed with a book before getting some shut eye.
but when you moved in together and he saw your nighttime shower+skincare routine, he developed a mini one of his own. here's how i see armin settling down in the evening:
☆ gets home from work (a little after 5 pm) and helps you cook dinner. you eat together and talk about your respective days, no screens at the table.
☆ after dinner, he washes dishes and takes a shower. sometimes you join him, sometimes you don't. if he showers alone, he only takes about 15 minutes in the shower. armin does not use 2-in-1 (or more) shampoos LOL
☆ i have mentioned this a couple of times before but i headcanon that he smells AMAZING 24/7 but especially after a shower. he is 100% a bar soap user but his soap smells like eucalyptus, aloe, and cucumber.
☆ post-shower he applies antiperspirant (vastly different from deodorant) which is clean-scented with notes of cypress, white birch, and eucalyptus.
☆ i also imagine he has a mini skincare routine now involving washing/shaving his face and some aftershave. every so often he will entertain you and do some sheet or clay masks together
☆ after his shower, it's around 7-7:30 pm so he has a few hours to spend with you playing games or watching something together.
☆ come 9 pm or later he'll encourage you to join him in the bedroom to relax. phones are shut off 30 minutes (or longer) before sleeping. he does a bit of meditation before crawling into bed with you and a good book.
☆ armin kisses your head at 11 pm and says goodnight as he cuddles you close and drifts off into sleep for work the next day.
#📝 — mack wrote that#🕊️ — queue#armin arlert headcanons#armin arlert fluff#armin x reader fluff#armin fluff#attack on titan fluff#aot fluff#attack on titan headcanons#aot headcanons#shingeki no kyojin fluff#snk fluff#snk headcanons#shingeki no kyojin#snk#aot#x reader fluff#x reader#armin x gn reader#armin arlert x gn reader#x gn reader#x gn y/n#gender neutral reader
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Oooooh I saw your reblog on my post and I'm intrigued to see what you can do! >:D
If you have the time, I would like to request for a Horropedia x fem!reader for a headstart... Maybe specifically with the reader also wearing glasses? It would be funny if he asked if the design is from any movie and stuff XP
No rush and good luck! 🙌
Thank you so much for the ask, yay! I tried my best. And sorry for the wait! I had school finals ;-; Didn't really have much time nor energy to write--nonetheless, I enjoyed this!
___________
(◇BESPECTACLED ◇)
♡ Horropedia x Fem!Bespectacled! Reader
♡ Type: Narrative, One-Shot-- Reader Self Insert (denoted by (y/n))
♡ Genre: Romantic Fluff
♡ Content Warnings: None!
Enjoy~
___________
"I'll admit, I can absolutely say the first X-Ray Monkeyman movie is fantastic, although the second film is compartively sub par..."
It was a quiet evening, sunlight flowing through the windows and painting the room in scarlet and tangerine. Within the pallid walls of the foundation, you were assigned the blandest of paperwork.
Well, it would've been a quiet evening if it weren't for Horropedia's--your best friend and current coworker-- perpetual chatter.
His voice tends to carry, Horropedia's, although nonetheless you didn't quite have the heart to silence his persistent jibber-jabbering. The absolute glow on his face whenever he discussed one of his favorite horror movies or was asked about the latest horror debate was incomparable to anyone you've ever seen, a gleaming grin on his face as his glasses shimmered with a tiny, piquant starlight in the evening sun. Eyes like honey, delicate and sweet, and an intellect, serrated, sharp.
Indeed, he had not a tint malevolence of in his jabbering or gaze, just passion.
"Hey! ... (y/n)? Earth to Miss (y/n)! You alright there?...It looked like you're looking straight into the void. Careful, the void stares back should you gaze too long," He chuckled heartily, taking a swig of his coffee.
"What? Oh, nothing." You muttered, shaking your head-- you blinked rapidly in the light of the sun, attempting to reorient yourself. "Lost in my thoughts. But, anyway, I still think the second movie's better than the first." You chuckled.
He smirked as he processed your counterclaim. "Actually, while I can respect your point, the first film is definitely better than the first. Scares are higher quality, the actors give a more believable performance..."
"Well, didn't the second film have better marketing?"
"Not quite. While the second film had a more active marketing campaign, the first one was more successful. In fact, in one of their first screenings, they sold limited edition glasses similar to the pivotal artifacts from the movie. It was only sold at the premiere, it was a huge success... in fact, these glasses aren't ordinary spectacles," He stated, proudly, pushing up his own glasses. "They were in fact the glasses sold at its premiere!"
