#{ ic } — the wolf rumbles.

[novaursa]

The Dragon and The Wolf

- Summary: Rhaenyra sends her daughter instead of her son to fly North. You.

- Paring: velayrion!reader/Cregan Stark

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is second born child of Rhaenyra, has silver hair and violet eyes and is a dragonrider. For more of my works visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mature 16+ (expect for rating to go higher in the next chapter)

- Word count: 3 681

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @21-princess

- A/N: I had this one stored away, but I've decided to post it on a request. Harwin Strong one is not yet finished, but will be posted in coming days. I'll see how both of these are received before posting more.

The wind whips across the snow-dusted fields, biting and cold, as you soar above on your dragon, Thraxata. The North stretches below like a vast, white ocean, with Winterfell looming ahead in the distance, its grey walls rising like ancient guardians against the winter sky. The sun hangs low on the horizon, casting a pale light that glimmers off the frost-coated land.

Thraxata’s dark scales gleam like polished obsidian, a stark contrast to the endless white beneath. Her massive wings carve through the air with graceful power, the membrane tinted in deep shades of violet and blue, like the twilight sky before night fully descends. She is known as the Midnight Fury in whispers—born of shadow and flame, a terror in the night skies. Her roar splits the silence, echoing across the fields, a sound both commanding and otherworldly.

From your perch on her back, you spot the waiting banners below: the direwolf of Stark, surrounded by lesser sigils of Northern houses. Lord Cregan Stark stands at their forefront, a tall figure clad in thick furs and armor, as still and stern as the land he rules. He expects a prince, no doubt, a son of Rhaenyra, a warrior with fire in his veins. But you are no prince.

You are Y/N Velaryon, the only daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen. Silver-haired like your mother, with eyes the color of amethyst flames, you are the embodiment of old Valyria—a sight that would capture any man’s breath, even in the frozen heart of the North. Unlike your brothers, there is no questioning the blood that runs in your veins. You carry both the fire of your ancestors and the steel of the sea, a daughter of dragon and salt.

Thraxata descends with a mighty sweep of her wings, stirring a storm of snow and ice as her talons dig into the frozen ground. Her head swivels as she growls low, a deep rumble that vibrates through your body, her violet eyes fixed on the assembled Northerners. You dismount with practiced grace, the long cloak of thick fur billowing behind you as your boots crunch into the snow.

The men whisper, their breath misting in the cold air, eyes wide with awe and trepidation. No prince, but something more—something wilder, something that belongs in tales and legends.

Cregan Stark steps forward, his eyes fixed on you. They are grey like the winter itself, hard and sharp, yet there is a glint of something else—curiosity, perhaps, or a flicker of admiration beneath the layers of duty. He dips his head in a respectful nod, though his eyes never leave yours.

"Princess," he greets you, his voice deep and resonant, like a wolf's growl beneath the snow. "Winterfell welcomes you. I had expected a prince, but the Queen has sent a dragon nonetheless."

Your lips curve into a small smile, cold as the winter air. "My brothers may be princes, but it is I who bears the fire and ice that binds our realms, Lord Stark. I trust you will remember the oaths sworn to my mother, and the duty you hold to the true Queen."

His eyes narrow slightly, though there is no hostility, merely calculation. "The North remembers its oaths, Princess. But oaths are easily sworn and easily forgotten when the fires of war draw near. I would hear your words and judge for myself where our loyalties lie."

Thraxata’s tail lashes behind you, sending a spray of snow into the air. You can sense her restlessness, her desire to protect you, to assert her dominance in this land where dragons are more myth than reality. But you place a gloved hand on her scaled flank, a silent command, and she stills, though her eyes remain fixed on Cregan.

"You speak with wisdom, my lord," you reply, your voice firm but laced with the authority of the blood you carry. "But the North has never bent to whispers or empty promises. My mother’s cause is just, her claim undeniable. The realm needs strength, and you know as well as I that only fire can bring the long night to its knees."

There’s a flicker of something—approval, perhaps—in Cregan’s gaze. He steps closer, his boots crunching in the snow, until you are but a breath away. The North has always been a place where respect is earned through strength and resolve, not titles or finery. In that moment, you realize that your mother’s choice was not a mistake; you were sent because here, in this land of cold and iron, you are seen not as a delicate princess, but as something fiercer.

"Then perhaps the Queen chose wisely in sending you," he murmurs, his voice low, for your ears alone. "The North respects strength, and it seems that is something you possess in abundance, Y/N Velaryon."

There is a tension between you, a silent acknowledgment of the game you both play. He is the Wolf of Winterfell, and you are the Dragon sent to bind him to your mother’s cause. But there is something else too—a flicker of intrigue, of something more personal beneath the formalities.

“I shall make my case before the gathered lords,” you say, breaking the charged silence. “And I trust that Winterfell will extend the hospitality due to a dragon and her rider.”

He gives a slight incline of his head, a gesture of respect between equals. “Winterfell is yours, Princess. And I look forward to seeing just how fierce the fire of a dragon truly burns.”

With that, he steps back, signaling to his men. The banners dip in a formal show of respect as you walk forward, the Northern lords parting to make way for you. Thraxata stays behind, watchful, a dark shadow against the snow.

As you enter the gates of Winterfell, you can feel the eyes of Cregan Stark on your back, heavy with unspoken questions, and perhaps—just perhaps—the first stirrings of something that could grow amidst the frost and flame.

The warmth of Winterfell’s great hall is a great contrast to the biting cold outside. The stone walls are thick and ancient, adorned with tapestries depicting wolves in the hunt and battles long past. A roaring fire burns in the hearth, casting flickering shadows that dance across the rough-hewn beams above. The scent of woodsmoke and roasted meat fills the air, mingling with the faint tang of iron and earth, as though even the stone itself remembers the blood spilled within these walls.

You stride forward with measured grace, your fur-lined cloak trailing behind you. Eyes turn your way as you pass, curious glances that are quickly averted once they meet your violet gaze. The courtiers and bannermen of Winterfell are not accustomed to your kind—a dragonrider with Valyrian blood, a figure more suited to the tales of Old Nan than to the cold North. They murmur among themselves, voices hushed but thick with speculation, wondering if you are as fierce as the stories of your mother suggest.

Lord Cregan walks beside you, his stride steady and sure, the embodiment of Northern strength and resolve. He leads you to the head of the hall, where a carved wooden chair sits, draped in furs—a seat of honor, meant for you. As you take your place, his voice rings out, commanding the attention of everyone present.

"The Princess Y/N Velaryon graces us with her presence. Her arrival is most fortunate, for it seems the North’s business does not wait. House Glover has brought a criminal before us—a man accused of grave crimes—and they demand justice. Perhaps," he says, his grey eyes locking onto yours, "it would be fitting for a dragon to pass judgment."

There’s no mistaking the challenge in his words. This is a test, one meant to gauge your strength, your understanding of Northern customs, and how you wield your authority. He watches you closely, waiting for your reaction, as do the assembled lords. You know this moment is pivotal; how you handle this situation will determine whether they see you as just another southern princess, or as something more—someone who can command both fire and frost.

You meet his gaze evenly, a faint smile playing on your lips. "It would be an honor to dispense justice in the North, Lord Stark. Show me this criminal and let us see what manner of man he is."

Cregan gives a slight nod, and with a gesture, the doors at the end of the hall creak open. The sound echoes through the chamber as two men of House Glover drag a prisoner forward, shoving him to his knees before you. He’s a ragged, weathered man with wild eyes and a face marked by scars. His clothes are filthy and torn, his hands bound with rough cord. There’s a stink about him—of sweat, fear, and desperation.

One of the Glovers steps forward, bowing briefly before addressing you and Cregan. "This man, Wyl Gray, is accused of murdering his kin and stealing from their holdings. He fled north to escape our justice, but we tracked him down and brought him here, as is our right."

The hall falls silent, all eyes on you now. The weight of their expectation is palpable. You rise slowly from your seat, descending the steps with a regal grace. Your voice is soft but carries through the room with the authority that only a dragonrider can wield.

"Wyl Gray," you say, your tone cold as the Northern winds, "you stand accused of betraying your own blood and committing theft in the lands sworn to House Glover. What have you to say in your defense?"

The man’s eyes dart around wildly, searching for some hope, some mercy, but finding none. He looks up at you, trembling slightly. "I did what I had to," he snarls, his voice hoarse. "My kin treated me worse than a dog, taking what was mine by right. I took back what they stole from me—nothing more!"

The hall murmurs in response to his words, some in anger, others in grudging acknowledgment. You can see the flickers of approval from a few of the assembled Northerners—they value strength, even when twisted by desperation. But you know better than to be swayed by the claims of a desperate man. His actions speak louder than his words.

You step closer, your gaze piercing. "You claim they took from you, yet you took their lives. Blood demands blood, Wyl Gray. In the North, justice is harsh and swift, but it is also fair. A man who cannot protect what is his without resorting to murder is a man unfit to live among honorable men."

Cregan watches you intently, his expression unreadable, but you can feel the shift in the room. The lords are weighing your words, assessing how well you understand their ways. It’s not enough to be just, you must be decisive—and you must show that you are not ruled by softness.

"You are guilty of murder and theft," you continue, your voice unwavering. "But the North does not deal in mercy for such crimes. You shall face the punishment decreed by the Old Ways. Justice shall be meted out by the one who passes the sentence."

A heavy silence falls over the hall. This is the moment—where the test truly lies. You could ask Cregan to deal with the criminal himself, and none would question it. But you understand what is truly being asked of you. The North respects those who do not flinch from difficult decisions, those who stand by their words with action.

You turn to Cregan. "Bring me the sword," you command.

There’s a ripple of surprise among the lords, but Cregan’s expression shifts, a hint of approval crossing his stern features. He gestures, and a massive sword, long and sharp, is placed into your hands. Its weight is heavy, but you hold it with ease, feeling the cold steel beneath your fingers.

You step before the kneeling man. His eyes widen in terror, realizing that you intend to carry out the sentence yourself. You look down at him, feeling no pity, only the cold resolve needed to see justice done. "In the name of House Glover, for the blood you have spilled and the dishonor you have brought upon yourself, I sentence you to death. May the gods judge your soul as they see fit."