"Oh, wait," He said excitedly, rushing over to you, "Those glasses look familiar... did you get them from the film's premiere? I did, myself--" He slipped off his glasses and stepped in front of you, proudly presenting the inner pattern of the frames to you, bumping shoulders with you. He was so absorbed in his ramblings, he didn't notice the streak of pink dashing across your face. "They may not look like much, but see here? This inner pattern--it's highly distinctive!"
Your face brightened at his enthusiasm. "I don't think so, but I guess you can look sometime."
He turned up to you, and slipped on his glasses again. "Wait, lemme see here for a second-"
Before you had a moment to object, he stepped right in front of your face and was peering to the side, in an attempt to see the inner rims--in doing so, he bumped noses with you as you gasped in surprise. It took him about three seconds to realize what he was doing.
One -- he touched noses with you, brilliant eyes amber in the dying sunlight, enthralled by his passions.
Two -- he peered to the side, searching for that telltale pattern in pure, analytical fascination.
Three -- he pulled a strand of hair out of your face, behind your ear, his movements, delicate.
It was to get a better view.
After that final moment ticked by, there was a beat as Horropedia stared at your face. Then his cheeks flooded with fuschia, his eyes growing wide as saucers. His hands began to shake.
"Oh." That's all he could stutter out.
For once, he had nothing to say.
"...I guess I'll...I'll...um..."
He slowly slipped off your glasses, taking a step back--just one.
He then, shakily, slipped off his own.
He stared down at the two pairs in his hands.
"...nope...haha...yours aren't the souvenirs..."
You couldn't speak.
His head tilted up again into your direction, glancing up at you as he continued to awkwardly fumble with both your glasses in his hands.
"...(y/n)?"
"...mm-hmm?"
"...Have I ever told you...uh...you look...look...I love the way you look...with...uh...your eyes with...your eyes are really gor--gorgeous with no glasses and your glasse-"
He didn't have a chance to finish his sentence. You had cut him off when your lips touched his.
It was a gentle, saccharine kiss, his supple lips meeting yours with adoring pressure and fast succession. His kiss was zealous, albeit pure--and clearly, he didn't mind it at all.
He was so absorbed into the kiss that, several moments later, both of your glasses clattered to the floor from his hands.
He dragged himself away, his visage frazzled and--to say it plainly, an absolute blushing mess.
"...Whoops," He chuckled, reluctantly bending down to scoop up both of your spectacles. He handed yours over, hands still shivering. "I--I believe these are yours." He said with an awkward grin as he shoved on his own glasses, brushing stray hairs out of his face.
You grappled your own glasses in your hands, an involuntary smile tugging at your lips.
"...(y/n)?" He asks.
"Yeah?"
"... thanks for listening to my stupid questions."
You step back up closer to him, his flustered expression a badge of his affection.
"It's my pleasure," You smile. "And, Horropedia?"
"...yes?"
"... would you like to take your glasses off again for a second?"
_________
I had a great time writing this, but just FYI that this is my first request anywhere! So definitely feel free to give me some feedback. Hope you enjoyed!!
#reverse 1999#reverse: 1999#r1999 horropedia#reverse 1999 horropedia#horropedia#horropedia reverse 1999#Reverse 1999 headcanons#Reverse: 1999 headcanons#horropedia x reader#Horropedia headcanons#reverse 1999 fluff#Reverse: 1999 Fluff#Reader self insert#birdbox🕊️
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谷 : works in progress !!
welcome to my page of upcoming works ! this will get updated regularly. taglist for these works are open at all time. do not steal any of these plots !
🎐 | SOUND OF SILENCE ₊ﾟ — long oneshot ; writing // est. 10k
🎐 | CHECKBOX ₊ﾟ — long oneshot ; planning // est. 10k
#miyu's wips#★⠀⠀🕊️. 、﹕ ◝ SOUND OF SILENCE ◜#( + game 👾 over + )#enhypen#enhypen imagines#enhypen reactions#enhypen scenarios#enhypen fanfiction#enhypen oneshots#enhypen fluff#enhypen headcanons#enhypen masterlist#seventeen masterlist#seventeen fluff#seventeen au#seventeen drabbles#seventeen#seventeen imagines
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~ We'll have each other ~
A little followup to the very depressing "happy ending" minicomic I posted back when
#undertale#ut#headcanon#oc#the six fallen humans#the six human souls#six human souls#fallen humans#justice#integrity#kindness#perseverance#patience#bravery#your happy ending is to rest in peace 🕊️
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michael, unfortunately, remembers everything in glaring detail.
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ciri can cast signs re:
in blood of elves the witchers of kaer morhen are fucking baffled when triss tells them that ciri is a source, because casting signs requires minimal power. you don't even have to be a mage; all you need is to minimally have some ability to tap into magic. and she couldn’t even hack that. she can’t cast signs, which require the minimum, and so it’s impossible that she could possibly be a magic source.
which, she’s more than that. she’s the child of the elder blood. it just took a bit for her to access her powers. and she’s even more powerful than sources like dragons or mages. she can jump through time and space. her power is immeasurable. so yes she can cast signs. it just took her a bit of time to learn them, which she did at last of her own volition. wild hunt writers are just cowards.
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amelia could have grown to be a natural leader had she not met zachary. in any universe where she falls under his influence amelia may be placed into a role of leadership; but time and indoctrination have whittled her into a follower (and in the worst case, a zealot). even after leaving the cult or ridding herself from zachary amelia will seek out people in positions of power for safety. she is an excellent orator, personable, genuine - all the trappings of someone who could be a leader; but she vastly prefers the 'safety' of being a follower - and will do so until (and if) she begins to clash with whoever she is following; which then defaults her back into following the letter of the law and societal morality.
#i speak the truth ta da.#something abt amelia not being able to break the cycle of trauma bc she does not have the resources to do so#or the support system to do it.#🕊️❝ sanctify them by truth: your word is truth ( headcanons. )#this is not a story abt reclaiming your power. this is a story about survival.
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Nikolai meows at stray cats and they meow back.
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I talk a lot about Gabriel, but not enough about Marie.
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ID: a set of 4 images in 2 pairs. each has one image of the listed project sekai character, with a white outline in front of their corresponding flags, and a second image which is a blank flag splice. END ID
Minori Hanasato from Project Sekai is an autistic hyperverbal pupcute idolcute girlfail lesbian lesboy who uses she/they/he/⭐️ pronouns! ⭐️ has seasonal affective disorder!
They are dating Haruka Kiritani, an autistic transmasc nonbinary bluegender idolcute bi lesboy who uses they/he and any penguin-themed neopronouns! 🐧 has depression, PTSD, and is (slowly) recovering from anorexia!
For 🕊️💊 anon!
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leon's handwriting is most easily described as smudged, but mostly legible, highly reminiscent of a scrawled warning jotted down haphazardly in a thriller movie setting, urging caution of whatever danger lies up ahead, ominously trailing off at the end and taking much too long to comfortably decipher.
leon's lettering is often narrow, as leon doesn't tend to move his wrist often when writing, preferring to move his entire hand instead, which can sometimes smear the ink. leon's wrists have become stiffer over time and prone to soreness, after years of absorbing impact from the kickback of various types of guns, this has led to leon and repetitive strain injury becoming very well acquainted. leon is also prone to trigger finger, where the repetitive squeeze-and-release of the gun trigger has led to inflammation around the joint, and can sometimes result in the trigger finger becoming locked in a bent position, and joint popping, which makes writing dexterously difficult. leon prefers to type up his reports using a laptop (or in his younger days working for the anti-umbrella pursuit and investigation team, typewriter) when he can, but while on the field & often in peril, keeping a journal record of events and experiences is done primarily in handwriting alone, as lugging around a laptop or typewriter would only slow him down.
despite leon's handwriting being hurriedly slanted, his letters often sit apart if only barely, shy of eachother, and when they do meet, his letters are often overlapping rather than being tied together. psychologically, if we want to read into it for no reason, that can reflect leon being noncommittal, emotionally unavailable in relationships and prone to one-night stands or relationships that burn out hot and fast, but realistically it's mostly because he's writing too fast to be bothered with even spacing. ink tends to bleed at the edge of each stroke, where leon's pen lingers for a half-second longer. leon's pressure and rigidity when writing is more so like carving the words into the paper, and ink saturation can often lead to the nib tearing holes, and quiet cursing accompanying from leon. you could probably read leon's writing clearly from the back of the paper, from how deeply his handwriting scores in. narrow lettering often means his sentencesarecrampedacrosseachline, and he doesn't hesitate to scrawl into the margins, taking advantage of every centimeter of paper he has access to - leon was excellent at keeping pace while taking detailed notes in the police academy.