With a swift, clean stroke, you bring the sword down, severing his head from his body. The hall is silent, save for the soft thud of the head hitting the stone floor and the hiss of blood soaking into the rushes.

You let out a breath, handing the sword back to a waiting Stark guard. The lords nod with approval, respect in their eyes. This is not a land for those who shy away from harsh truths or difficult choices. You have shown them that you understand the North’s ways—and that you are as much dragon as you are queen’s daughter.

Cregan steps forward, a slight smile touching his lips. "Well done, Princess. The North remembers strength, and today, you have proven yours."

There’s a weight to his words, a subtle acknowledgment that you’ve passed his test. The respect between you has grown, forged not only by fire and ice, but by a mutual understanding of what it takes to rule.

As the hall begins to stir with renewed conversation, you feel Cregan’s eyes linger on you a moment longer than necessary, something unspoken passing between you. It’s not just respect now—there’s a flicker of something deeper, something that might grow, given time.

But for now, you’ve earned your place among the wolves. And in doing so, you’ve taken the first step toward binding the North to your mother’s cause.

A little more than two weeks have passed since your arrival at Winterfell, and in that time, you have come to understand the North in ways few from the south ever do. The cold no longer bites as fiercely, the rough customs of the Northerners have become familiar, and even the solemn howls of the wolves at night are a comfort rather than a cause for concern. You’ve spent your days among Cregan’s people, riding alongside his bannermen, sitting in council with his advisors, and breaking bread with his warriors in the hall. You’ve proven yourself capable in all the ways that matter to them—skilled with both words and steel, a dragon in human form.

The Northern lords have come to trust you, their respect won by your ability to speak plainly and match them in courage. They see in you a reflection of their own values—honor, strength, and loyalty. Even Thraxata, the Midnight Fury, has found her lair in the craggy wilderness nearby, roosting among the jagged rocks as if she, too, feels at home in this stark and wild land. The villagers whisper tales of the black dragon seen circling the mountains, her shadow long across the snow, a fearsome guardian from the days of old.

Today, you ride out with Lord Cregan and his men on a hunt. The sky is a bleak grey, thick with the promise of snow, and the air carries the scent of pine and earth. The forest is dense, the trees tall and ancient, their branches heavy with frost. It’s a test, of sorts—Cregan’s way of seeing how well you handle yourself in their world, not just as a rider of dragons, but as a hunter and a leader.

You ride astride a hardy Northern stallion, its breath steaming in the cold air, and you match the men stride for stride as they navigate the rough terrain. Cregan rides beside you, his expression more open than it had been when you first met. Over these past weeks, a bond has formed between you—one built on mutual respect and a growing sense of trust. He speaks more freely now, and there’s a warmth in his tone that was absent when you first arrived.

When the hunt begins, you do not hesitate to join the chase. The hounds bay as they track the scent of a massive stag, and you ride hard, your cloak snapping behind you in the wind. You’re no stranger to riding, and you handle your steed with ease, navigating the twisting paths and snow-laden ground. When the time comes to strike, you draw your bow with practiced precision, letting the arrow fly. It finds its mark true, and the stag falls. The men around you roar with approval, slapping their shields and calling your name in praise. They respect a woman who can hunt as well as any man, and here, they see you as one of their own—a warrior, not just a princess.

As the hunt winds down, Cregan approaches you, his face flushed from the cold and the thrill of the chase. "You’ve more than earned your place among us, Y/N," he says, his voice gruff but warm. "Few could keep pace with Northern men in their own forests, let alone best them. I see now why the Queen sent you instead of a prince. You’ve shown strength and wisdom—two things the North values above all else."

You incline your head in acknowledgment. "I’ve come to admire the North and its people. But admiration is not the same as allegiance. I must ask, Lord Stark—will you now stand by my mother and send your armies south to fight in her name?"

Cregan’s expression shifts, a shadow crossing his eyes as he considers your question. He’s silent for a long moment, his gaze turning toward the distant horizon, where the land stretches into a vast, icy wilderness. "The North is not like the South," he says finally, his tone measured. "Our duty is first and foremost to our own. With winter coming, my responsibility is to the Wall and to the people who must survive the cold months ahead. I cannot, in good conscience, march thousands of men south when their families might starve without them."

You frown slightly, frustration creeping in. "So you’ll abandon my mother’s cause? You gave your word, Lord Stark."

Cregan’s eyes meet yours, unwavering. "I do not break my word, Princess. I swore to uphold my oaths, and I will. But sending armies south would be folly with winter approaching. However," he continues, his tone softening as he watches your reaction, "there are those in the North who would fight, even in the harshest winters. The Greybeards—elders, warriors who have lived long and seen much. When winter comes, many of them leave their homes, believing it is better to pass in battle than to linger and be a burden on their kin. They are few in number, but each is worth a dozen younger men in skill and experience. I will send them to your mother, to fight in her name. They may not be an army, but they are a force to be reckoned with."

It’s a compromise, one that you didn’t expect but cannot wholly dismiss. You nod slowly, understanding the practicality behind his words. "Your support, even in this way, will strengthen our position. I thank you for honoring your oath, Lord Stark."

Cregan remains silent for a moment, his expression thoughtful. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, more personal. "There is another matter I wish to discuss—a way to bind North and South even closer. You’ve proven yourself in the eyes of my people, and I have come to value your counsel and your strength. The North needs a Warden, but it also needs stability and unity. I am in need of a wife, Y/N."

His words catch you off guard. You had expected negotiations over troops and strategies, but not this. You study him closely, searching for any hint of jest, but there is none. His gaze is steady, earnest even, and the weight of his words is not lost on you.

"A marriage alliance," you murmur, more to yourself than to him. It’s a move that makes sense, politically and strategically. Your mother’s cause would be strengthened by such a bond, and Cregan’s position would be solidified, uniting the North under his leadership. But you know it’s more than just politics—there’s something personal in his offer, a recognition of the connection that has grown between you over these weeks.

Cregan inclines his head. "A marriage would do more than just bind our houses. It would be a show of unity between North and South, and it would ensure that whatever may come in this war, our strength remains undivided. You are a woman worthy of the North, and I would be honored to stand beside you as more than just allies."

You consider his words carefully, your mind weighing the implications. There’s a certain inevitability in the offer, a recognition that your paths have been converging since the moment you arrived at Winterfell. You could refuse, insist on keeping your independence, but you know that this is more than just a marriage proposal—it’s a partnership that could shape the course of the war and the future of the realm.

Finally, you meet his gaze, your voice clear and firm. "If this is the path we choose, Lord Stark, know that I will be as fierce in our union as I am in battle. The North will have a wife who is as much dragon as she is Velaryon. But I do not take such matters lightly—if we are to do this, it must be done with respect, trust, and understanding."

Cregan’s smile is genuine, his eyes gleaming with both respect and something warmer. "I would expect nothing less, Y/N. We’ll have much to discuss in the days to come, but I believe this could be the start of something greater than either of us alone."

The weight of his words lingers between you, and as you ride back toward Winterfell together, there’s an unspoken understanding—a shared resolve. You have won the respect of the North, secured their support, and now, perhaps, you are on the verge of something more—an alliance forged not just in duty, but in fire and ice, strength and trust.

[eilidh-eternal]

Good morning 🥰 Wolf-shifter!Price is a bad, bad man 🤭 | Part 1 | Masterlist |

18+ MDNI | This is a DARK FIC | cw: blood, drowning, predator and prey dynamics

Little fawn… You shouldn’t be out on that ice.

John lingers at the edge of the forest, halts his routine surveillance at the fringes of his territory, and watches as you fall, can hear the ice shudder and give way, can smell the panic and fear as you sink beneath the frozen surface.

Well. A frozen meal is better than no meal at all.

He peels back layers of winter garb as he approaches the waters edge, shucking them into the snow before he makes the plunge himself. 

You must have tried to fight it, the dead weight of your heavy clothing. Still so close to the surface when he reaches you. With kicking feet he takes you under the arms and hauls you back up, pushes you up onto the ice before hauling himself out behind you, and carries you off the treacherous lake. Sharp metal prods at his thigh with each step that jostles your skate-clad feet, and a growl of contempt rumbles in his chest when he feels the blade dig into his skin, thin rivulets of warm blood mixing with the water that drips from his body. They’re the first thing he removes from you, followed by the useless coat full of lake water and the monstrosity of a sweater beneath it.

Your left side blooms a tantalizing red, droplets staining the snow beneath you like Rorschach ink bleeds onto paper, and the sweet, metallic scent floods his senses. Calls to baser instincts. But then you begin to cough and hack, water gurgling between your darkened lips, and he can hear the faint thump of the cordiform muscle in your chest beating back to life. Pulsing with more of that sweet essence.

Not so frozen after all. Still time for a little fun.

He hopes you wake soon, that he won’t have to slink along in the shadows for hours before your scent paints the forest and leads him to you. Hopes that when you wake the panic and fear will smell just as decadent mingled with the adrenaline. Oh, how he’d like to linger here and watch that panic bloom on your pretty little face. Watch the confusion turn to shock, watch the whites of your eyes swallow the irises as you realize who—what—looms over you.

But he can’t. You won’t last out in this cold in your sopping clothes, and he won’t last in this form without his. So he leaves you with his coat draped over your body, the rest of his clothes nearby in the snow, and prowls into the sanctuary of pine and aspens that shield his fur from the wind blasted clearing you lie in. 

He prowls, and he waits.

It doesn’t take long. And you’re so, so smart, little fawn. So smart to make use of the clothing he’s left for you. So very clever to follow his footprints in the snow. To wrap your arms around your middle and keep your hands balled inside the oversized sleeves of his coat.

And your scent… Oh, he had not been expecting that. The way your sweetness has tangled itself with his own scent. The way the lingering musk from his clothes wraps around your delicate, honeyed sillage. Warm and syrupy, like the blood that splatters in the snow and paints a path through the trees.

So focused are you on pushing forward, on moving and staying warm, that you do not notice the shadow at your back when you trudge into their refuge, sighing long and heavy at the absence of the punishing wind nipping at your exposed skin. You huff and puff as you fight the deep drifts, already at a disadvantage and clumsy in shoes far too big for you, his footsteps clearing the way not making much if a difference in your exhausted, wounded state.. You can hardly walk, let alone run, and so he bides his time. Watches from a distance, from the cover of pine boughs heavy and drooping with snow, from the shadows cast by the rapidly setting sun.

The snow may glitter and glisten, might make pretty patterns on frosted leaves and look pillowy soft where it gathers in drifts at the bases of tree trunks, but it is deceptive and cruel under the light of the moon. And the dark brings forth a host of malevolent, savage creatures. Things like him. 

He’s doing you a kindness, really, watching over you as you tromp through the snow. Herding you closer and closer to his den. And don’t you just look delicious, smell absolutely divine, when all that fear and panic comes rushing back when you reach the end of his tracks. You’re so lucky that it’s him who pulled you from that lake, who’s been tracking you through this forest, and not some other, overeager beast that lacks composure and control.

No, he’s going to savor you. Going to take his time wearing you down. Get your adrenaline pumping, nice and warm for him when he finally brings you to his den. Then, and only then, will he taste you. Slake the thirst gnawing away inside of him, hollowing out his insides with the need to touch and taste and devour the sweet scent he’s been following for hours.

The snarl that rips from his throat is a primal thing, more animal than man, as he tastes your desperation, the spike of adrenaline when you finally realize you’ve been followed. His growl echoes in the silence that follows, beckons you to turn around, to let him see the fear as it unfolds across your features.

Let me see you, little one. Look at my teeth and claws and show me those pretty doe-eyes.

And god are you a fucking sight when you do, eyes wide with terror and shaking like a newborn on trembling legs. He knows you don’t shiver because of the cold, knows the decadent scent of dread and horror when it hits him, knows the instant you get that sinking feeling in your stomach when your eyes meet his and instead of doing what you should do, make yourself seem bigger, louder, you deflate. You curl in on yourself and don’t make a sound, hardly even breathe, until he pads forward, and you mirror his movement.

He steps forward, you step back. He steps to the left and you’re inching to the right. So easy for him, going exactly where he wants you to, doesn’t even have to snarl to get you to move in the right direction. 

What a precious little thing you are, and you have no idea what’s in store for you.

He wouldn’t say it’s a game of cat and mouse, you haven’t even taken your eyes off of him, refuse to turn your back to him. So he keeps edging closer, hedging your little bubble of ‘safety’ you’ve managed to maintain. But then you go the wrong way, stumble over a fallen tree buried beneath the snow and it sets you off course, so he has no choice but to correct you.

Another low growl vibrates through him and it amuses him when your steps falter, when you freeze in place and he circles to come at you from the other direction.

This way, little one.

He moves further into your bubble and you start moving again, in the right direction this time. And though he can still taste the fear rolling off of you, there’s something else buried beneath it, tangy and acidic on his tongue. You don’t exactly back away from him anymore, either, just shuffle along with frequent glances over your shoulder to make sure he hasn’t gotten too close. Getting too comfortable. He’ll have to teach you how poor that decision is, to turn your back on him.

But not today. Today, you will go to his den, and he’ll be teaching you a different sort of lesson once he gets that nasty gouge on your side sorted. It’s beginning to bleed through his coat, deep red blooming against dull khaki, and you’re stumbling over everything and nothing. So he hedges closer, practically nipping at your heels to spur you on, get you moving just a bit quicker, until finally the scent of smoke and pine sap wafts through the air, and you make a relieved sound when the cabin comes into view.

You don’t need his guidance anymore. You know you need the warmth of that fire, the shelter the cabin offers. And you’re desperate enough not to care who it belongs to. Desperate enough that when no one answers your calls and you find the door unlocked, you go right in, go straight to the hearth and huddle as close as you can to the flames. You really shouldn’t, but you lay down, curl into the insulation of the coat and let your eyes droop closed, despite the risk of hypothermia that falling asleep poses. But you must be tired. You’d drowned. Nearly gutted yourself falling through the ice. Waded through wind and snow with a wolf at your back to get here.

Of course you’re tired. Tired enough that you don’t hear John come inside, don’t stir as he moves about and tends to himself and the fire. Only make a soft whining sound when he finally lifts you from the floor to settle you on the couch and peel away the blood-crusted layers that cling to your skin. He makes quick work of the wound, cleaning the dried blood from your skin and soaking up the fresh outpouring with gauze as he pushes the needle and thread through your skin, too exhausted to register the additional pain. 

Fur lined blankets settle over you, cocooning you in warmth and shielding you from the lingering cold in the air. John watches you from his place on the adjacent armchair, feet kicked up on the old coffee table, and he hums knowingly when you burrow deeper into the blankets' warm refuge.

Rest now, little fawn. You’ll need all your strength when you wake.

©️Eilidh-Eternal.2024 ~ The intellectual property of Eilidh-Eternal is not permitted for reposting, transcription, translation or use with AI technologies.

[darkficlord69]

Cregan Stark x Targ!Reader

Warnings: smut, 18+, unprotected sex, 18+ language, death, character death, angst, sadness, not proofread

Cregan Stark was indubitably a wolf: ever since he sprang up from his mother's northern womb he had a savage attitude kept in place by his house's sterling reputation for personal integrity. But when his gaze locked onto yours, all semblance of restraint evaporated from his big muscled body like a snowflake slowly melting under the hot sun. When he met you, he felt like a starved animal ready to pounce, to hunt, to eat something so positively delicious that it would satisfy him to no end...

Despite having lived your whole pampered life on Dragonstone, under your mother's constant and loving supervision, you felt at home in the snow covered Winterfell. And when you descended from your mauve scaly beast with a wingspan bigger than the tallest watchtower in Deepwood Motte, you shivered although you were drowning in thick layers of fur and wool. That is, because you met Cregan. He looked at you with an intesity that was at odds with the iciness of the climate and you could do little but avert your gaze to avoid losing yourself in those stormy grey eyes that twinkled with desire.

"My lord, it is an honor," you curtsied clumsily due to your heavy attire but Cregan quickly put a hand on yours to help stabilize you and prevent you from falling face-first in the snow.

"The honor is all mine, my princess," he replied in a husky voice that almost brought tears to ths corners of your eyes. Whatever passed between you was a dangerous thing, hotter than fire, yet fickler than a shard of thin ice.

"I hope your journey was pleasant," he said.

"Oh, definitely, my lord of Winterfell. Now, I believe the politics and scheming can wait for the morrow, but riding Kocsaryon has made my belly rumble in hunger. A feast is in order, if it please you."

Cregan gave a curt nod and led you to the Main Hall, where a feast had already been laid out. The long wooden tables groaned under the weight of hearty soups for each heart, each dish more decadent than the last, the aromas mingling in the air like a seductive promise of indulgence.

At the center of the hall stood a massive boar, its skin crisp and golden, crackling with fat that had been painstakingly rendered over hours of slow roasting. It was stuffed with onions, apples, and a medley of herbs that filled the air with their heady scent. The juices ran clear as it was carved, pooling on the thick wooden platters beneath, where hunks of dark meat were passed around to eager hands.

Beside it, platters of venison, seasoned with juniper and garlic, had been seared to perfection, the meat tender and pink within, the crust dark and fragrant. Roasted root vegetables, earthy and sweet, nestled alongside them, their edges caramelized to a rich mahogany.

A serving girl approached Cregan to clear away a platter of untouched meat and your eyes darkened when her hair brushed against Stark's shoulder.

You stuffed yourself until your belly groaned and then you chanced a glance again at Cregan who was watching as you cleaned your fingers by putting them in your mouth and slowly sucking in a suggestive gesture that was meant as a provocative invitation. Lord Stark's eyes hardened with unmistakable lust and he rose abruptly, mumbling excuses to confused guests. He promptly grabbed your hand and led you outside.

"If you will follow me, my lady. I have something to show you."

By the time you left the warmth of the Great Keep, you were wholly intrigued by this escapade. Cregan knelt before the weirwood tree that seemed to weep blood as you joined him in prayer.

"So, are going to..." No sooner had you started to ask your question, than Cregan's lips were on yours, kissing you with a ferocious intensity that went beyond mere words. His expert tongue left a trail of saliva down the column of your neck, your jaw... He licked and sucked like a newborn wolf pup, but his groans were the howl of a fully grown member of the pack.

"Oh, gods!" you yelled, uncaring of who may hear.

He quickly disrobed you, your smallclothes thrown far, far away and then you were naked beneath his lord's piercing gaze, trembling with anticipation as heat pooled between your legs.

"Cregan, pleaaase!"

The night beneath the godswood was a symphony of passion and primal need. The ancient trees stood silent witness as you and Cregan came together, your bodies intertwining with an intensity that left you both breathless. The air was cold, biting even, but the heat in your lower stomach was enough to ward off the chill for a time.

He kissed you with a fervor that spoke of years of restraint finally unleashed. His hands, rough and calloused from a lifetime of wielding swords and axes, were surprisingly gentle as they roamed your body, tracing every curve and dip as if committing you to memory. You shivered beneath his touch, but it wasn't from the cold. It was from the raw power and the undeniable hunger in his eyes, the kind that made you feel like the only thing in the world that mattered.

As the night deepened, the cold crept closer, seeping into your bones. But you were too lost in him, too lost in the way he made you feel alive in a way you had never experienced before. You clung to him, seeking warmth and comfort in the strength of his embrace, in the heat of his body pressed against yours.

But the North was unforgiving. The warmth of passion was no match for the biting cold of the northern winter. Even as Cregan held you close, his hairy body shielding you from the worst of the elements, the chill began to seep into your skin, turning your breath to fog and your lips to ice.

Cregan sensed it before you did, the way your shivers became more violent, more uncontrollable. He pulled back, his brow furrowing in concern as he looked into your eyes, now glassy with the onset of hypothermia. His heart clenched painfully in his chest at the sight.

"You're freezing," he murmured, his voice rough with worry. He pulled you closer, trying to rub warmth back into your limbs, but it was too late. The cold had already taken hold, and no amount of heat from him could chase it away.