* TAGGED BY : @blitzkriegers thank you! <3
* TAGGING : @ubcs, @wintersdecay, @sailento, @weepedwords (luis & pat - pat bc i think leon probably dictates to him when his hands cramp up at home) @valour-bound @valiantines @godstrain @sharp-teeth-and-wide-grins (milton, that rat bastard) @shesancti @wistrea @vulpesse @oathofpromises (ashley :3 ) @snipier @greenherb (i know ada's handwriting probably blows leon's out of the water for sure but i wanna see) @combineherbs (helena + jessica pls ^^)
#take leon's blood pressure while he's writing a report and watch the screen crack#» 🕊️ ﹕ to protect ， to serve ，‘til death do us part. (headcanon.) ❧#» 🕊️ ﹕ why can’t it be sudoku for once? (dash games.) ❧
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a bit obsessed with the idea of kusakabe dying as a form of sacrifice to specifically protect/save somebody else. it's consistent enough with the theme of the past generation achieving no meaningful feats against significant threats but it's also ironic enough that someone without a technique and who claims their philosophy is primarily self-sacrificial - although he tends to stay from his own ideals in critical moments, proving he's not only brave when necessary but he does have a sense of responsabilty and guilt - ultimately redeems themselves through death resulting in the achievement of something his colleagues have failed to do. not that i'm wishing for him to die, i hope he doesn't. but it would also make a clear-cut distinction between him and a character like mei mei, who narratively serves a very similar purpose (besides her being a foil to nanami). to have someone be awarded by their selfishness just for it to not be worth much within a world and system that runs and sustains itself due to the sorcerer's labour power, whose only means of subsistence is to sell themselves away. a class of people who is doomed no matter what path they choose to take, as long as they do not break free from their duties and as long as the system doesn't collapse. a death that could serve as a symbol of punishment towards solidarity and altruism but a win for revolution.
#okay gege came for me when i said i didn't like kusakabe and now i'm thinking so much about him and his purpose in the story#why would he go against his own ideal and what is his purpose besides introducing questions like 'is self sacrifice noble?' you know?#so that got me thinking about him dying or suffering a big loss and how that would consolidate his character in my eyes#unless his purpose is completely different and i'm just deeply misreading the situation#if his purpose is to simply highlight personal choices and free will vs his generation's dogma#then i suppose him dying could serve no purpose but i'm not finding that side of the coin very straightforward or totally compelling#but again i feel like i'm failing to read him so maybe it is skill issue#anyway obsessed with kusakabe today awkkajwkaj feeling personally attacked by this twisted chain of events#gege really came for my ass after i was vocal about my kusakabe hate (which i feel like is dead at this point rip 🕊️)#which by the way is so mean. god forbid a bisexual do anything 😔 why can't i be a hater man?#also don't take this post seriously it's more about my mediocre reading of his character and my headcanons/wishes than a theory#i'm not trying to imply he will die or that there is narrative purpose in that#just that it makes sense in my brain if that's the case and the plan gege has for his character#but also he's literally the info dumpster gege probably wouldn't kill him because who will explain things to us 😂#he's like our amateur narrator i bet that gives him total plot armour#ps. maybe this is just my zero braincells moment#i just hate that i don't get it like i want to understand why he exists#but i'm aware that maybe this is a me thing and maybe everyone else just get it#and that makes me feel like that meme#let me iiiinnnn#okay bye
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fallen michael making a deal w a demon for some semblance of her glory back. send tweet.
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as far as i am concerned there is one (1) ending to wild hunt & it’s that ciri becomes a witcher. i’m not saying that i do not understand the thought process behind ‘becoming empress of nilfgaard could yield the most obvious results if i want to get shit done’ but then …. idk, geralt has changed a lot of things by ‘chasing forgotten monsters around forgotten villages.’ also i refuse to believe ciri would actually seem to think that witcher’s work isn't accomplishing anything. otherwise i would still selectively explore situations where she becomes empress, but i don't like how cdpr executed it.
also i shall not impose, but every day i think about how ciri deserved to be the one to kill eredin herself after all of the trauma & fear he’d inflicted upon her. obviously wild hunt was effective as a game where you mainly play geralt, but it wasn’t a satisfactory narrative for ciri & her agency, especially after it was clear that eredin & his dearg ruadhri were pursuing her for some time. witcher: wild hunt takes place some time after the stories, as far as i understand. and so i understand that ciri has been pursued by eredin & his riders for quite a while. because of this, i think she deserved to have that last moment of vengeance.
anyway, ciri deserves to have not only finished her story but to have told even a fragment of it.
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