You tried to smile, tried to reassure him that you were fine, but the words caught in your throat, your lips too numb to form them. You could feel the warmth of life slipping away, could feel the darkness creeping in at the edges of your vision. But you didn't want to let go, not when you were here, in his arms, where you had always dreamed of being.

"Cregan..." you whispered, your voice barely more than a breath. "I'm sorry..."

His eyes widened in horror as he realized what was happening. "No," he growled, shaking his head. "No, don't you dare leave me."

But you were already slipping away, your body going limp in his arms. The last thing you felt was the warmth of his tears on your face, the last thing you heard was the desperate, broken sound of his voice calling your name, begging you to stay.

When the dawn broke, the godswood was silent, the snow around you undisturbed save for the imprint of Cregan's body beside yours. He held you tightly, even as the life had long since fled from your body, refusing to let go, refusing to accept that you were gone.

The godswood bore witness to many things over the centuries, but the sight of the Lord of Winterfell, the fearsome wolf of the North, cradling the lifeless body of the one he loved, was something that would linger in its memory forever.

For Cregan Stark, the godswood would never again be a place of peace, but a place of sorrow, a reminder of the warmth he had once held in his arms and the cold that had stolen it away.

Guyss, this is my first fic! 🫣 Please let me know what you think so that I can improve my work 🐺🌙💫 Thanks for reading! 💝

[moodymisty]

Heya Misty! Your blog has cheered me up so many times since I found it last year. Genuinely, thank you for everything you share with us. Its always a ton of fun here! If I'm not too late for requests, could I request some pred/prey smut with Leman? Wolfdaddy can always use more love :) and I hope the future has nothing but blessings in store for you xx

Author's note: BARK BARK

Relationships: Leman Russ/Fem!Reader

Warnings: NSFW, Predator/Prey play, Oral (female receiving), Very light breeding kink

The tree branches scratch at your skin through your clothes, boots trampling through the deep snow. It's up to your mid calves- considered a light amount of snow on Fenris. You can feel your own hot breath fan across your face as you run through it, stumbling through the woods with no sense of direction.

Russ had given you a few hour head start, with the implication that you wouldn't even last till nightfall. You hadn't disagreed with him, though there was a sudden blossoming of pride in you that wanted to prove him wrong.

But the sun is starting to set, the sky is turning purple and orange; That sense of pride is now replaced with fear, you have a feeling he's toying with you.

You keep hearing leaves rustling and branches breaking without a trace of why, but always from a particular direction.

You know he's toying with you.

For just a moment you dare to try to stop and catch your breath, feeling your heart beat against your ribs. Your body feels hot in your clothes despite the temperature, though taking them off would be suicide in this icy chill.

A terrifyingly loud crunch has you taking your hands off your knees and putting your head on a swivel like a rabbit, taking off again through the thick snow trying to make any sort of distance- before realizing that it isn't an option.

Through the last few trees you can see the edge of the cliff, dropping down hundreds of feet into nothingness. Your throat burns in pain, each heavy breath is like knives against it's dry flesh as you stare into the abyss.

Russ herded you here- he's trying to trap you and succeeding.

"I can smell you, little wolf."

The deep rumble of his voice echoes through the trees, and you don't bother to look around before running. The snot in your nose is frozen and you can feel snowflakes against your skin, the cloth of your clothing dragging in the snow.

"You want to get bred. Once I catch you, I will."

There's absolutely nowhere to hide out here- The only foliage is the trees and even if you had the strength to climb them, you would only trap yourself for him. The instinctual want to get higher is a thing you have to fight within yourself to keep moving.

Not that he would complain if you trapped yourself; You're sure he's being lackadaisical on purpose to draw this out, to try and simulate a hunt that would actually require some effort.

"You make such good prey,"

Russ' revert back to baser, wolf taught instincts has him overjoyed at the struggling of what to him is a small animal, one who's heart is about ready to explode.

"I wonder if you could ever last the night out here."

You suddenly stumble over in the snow, the cold ice stinging your palms like needles. Through the cloud of your own breath you try and get to your feet and keep moving along the edge of the cliff to somewhere else- anywhere else, but you end up just stumbling over again as your body begins to give in.

You feel the ground rumble beneath your hands and knees and instantly your heart begins to race, the prey instinct of being injured and exposed.

"I can smell you're bleeding,"

He says, emerging from between the trees. You quickly try and scamper to your feet, only to fall right over again into the snow. A scream catches in your throat as the thought of fleeing overtakes you.

Russ however simply laughs at the struggling of his prey and quickly moves in to snatch you up, tying you wrists together as you try to escape from him.

"Let us get this bounty back to the Great Hall then, shall we."

You scream as he throws you over his shoulder, gripping you by the thigh and trudging through the snow leagues easier than you could.

There's no motion you could possibly make to free yourself from him now, and your heart finally begins to slow down once your mind catches up with the fact that this play hunt is over.

It's terrifying how a change in context can turn him into an absolute horror; And you know he's only playing.

Despite it being so easy however Russ seemed to very well enjoy it, bursting back into the blooming warmth of the Great Hall boots thundering on the ground. He tracks in snow from his boots, it crumbling to dust all over the floor and making a mess of the rugs.

"Ahh, father!"

One of the wolves guarding the hall speaks up with a pep in his voice and a warm flush to his cheeks from the chill outside.

"You finally got your prize I see!"

Embarrassment blooms on your face in a sudden explosion when you realize that Russ apparently not only told his sons about this little game, but more likely bragged about what his prize was going to be.

Russ lets out a chuckle from deep within his chest you feel vibrate in your gut, nodding at his astartes.

"Tell Bjorn he's in charge until the morn, I won't be interrupted unless it is urgent."

The wolf nods back, and watches Russ leave in the direction of his bedchambers. You are able to watch the wolf as he departs, giving you a keen look before leaving himself to presumably tell Bjorn of his temporary duties.

The entire time Russ has quite the firm hold on your thighs and ass, taking the fruit of his hunt right to his den. Once he gets there you're thrown onto the massive bed covered in pelts with little fanfare, hands still tied.

For a moment, the way Russ looks down on you is with that same predatory stare you saw out in the woods, and your heart begins to pick up pace as he approaches and hefts his weight onto the bed.

"You're taking this far more seriously than I-!" He suddenly pushes you around on the massive bed, wrapping the fabric around your wrists to connect you to part of the headboard. "Than I expected!"

Russ gives you a large, fang filled smirk.

"What, do I seem the type to half ass things?"

He doesn't quite care about your response, only about the way you squeak when he grabs hold of your clothes and rips them off of you bit by bit, the fabric scattered about. The snow you had also tracked in on your clothes dusts around the bed, some of it getting on your bare skin and making a shiver run up your body.

Your breath comes out of your throat shaking and ragged as he presses his face to your lower stomach, laughing as he grips your thighs. You can feel him intake a good breath of air as his beard digs into your skin.

"You smell even better than usual- should do this more often."

You don't know how you feel about that; You're so tired from all the running that your muscles are screaming in pain; You don't think you have the strength to do much more than lie here and simply let him have his way with you. Not that he will complain about enjoying his prize in such a way.

His mouth drifts lower, large hands pushing your thighs apart and back. You let out a soft noise in your throat.

He then presses his face between your thighs, mouth covering your cunt. He listens to the way you suddenly squeal and kick your legs, hands still locked above your head. You writhe underneath him with no way to even grab something to ground yourself, your whines echoing in the massive, high ceiling room.

The course, rough hair of his beard scratches against the skin of your thighs and outer lips, surely leaving you with hot, scuffed skin that will burn for days after. Russ finds it amusing, and will sometimes after he's done and sees the raw flesh will lick and kiss at it- listening to you try and whimper at him to stop.

You feel the deep groan he lets out rumble against your core, tongue brushing over your clit. Your thighs are tight trying to close around his head but he doesn't let them, pressing them back and far apart. He closes his lips around your clit and sucks listening to you squeal and writhe underneath him, before pulling away and laughing at the way your hips try to follow.

He drags his jaw against your leg scratching the soft skin with his beard. He can't resist giving it a quick bite also, leaving dents in the soft fat at the apex of your inner thigh.

He returns his mouth to your cunt and continues, feeling his sharp fangs occasionally catch at your skin. He may never be the most coordinated, but he makes up for it with an enthusiasm that has tears in the corners of your eyes; Spit mixing with the juices that leak from you neverending.

"R-Russ,"

Your stomach tenses almost painfully as he continues to lap at you, one hand leaving it's grip on your thighs to slip a finger past your entrance. You gasp and tighten around him, feeling the way his thick digit slips deep inside of you. It feels like he's trying to push up through your lower stomach with how deep his is, brushing deep towards your cervix.

Your one thigh pressing against his head now free, he slips a second finger inside of you and listens to you keen and writhe at the stretch. He chuckles, tongue dancing over your folds and overwhelming you until your stomach feels like it hurts so much it's going to explode; Clit throbbing underneath his tongue.

Your throat is raw from running for so long in the cold but this only makes it worse, letting out a ragged, shaking dry moan as you body goes limp and you cum on his fingers.

He continues for just a bit longer feeling the way you whimper at the overstimulation, milking every last bit out of you until there's nothing left.

Left panting and totally limp you feel his fingers leave your cunt, grimacing at the way they stretch you wider as they pull out. His mouth leaves and he wipes your juices, though it mostly smears them over his beard then actually cleaning himself.

Out of breath and limp you look up at him with wide eyes, watching as he starts to undress himself.

"Can you untie me first?"

You plead to him, watching as he undoes the top half of his clothes. You see his lower stomach, the trail of hair that leads down below his waistline and beneath his trousers.

"No. I quite like when my prey is tied up."

[last-herondale]

“Wintered”

Jacob Black x Fem-reader

Soulmates

Fluff, slight NSFW, mostly fluff 😊

A/N: This is similar to my previous Jacob x reader post. My head cannon is where the reader is part of the pack and imprints on Jacob, but he doesn’t immediately imprint on her back. Anyway, this scene takes place before the confrontation with the Voltori in BD pt 2. Jacob has finally imprinted on Y/N after you have a near death experience. (I refuse to accept the storyline of Jacob imprinting on Ratatouille 🤢) and the two of you station yourself out in the clearing to scout the area before the rest of the Cullens and wolves arrive. A blizzard comes in and forces the two of you to make camp within the woods. This allows for some fluffy conversations to occur. 😉

Might make a NSFW scene as a part 2 to this story. 🤷🏻‍♀️ Jacob Black has my heart so expect one 😉

Edit: I did make part 2 😬 here’s a link. Okay byeee

Part 2

Enjoy 🤘🏼

You had been careful. Maybe too careful these past few weeks after the birth of Bella’s daughter. It had been a chaotic period of your life. You had chosen to break apart from the pack in order to follow Jacob. Your new Alpha. Your imprint. Your soulmate. Even from the beginning it was never really a choice, but still, you were proud of his decision to leave.

He was fighting to save Bella, as he always did. And even though it broke your heart to see the man you loved more than anything in the world fight so hard for someone who would never love him like he deserved, you stood by his side through it all. Even when the fight became deadly.

It had been a risky plan. But the Cullens needed to feed. Distract the pack. Protect the Cullens. That was the plan that fateful night. But it turned sour real quick. Bella had gone into labor, and Sam’s pack had launched an attack on the remaining Cullens. Paul had the small vampire, Alice, in between his giant wolf mouth. She had been weak and hungry, and even her immortal strength began to give way. You couldn’t let her die. Despite knowing Paul’s size and strength over powered you every time you trained with the pack, you didn’t care.

You had launched yourself at Paul, your claws and teeth slashing at his neck, forcing him to release Alice, allowing her to escape. Paul was enraged with you then. You could feel the rumble of his growl deep in his chest as he set his sights on you and pounced.

“Y/N!” Jacob’s voice called, snapping you out of the memory.

The wind was whipping all around you. Flurries of snow bit at your face and clung in your hair. The sun was beginning to set and the landscape was quickly turning dark. Jacob came up from behind you, his bare chest unfazed by the chill weather. You stood unbothered as well, the warmth of your wolf blood fought against the cold, especially after shifting. You turned to look at him, and as always your chest tugged at you to close the space between you. But you fought yourself and stood your ground.

“The weather is getting worse,” he nearly had to yell over the wind. You nodded. Alice had said this would happen. A winter vortex would come in and blanket the clearing with snow and ice. Then, after the sun returned, the Volturi would arrive.

“Should we head back?” You asked. It would take no time at all to head back to the Cullen house, but Edward had wanted eyes on the clearing to make sure there were no surprises.

Jacob shook his head and pulled over the backpack he had been carrying. “This storm shouldn’t last too long. Alice said it would be over by tomorrow morning.” He looked at you with a strange sparkle in his eyes. “I brought us a tent,” he continued, “I mean only- if you want to.” You arched your brow at him in amusement. You had never seen him trip over his words before, and lately he seemed to be doing that a lot around you.

“Yeah, okay. Let’s find somewhere out of this wind.” You reply.

The two of you found a nice spot within the trees, up against a large rock that blocked out a great deal of wind. You helped him set up the tent between the trees and found yourself glad to take refuge within. Jacob was close behind you, taking great care to zip up the tent, securing the two of you inside.

You sat across from him in silence for a moment. There seemed to be an electric charge buzzing between the two of you. It sent a strange sensation down your spine when you noticed how he looked at you. His lips parted slightly, as if he was going to speak, but to break the tension you finally reached over and yanked his pack away.

“What else are you hiding in here?” You teased.

Amusement warmed his face. He leaned back and crossed his arms and you searched his pack. “Oh you know, stakes, cloves of garlic, usual leech killing gear.”

You snorted. “Oh that’s what that smell was? The whole run over here I thought it was your breath.”

Jacob let out a laugh, a real genuine laugh. It had been a while, it had been months, since you heard that laugh of his. It warmed your heart to hear his laugh again. You pulled out the contents of his backpack, and found that he had packed the two of you an extra set of clothes, in case transforming caused any wardrobe issues. There was a handmade quilt that you pulled out and set aside. And a few granola bars and a few waters.

You tossed him a bar and a bottle and let yourself stretch out across the tent as you ate. The two of you chatted mindlessly a bit as you tried to ignore the growing tension that seemed to build within the tent. It was as if you could reach out and touch the electric waves that buzzed between you. Finally, you let yourself stretch out on the tent floor, using the quilt as a pillow. Jacob hesitated a moment before joining you on the floor, your bodies inches apart from each other as the wind picked up outside of the tent.

You turned on your side to face him, and were shocked to find him already facing you. His eyes seemed deep in thought as they scanned your face. You felt your face redden slightly at the intensity of his gaze.

“Jake?” You ask softly. His eyes snapped up to look at yours. “Hmm” was all he answered. You couldn’t help but smile at him. “Are you okay?” You ask with a small chuckle, “You’ve been acting—different ever since Ness was born.” At that Jacob’s smile wavered a bit but his eyes kept roaming your face.

“I’ve just been thinking,” he murmured, “ a lot of things have changed since then. It’s an— adjustment.” You expected that in some capacity. You were prepared to help Jacob once Bella became a vampire, to help distract him from the pain of that, but it never came. He seemed to almost welcome Bella into her immortal life, taking satisfaction in the fact of her still being alive in some capacity anyway. It had shocked you how— calm he was about it all.

“Does it hurt being around her?” You nearly whispered. Normally would wouldn’t have dared asked such a question, but his silence these past few weeks had been maddening. Confusion swept Jacob’s face for a moment before he realized what you meant. And then he chuckled.

“Around Bella? No. Not anymore. That’s— not the change I meant, although it has been an adjustment getting used to her new life. But that isn’t what I meant. ” He said. You scrunched you brows at him in confusion and then abruptly sat up. Jacob propped himself up on one arm to meet your gaze, his eyes searching your face to see what he had done.

“Then what do you mean, Jacob? Why else have you been acting so weird lately?” Anger tipped on your words, but you found yourself unable to restrain your emotions. Jacob waited for you to continue, his lips pressed together as if he was holding back.

“For weeks now you’ve been so calm, so careful… I thought you would be upset or angry or something! Leah and Seth won’t tell me anything, but I know they know something. Even Edward seems to know what it is but for some reason you refuse to tell me? Jacob, you’ve just been so quiet around me lately and I can’t understand why. What changed? Did I do something to you?” At the last question you felt tears fall down your eyes.

Without hesitation, Jacob’s hand we on either side of your face, wiping the tears from your cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he choked out, “I was afraid that if I admitted the truth— that if I told you—“

“Told me what, Jacob?” You pleaded. You grabbed his hands that held your face.

“I—“ he struggled to say, “I imprinted.”

Suddenly you were back in that moment. You felt Paul’s teeth clamp down on your neck, the sharp crunching pain of his canines crunching down on bone. That pain was excruciating. But even then, the pain and shock allowed you to pass out from it. Death was a numbing relief to the pain, or so you imagined. But this pain had no relief. You dropped your hands from Jacob’s and felt your heart collapse.

“On who?” Your voice cracked. “When did you—?”

Jacob froze at your reaction. You could no longer hide the pain that radiated from your chest. You felt as if you might vomit. Would it be better to know? Who she was, how he now felt for her? His world now revolved around her. How would you survive?

“I need to leave,” you choke out. You tried to fumble with the zipper but Jacob’s strong hands gripped you and pulled you away.

“Y/N, please,” he voice was oddly strained, “let me explain—“

“I cant!” You cried, “i can’t do this anymore Jacob! I can’t keep pretending that everything is okay, when my heart is breaking! I can’t keep pretending that I don’t love you. That you are everything to me, my purpose, my entire existence! Please, let me go!”

The words you promised to never say were out. Your body heaved in violent sobs as the weight of your soul poured out before him. You expected him to release you. To be horrified by what you just said. But instead you felt him move closer, the space between you disappeared as he wrapped his large arms around you tightly and securely.

“Oh Y/N,” he murmured against your hair, “oh sweetheart, my love, my everything, no, no, no, no.” You stilled under him, his words piercing your body with every syllable. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Why didn’t you tell me you imprinted?”

You pushed yourself away from him far enough to look into his eyes. You searched his wildly waiting for him to explain. He ran a hand through your hair, pushing it away from your face. “That night, when Paul nearly killed you—“ his voice cracked at the memory, “ I thought I would lose you. Something snapped in me that night, something deep and primal in my blood. Suddenly, you were the only pull I felt. Everything in my heart, body, and soul was fighting for you.”

You weren’t sure if you were breathing then. Tears fell down your face as Jacob continued. “I knew it was the imprint, I felt it deep within my bones. When you finally woke up, I waited to see if maybe the bond had snapped into place for you too… but nothing had seemed to change for you. I wasn’t sure how to tell you— so I waited and kept my distance. I didn’t want to force this on you, or scare you away. But I never thought…” he trailed off. His thumb traced down the side of your face, stopping at the edge of your bottom lip.

“How long have you known?” He asked.

“I’ve always known,” you whispered.

And with those words alone, any restraint, and uncertainty Jacob had had vanished. In an instant his hand cupped the back of your neck as he pulled you closer and kissed you. The contact of him made stars dance in your vision, but immediately you found yourself melting against him. You threw your arms around his neck and anchored yourself to him. He growled against your mouth in reaction, and deepened the kiss.

His tongue explored your mouth, intoxicating your senses with the taste of him. Your fingers knotted up in his hair, and you pulled his head closer to yours, needing more of him in your reach. He reacted to your touch, a soft groan escaping his lips as he nipped your bottom lip. His free hand wrapped around your waist and pulled you closer. You gave out a small yelp in surprise and you couldn’t help but giggle.

Jacob moved his lips from your mouth to trace the line of your jaw, peppering you with kisses as he made his way down your neck. “Whats so funny?” He murmured against the nape of your neck. You tilted your head back to give him easier access, the warmth of his lips were inviting. “You have no idea—“ you said breathlessly, “how long I’ve wanted you to kiss me.”

You felt him smile against your neck, his teeth grazing you as he pulled away slowly. He looked at you, desire burning in his dark eyes, his face oddly flushed with red and warmth. “I’m sorry for not realizing sooner. I’m sorry I’ve kept you waiting. All this time,” he said, both of his arms slipped around you, pulling you as close to him as possible, “I thought it was friendship that made our relationship so strong.” He said the word as a curse. As if he realized now that what the two of you had was more than that. More than any word used to describe this feeling.

“I thought it was a different kind of love you felt for me,” he admitted, “I never imagined it was— this.” You slid one hand down from his neck and traced the line of his jaw. Gentle touches you had always restrained yourself from. He leaned into you, shivering at each touch. A smile spread across your face as you held your heart in your hands. All of the heartache these past few years had suddenly vanished from your mind. None of it mattered. Not anymore. “I suppose you have time to make up for then,” you challenged.

Jacob’s eyes bore into you, waiting for you to make the next move. He would bend to you, only you. Your thumb traced the outline of his lips. Two words. One command of him. The one thing you had sought after since you met him. A whisper within the wind.

“Kiss me.”

[yiiyiiwrites]

Taming the Bastard | part two

Warnings: [18+] swearing, unprotected sex (My second attempt at smut) Mischievous Cassian.

Summary: you’ve been biding your time, waiting for your mate to slip up and give him a taste of his own medicine. 2872words

Part one: Taming the wolf & [Winter warrior masterlist] (part of a collection of winter warrior x Cassian. Can be read on its own though).

You’d silently been biding your time ever since you’d returned from the Winter court. Using Cassian’s own three strike system to grab your revenge.

If he thought he could tame the wolf, then you’d tame the bastard.

Ritas was packed that night, the heat of bodies pressed together on the dance floor. You’d been smart though, scaling back on drinking so that you could catch Cassian in the act.

It didn’t take much for either of you to get jealous, sometimes you even made a game out of it. How far you could push flirting with others in order to get a reaction. Cassian normally folded first, but when you saw his hands on Mor’s hips and her back arching towards him, you saw red.

Red, blinding rage that even your wolf wouldn’t come to the surface. You swished your wine in your glass, gaze trailing his lips as he whispered something in Mor’s ear and the way a smile blossomed on her face.

Mor was always beautiful, all three guys in the inner circle frequently mentioned it. Hell, even you were entranced watching her. You felt the crunch between your fingers, the trickle of cold rolling down your palm. The glass in your hand nothing but glittering shards in your clenched fist.

The body sitting next to you leant over, muscular shoulder brushing against yours. “I take it you’ll want the house of wind to yourselves tonight,” Azriel said with a smirk, chuckle rumbling from his chest.

Your heart skipped a beat, wondering if he was talking about the three of you. The high fae that was still lapping up your mates attention. Cassian’s gaze snapped up to you, brows furrowed as the crowd parted for him.

His leather and pine scent invaded your senses, for a second you closed your eyes and savoured the familiar comfort he gave you through the bond.

Mor’s velvety smooth voice tore you away from the warmth of your mate and returned your veins to ice. She and Cassian stepped back as you opened your eyes. A smirk on both of their faces, as if the bastards had planned the whole thing.

Bastards. You rose from the table and without another word, you stormed out of Rita’s. His footsteps echoed behind you, name singing in the wind. His hand circled your wrist and pulled you back against his chest.

“Do not touch me,” you snarled, shoving him back. Gods you were losing your hold on the situation.

“How are we to get home, if I cannot touch you, my love,” he said, voice so soft and gentle you wanted to melt into his embrace. You knew the bastard would have a devastating grin, the one with dimples that took your breath away.

No, you wouldn’t look. You stretched your hand behind you and offered him a lifeline. If you were to keep to your plan, you’d have to keep looking at him to a minimum. You blamed it on the mating bond, not the fact that he was a damned good looking male.

Cassian lifted you into his arms, nose nuzzling the side of your neck. Your arms clamped around his shoulders as he took flight, wings snapping briefly as you freefell on the house of winds balcony.

You retreated from his touch, but he mirrored your movements, chasing the tethered bond and trying to hold your hand in his. “No touching,” you said, dodging his third attempt to capture you.

His wings dropped, frown line setting in between his brows. You could smell the underlying hint of arousal though swimming back and forth as he followed you into your shared room.

“Take a seat, my love,” you said, arms crossed as you watched the house drop a spark into the hearth, flames licking the logs with a crack.

You paced the strip of space between the fireplace and Cassian’s seat, body swaying as he tried to reach for you again. So needy your mate, a smile tugged the corner of your lips.

“I saw you with Mor,” you said, unbuckling his belt and slipping it out of the belt loops of his dress pants. He nudged his nose to the side of your cheek, but you jabbed your finger on his forehead pushing him back.

“I was counting on it.” That wicked, playful grin dancing on his face. His calloused hands edged up the hem of your vest, the same way he touched Mor.

You swatted his hands away. “How many times, do I have to say no touching,” you snapped, grabbing his chin and tilting his head up to meet your gaze.

A flicker of doubt shone in his watery gaze, he scanned your face and glanced to your hand. “Wolf or warrior?” He rarely witnessed the wolf, you only offered a glimmer of your spirit in small doses. Part of you wondering if he pushed you in order to see more of the wolf.

“Warrior, my love. You won’t get away with it that easily.” You couldn’t help but laugh, a shiver running through his body, you felt it shake through your grip on his chin.

He nodded though, as if saying he was ready and willing to delve deeper into whatever unfolded. The silent consent, a look shared between mates. Your chest tightened as the tether twisted and tugged you closer to him.

You leant in to him, lips against the shell of his ear. “Shall I show you how the winter court tames a beast?” You whispered, wrapping your legs around him and dangling them through the gap in the side of the chair.

Cassian shifted beneath you, bulge rocking into your clothed cunt. The skirt you wore riding up your thighs and giving him a view of the silk panties underneath. A groan slipped past his lips and he tilted his head back.

Too predictable your mate. Too distracted from your wandering hands trailing down his forearms and wrapping the belt around his wrists behind him. His head jerked up and his forehead crashed into yours, he tried to move his arms to catch you, but he stilled as he realised he couldn’t.

“No touching, sorry,” he said, leaning back in the chair and widening his legs so that you nearly fell through the gap to the floor. His biceps flexed as if mocking you, a challenge and a slight hint of amusement dancing in his hazel eyes. You twisted your hand in his hair, keeping yourself in his lap.

You reached behind him once again, tracing the leather binding his wrists together. The ice running through your veins, spread from your fingertips. He shivered as the frost crept up the belt and sunk into his flesh, good luck breaking out of that.

“How does the winter court tame a beast?”

You hesitated under his curious gaze, unsure whether you wanted to reveal too much of something used to keep you in your place. Tonight you’d use it in a way to play, not tear him down or force him to submit against something natural as sharing a spirit.

“They deny you freedom, no decisions or actions. You’re just bound to the iron,” you said, pulling yourself off his lap to stand in front of him. You sighed as he frowned at you. “Don’t give me that look, my love. You can always say the word.” The one word you both rarely spoke, but you’d always stop if he used it.

He wasn’t worried for himself though, he was aching for you and the heavy hands you’d been dealt in winter. You didn’t need to think of that now, you wanted to add new meaning to this type of binding.

“So I can’t touch you?”

You shook your head, shimmying out of the mini skirt and kicking it to the side.

“No nuzzling or kissing either?” His voice strained and chest heaving with a shuddering breath. You shook your head again.

“Just sit there,” you snapped, playing with the hem of your vest. Fingers tracing your stomach underneath the fabric, your gaze following Cassian’s that trailed after the shift of material hiding your touch. “Why Mor? You could have just asked.” You couldn’t help, but ask.

You don’t know what cause made him choose Mor. The past week you’d been holding onto your rage, feeding the wolf and navigating Velaris like you were hunting. Why would he want you to snap? You didn’t even know what he’d needed to ask you.

Cassian scoffed, he shifted in the chair and tried to blow a strand of hair away from his eyes. “You’ve been pissed off all week. Mor is a sure fire way to get you to snap. Just wanted you to get out your frustrations. Take it out on me baby.” A smirk tugged the corner of his lips, you wasn’t sure if you wanted to kiss him or slap the look off his face.

Ah, you’d been too engrossed internally that you hadn’t realised you’d been closed off from everyone around you.

“So you thought you’d make me decide what you want?” You raised your brow, head tilting as Cassian fidgeted in the seat. “Well now you’re going to know exactly how it feels to be told what I want you to do tonight.” You leant forwards, hands wrapping around the armrests either side of him and caging him in.

“No, no,” he blurted out, shaking his head. “You’ve been holding back, just wanted you to let loose.”

“Well maybe if you’re a good boy I’ll let you loose.” You circled him, stopping behind him. His wings twitched, head whipping over his shoulder, but you grasped a handful of his hair and repositioned his head to face the fireplace in front of him.

The way you’d bound his wrists, pulled his shoulder blades closer. The back of his muscles more prominent and his wings twitching as your finger hovered ever so close to them.

Cassian’s breathes deepened, controlled that you knew his eyes would be clamped shut and his teeth sinking into the bottom of his lip. On his bicep your teeth marks were a faint scar, sometimes you could still taste his blood swimming on your canines.

You traced the thin membrane of his wing, Cassian biting back a groan and shifting in his seat to hide the flinch. No matter how many times he’d let you roam his wings, they were always so sensitive that he was never ready for you. A thin layer of ice is left in the wake of your touch, he shivered and it fell like snow to the floor.

He could have easily stood up and walked way, melting the ice by the fire, but he stayed. He knew that you needed this release, just like you'd allowed him, last time in the Winter court.

“Must be torture my love? Not being able to touch,” you said, leaning over his shoulders you dragged your nails down his torso. You nipped his ear, humming as his hips bucked to meet your hands diving into the waist band of his pants.

Cassian's chest shuddered, your cold fingers wrapped around his dick and pulled it out. He grunted as you stroked his shaft, hips jerking again.

You removed your hand and slapped his thigh. “Gods, please,” he whined, throwing his head back and staring at the ceiling.

“Tortures more Azriel’s domain,” you said tapping your chin, his head moved so fast you were surprised it didn’t snap at the mention of his friend. “Maybe he could teach me a thing or two. Would you like that?”

“Do not. Never,” Cassian snarled, he wasn’t very good at sharing. The rest of his sentence fell away as your hand wrapped around his cock, you knelt before him and positioned yourself between his legs.

“No, you wouldn’t like to see his shadows upon my skin?” You brushed your thumb over his tip, hand gliding up and down his shaft. “I wonder if they are as cool as my touch?” You hummed increasing your pace.

Cassian shook his head and clamped his eyes shut. His thighs quivered and he pressed his back into the chair trying to catch his ragged breaths. You slowed down allowing for him to collect himself, just as his breath evened out you increased it once again.

“Fuck, I’m,” he panted, staring down at you. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead and his wings flexed, thighs closing in trapping you.

“Say please,” you teased, your hand still wrapped around his dick and your elbow digging into his thigh to give you more room.

“Please,” he moaned, whining as your hand slipped away from him.

“No.”

You ripped his shirt open, the muscles of his stomach tightening. The black swirls decorating his chest shifted with his trembling breaths. Wisps of hair stuck to his forward, you brushed them back and kissed his forehead. He tried to chase your movements, tongue swiping his bottom lip. You shook your head, pushing his face away.

“Not too bad, bastard. Keep it up and maybe you’ll get to come,” you whispered into his ear, hand fisting his hair as you straddled his lap.

Cassian whimpered at your clothed cunt grinding against his cock, teeth sinking into his bottom lip. His head dropped back and you wrapped your hand around the column of his throat.

“Take it out on you, yeah baby?” You asked repeating his words back to him. You pushed your underwear to the side and lowered yourself down on his dick.

You hummed, circling your hips and getting used to his cock twitching inside of you. Cassian was a murmuring mess, you couldn’t quite make out what he was saying to you.

Cassian bucked his hips, a yelp slipping from your lips. “Just move already,” he said fidgeting beneath you.

Clicking your tongue, you lifted off of him and stood back up. Cassian groaning as the cold replaced your warmth.

“Such a bad boy.” Your palms pushed the hem of your vest up and you pulled it over your head. You palmed your breasts, pinching your nipples, Cassian's heavy gaze focussed on your movements.

“You should do this more often.” A smile tugged his lips, dimples carving out their dots either side oh his mouth. You couldn’t help, but mirror his smile and match his breathy laughter.

You tilted your head to the side, hand trailing down to the dip under your panties.

“I thought I was making the decisions tonight?” You raised a brow, hand resting on his shoulder as you straddled him again. He lifted his hips to meet your cunt, grinning up at you. “Oh you’re definitely not cumming tonight.”

“Baby I only agreed to tonight, as soon as it hits midnight it’s fair game,” he said, glancing to the clock on the mantle piece.

Shit, you should have chosen your words more wisely. The bastard always paying attention to every little detail you said.

You fucked him, fast and rushed, slowing down to punish him when you could feel his cock twitching inside you.

The clock ticked behind you, a reminder that whatever you dished out tonight would be returned in the morning. You took your time, savouring the sensual and slow way his cock slid in and out of you. All under your control.

Cassian’s back slid down the chair giving you a chance to take him deeper now that you had more space to move. His hazel eyes locked on yours, never breaking and the muscles in his arms flexed, you knew he wanted to hold you.

The thought alone of his fingers tracing your stomach or circling your clit, had you increasing the pace. You pressed your lips to his, you pulled away gasping for breath. A string of your mixed saliva tethering you together, you didn’t bother telling him off for his lips crashing into yours again. You needed it as much as he did.

“Fuck I’m gonna…” Cassian mumbled, you grabbed his chin and leant back. “I mean can cum,” he whined, brows furrowed as you rocked back and forth in his lap. His eyes shut and his head lulled back, tongue swiping his bottom lip.

“Please,” he whispered, a desperate plea.

“No,” you said smiling down at him as you lifted off of him. “You weren’t a good boy.” You pecked his check and scrambled off his lap. You glanced at the clock, then back at your mate.

A silent challenge. Thirty three minutes till midnight. You grabbed one of his T-shirts and pulled it on.

Cassian's deep laugh sent a shiver down your spine. “Oh baby, just you wait till that clock strikes,” his hoarse voice stopping you in the doorway. “I’ll sit here all night and when it’s morning, then we’ll see who won’t be cumming.”

You wondered how many strikes it’d take. Those three strikes looked like something you’d both be using.

You didn’t put it past your mate to wait it out, he’d use that thirty three minutes to think of all the ways to ruin you and you’d gladly welcome it.

So you walked out of the room leaving your mate to stare to at the clock. Tick tock.

Hope you liked the second part :) thank you for reading, commenting and interacting.

[aurumacadicus]

23 for the ficlet

Came back wrong werewolf Steve <3

--

The last thing that Howard ever said to him was 'I'm sorry.' Or at least, that was the last thing Steve had understood.

The transformation hadn't been finished, apparently. Steve's body hadn't finished changing until he'd been in stasis under ice water. The lupine serum had taken deeper hold as he'd floated, unconscious, until he was found and thawed and more wolf than man. Peggy couldn't even look at him. That was when Howard admitted he should have left him in the ocean.

Steve didn't remember much after that. He suspected the rage and confusion in him was too much. He'd attacked. He'd tried to rend. He'd gotten his claws in Howard's leg. Peggy had shot him, and her husband had used Steve's own shield to club him in the head and knock him out.

Now he ran in a forest. He killed and ate things warm and bloody. He chased off bears and other wolves. Sometimes, on the coldest, loneliest nights, he wished he'd been left in the ocean. At least he'd been unconscious. Maybe, after the transformation had finished, he would have even died. Now he healed within minutes, even after being shot in the chest.

Peggy had shot him in the chest, he sang to the moon mournfully.

He was aware enough that he knew the territory he called his own actually belonged to Howard. A misguided attempt to make up for not letting him die a hero. A desperate attempt to protect humans from him by erecting tall no-trespassing fences. Steve eventually decided he was fine with that. Howard would have done it even if he protested, and at least this way, he didn't have to try and be Steve Rogers. He wasn't Steve Rogers anymore. He was a monster. He couldn't even go completely human anymore.

So Steve was aware the moment someone had stepped into his territory. He didn't understand. No one had come into it before. Even Howard had stood outside the fence to observe him. And they weren't bothering to be quiet, either.

Someone was wounded, maybe. He could smell the iron tang of blood in the air. Pained yelps. A wounded pup? the wolf part of him thought. Perhaps whoever was trespassing was trying to hide from a greater danger?

Then there was the sound of flesh hitting flesh, another yelp, more blood on the wind, and his legs were moving before the fact that the injured party was being attacked again in his territory even registered.

The emblems on the uniforms the men were wearing shocked him to a stop. A skull. Six tentacles curled beneath it. Hydra. He felt a rush of heat, rage flushing through his body, quickly replaced by cold, calculating fury as he realized he hadn't wiped out Hydra in the war. They were still around. And he was just out here, howling at the moon and eating deer when he could have been crushing the bones of Hydra between his teeth instead. A growl rumbled from his chest, out his curled lips. The group turned as one.

His eyes locked with brown ones, and Steve snarled, hackles rising, teeth bared. Challenger, his wolf brain growled. Him first.

The man dropped his eyes quickly, as if realizing the danger he'd put himself in. Then, he lunged away from the rest of the group, tripping over his feet and onto the dirt. Foolish, Steve thought, muscles coiling, ready to leap.

The man grabbed the bottom hem of his shirt, dragging it up over his head, before he dropped onto his back, hands up near his head.

Submitting, the wolf in Steve realized with approval. Flashing his belly and its soft innards on display for him to choose whether to bite through or leave alone. Deferring to a more powerful wolf. His sharp eyes caught bruises along the man's side, a split lip and black eye. A bloody nose. A victim of Hydra.

Hydra, the wolf in him roared, enraged again, and Steve barely felt the heat of the bullets cutting through them as the rest of the group opened fire on him. He needed to rend. To tear. To bite and claw and kill and kill and kill because Hydra needed to die and die and die

Human blood didn't taste any different from deer blood, Steve thought, finally licking his chops. Coppery. Hot. But he didn't have any inclination to eat them like he did the deer. Just kill. That was all Hydra was good for, he thought. Killing.

The man who had submitted was still trembling on the ground. Some of the blood had splattered over him when Steve had bitten and torn. His eyes were wide, showing the whites all the way around, but he had the wherewithal to turn his gaze away when he realized Steve was looking at him.

A clever man, Steve thought with approval. He stepped closer, sniffing along the man's side to gather his scent. The man giggled reluctantly as Steve's wet nose trailed along his ribs. He smelled familiar. Like hot metal that had nothing to do with the blood trailing from his nose and lip. Steve found it in himself to shift, front paws turning to sharp-clawed hands, fur shortening, mouth shaping differently. He slid his hand over the man's soft belly, considering.

The man shivered, but he kept his eyes carefully downcast as he whispered, "W-what are you doing?"

Steve pressed his other paw--his hand. To the man's face. The man's exhale shook against his palm, but he turned, greedily leaning into his warm skin. He was cold. He didn't have a fur coat to keep him warm. A cold spring night in the New York woods was no place to be without a heavy coat.

"S. Steve-?" the man asked, more breath than air. "Steve Rogers?"

The man recognized him. Steve wondered at that. The only people who knew he was here was SHIELD.

Or. Steve remembered curious eyes in the window of Howard's car the last time he had been to visit. That had been years ago, though. He hadn't seen Howard since.

"Stark?" he rasped, voice rough from disuse. That would explain why Hydra was after him. If he was even half as smart as Howard, he would have been an asset to them.

He was Steve's now, though. He would protect the man with his life. He had submitted, had given Steve the choice of rending his tender belly open, had trusted him not to. Even Peggy hadn't trusted him enough to offer her hand for him to sniff, and here this man was, letting him snuffle along the soft, pale skin, as if he'd known the submission would convince Steve not to kill him. As if he'd expected it, instead of hoped.

"I'm Tony," the man offered, carefully lifting a hand to cover Steve's against his cheek. "You know my dad."

Steve didn't know Howard. Not really. He'd learned more about him as a wolf than he had the entire war. He curled his hand over Tony's hip, angling his body closer. He knew more about Tony now, here, the way he thought, how Hydra wanted him and he'd calculated he'd be better off with Steve, even if Steve decided to kill him. He had to admire Tony's thought process. Better dead under Steve's claws than under Hydra's thumb.

"Steve," Tony whispered, finally daring to look up at him, eyes darting to meet his and then away, as if afraid he still might challenge him. "What... what are you doing?"

"You're mine," Steve couldn't help but growl, more wolf than man no matter how hard he tried to be human. "You submitted to me."

Tony met his eyes at that, startled. "I... You can't be serious, Steve, I'm--"

"Mine," Steve growled, curling his hand over Tony's hip so his claws dug in lightly, just enough to remind him they were there and that Steve not using them was a choice. "You're mine."

"Okay," Tony whispered, other hand reaching down to cover the one on his hip. He was starting to shake. "Okay, Steve."

It was too cold for him out here, Steve figured. He cast a glance at the Hydra bodies, confirming what he already knew--their clothes were too shredded to wrap Tony up in. Not that he ever would have. His mate deserved better than Hydra scraps.

He turned back to Tony, leaning down to drag his tongue over the blood spatter across his collarbone. He didn't need Hydra's blood on him, either.

"Oh," Tony gasped, hands gripping Steve tighter, and Steve couldn't help a rumble of approval. Tony seemed smart. Capable. He must have known Steve had just enough humanity left in him to tell friend from Hydra. Steve would do him proud as a protector and mate.

[belabellissima]

time won't fly (it's like i'm paralyzed by it)

Written for the @feysand-hivemind timeloop fic!!!

Pairing: Feysand

Fic Summary: Every day, Rhysand wakes up next to Amarantha in her bed Under the Mountain. A prisoner, a weapon, a High Lord on a leash. He's been down there so long, it's starting to feel like time doesn't matter.

Until one day...it doesn't.

Feyre's death sends Rhysand back in time, waking up in Amarantha's bed Under the Mountain - over and over. Rhysand must discover how to break the time loop, save his mate, and keep his sanity intact. 

Chapter Summary: Rhys wakes up and suffers a lot. He meets the girl of his dreams only to lose her. He enters a timeloop. Good luck buddy, it only gets worse from here.

Chapter Warnings: Amarantha being Amarantha, references to rape/non-con, blood and gore/violent deaths, brief canonical animal death (andras), mentions of canonical child death (the winter court children)

Read on Ao3 or chapter 1 below!

The forest was a labyrinth of snow and ice. Rhys hadn’t felt cold like that - fresh, biting, like the winters in Illyria - in decades. Since before Amarantha had come and tricked them all, trapping them beneath stone.

His body - not his, but rather the body he saw through - shivered at a gust, and though it was briefly discomforting, he relished in it. Relished the way he inhaled deeply, the cold stinging at his nose and throat, chilling his lungs.

He could smell her, the way her hair blew around her face. The little wisps that escaped the braid she’d used to tie it back, the short pieces above her eyes she’d cut shorter to help keep her forehead warm.

His painter.

Her stomach rumbled, and the feel of a bow in her hand made sense. She was hunting, hungry and desperate enough to brave the woods to change that. They looked familiar, like the woods on the slopes of the Winter Court mountains. Rhys had never gotten a glimpse of the surroundings with such detail before, never been able to guess where his painter lived. Where her small cottage resided. But given the snow, the chill in the air, the forest…

Winter Court.

So close the Middle, to the Mountain and Queen trapping them all.

He heard the deer at the same time she did, saw it when her own eyes alighted on it.

Alighted on the wolf as well.

As was the way of dreams, time flowed strangely. Hours seemed to pass as she held the bow and arrow, but at the same time, Rhys felt as if the waiting, agonized and fraught with tension, lasted for the mere length of a breath.

Then she loosed the arrow, and it hit its mark with the kind of accuracy that only came from years of practice.

His painter was also a huntress, it seemed.

She drew another arrow back as she waited for it to die, her heartbeat strong enough he could feel it moving her chest with each thump; hear it in his ears, like the blood rushing through. It was a dull roar, as if he was a child again, holding a shell to his ear because his mother told him once they all held the soul of the ocean, and you could hear the waves if you listened closely.

Time moved again. The blood was sticky on her hands, hot and steaming as she skinned the beast.

Its eyes were the same color as the fae he’d had to kill for Amarantha mere hours before. Glassy, turning dull the more time passed.

Rhys tried to pull back, tried to not watch the gore. He’d seen so much of it the past forty-nine years. The past five centuries of his life. He didn’t want to watch it in his dreams too, in the respite these minutes with his painter brought him. She was supposed to be safe, be the one good thing left in this world.

Not have blood on her hands, because starving was the alternative.

But try as he might, he couldn’t pull back. Couldn’t close his eyes, turn away from the blood before him. The color was so bright against the snow, so red.

Red, like Amarantha’s hair, her nails. The color she painted her lips before sitting in her throne, the color she made him draw from her victims time and time again-

Rhys’ heart pounded in his own chest, as if to make up for the poor creature’s loss of one, faster, faster, until with a gasp, he shot up in bed, awake.

The room was dimly lit, the faelights extinguished but the fireplace still emanating heat from the steadily glowing embers. He couldn’t suck in air fast enough, couldn’t get his hands uncovered long enough to see that the sticky blood wasn’t there, that it had just been a dream-

The sheet ripped in half with his desperation, but he could finally see them. Saw that they were a sickly, greyish brown from the lack of sunlight, not red from blood. They were shaking, a fine tremor that he often couldn’t stop from appearing first thing after waking, when he still did not know whether he was still stuck in his nightmares or back in the land of horrid, waking tortures.

Past the walls of this room, beyond that door, he was the nightmare. But inside, where no one could see - not while Amarantha still slept, at least - the nightmares ruled him.

Rhys shoved his hands through the damp hair sticking to his forehead, pushing it back and calming his breathing.

He could still smell her. It was strong enough that if he closed his eyes, he might think her laying beside him in bed.

Part of him wanted to pretend.

Pretend it was her instead of Amarantha, who somehow still slept on, unbothered by his sudden movements.

He dropped his hands, slumping back down to lie flat on the bed and stare blankly at the ceiling. It was hewn from obsidian, so it wasn’t entirely smooth. There were waves and divots in it, places with the carver hadn’t been able to - or hadn’t intended to - make it look like anything other than a uniquely shaped cave.

Rhys didn’t love much about being trapped there, but the ceiling was one of the few things he managed to find beautiful. Each stroke of the chisel, each divot in the stone - they looked like the path falling stars would take. Like clouds in the sky; like the scales of a fish or any number of things he missed from the Above. Anything he hadn’t been allowed to see in decades, had taken for granted in the centuries of life preceding confinement.

Rhys let himself wallow for only a minute more. One minute to grieve, one minute to let himself be fragile, here where no one else could see. Then he rolled out of the bed, using a wisp of his magic to replace the ripped sheet with another from Amarantha’s collection, the torn one appearing in his hands. It was a good thing she’d hogged the blanket, he supposed. It would have been harder to replace the lush bedding than a simple top sheet without getting caught. Besides, there were plenty of fae trapped down here too that were freezing while he had a fireplace and access to as many blankets as he could want. Might as well drop it off in one of their cells.

Let someone benefit from his nightmare.

~

Amarantha held her goblet out to him, not even bothering to look. She was reclined in her throne, overseeing the revel below like a wicked goddess searching for her next favored one. Never an honor to be chosen, but a terror. No one enjoyed having the eye of an all-powerful entity fixed on them.

But Rhys didn’t appreciate her disregard either. He was a High Lord, Cauldron damn it all, and he’d been reduced to being her cupbearer. But it was better than being her toy that night. The other High Lords watched from the corner of their eyes as he picked up a nearby pitcher, filling her cup with wine again.

He wondered idly how easy he might poison her drink. Slip in faebane, nightshade, anything.

“Rhysand,” she drawled, still focused on the scene before her. On the lesser fae with delicate dragonfly wings that was sobbing as one of the Attors’ ilk tore at them, reveling in the screams. Rhys blinked a few times, forcing the delicate mask to stay on his face as he waited for her to speak more. “How long has it been since I last sent a gift to Tamlin?”

“A week, my Queen,” he answered immediately. It had been a puca - a vicious way to die, to be sure, but not nearly as bad as some of the other monsters she had in her arsenal. “It should be arriving in the Spring Court any day now.”

Amarantha smiled, her lips splitting like a flytrap flower, the pink of her lips enough to entice anyone foolish enough to get too close. “Wonderful,” she crooned, finally turning her head to look at him and crooking one finger his way. He let his lips curl into a returning smile, passing the jug of wine to the nearest courtier so he could slide his hands into his pockets as he obeyed, so she wouldn’t see the way they curled into fists, nails digging into palms.

“Go into the catacombs, Rhysand, and release the Bogge.”

He dipped his head in a bow to hide his apprehension.

If he had access to his full magic, to his full might and power, he’d be able to mist the damn thing the moment his acknowledgment made it real. But as he was, the best he could do would be to wound it enough to chase it out from the below.

Amarantha had to know that, but she also didn’t care. What did it matter if Rhys was injured obeying her? That’s what he was for in her eyes. To be the sword that struck down her enemies, the shield that took blow after blow in her defense.

Stolen from its rightful wielder.

None of her guards or soldiers stopped him as he descended. He sent out mental suggestions to the servants, invisible as they walked the halls, to vacate the area. Any who were still in their rooms he had drift further into sleep for the moment. Then he came to the door, wooden and fragile looking, that marked the entrance to the catacombs. The majority of Prythian fae were locked down there, not lucky - or unlucky - enough to be needed for growing and producing food, nor high enough in status to warrant being a guest in the Court Under the Mountain.

Rhys unlocked the door with a twitch of his finger, the magic costing him more than it should have. Such a thing wouldn't have even registered before, just one more unconscious act he would do daily in order to burn off the excess power. But now, he felt it. It wasn’t much, comparatively, but he shouldn’t have felt it at all.

The door swung open on its own, and Rhys felt the presence of the Bogge immediately. It guarded the door, hunted and consumed any who grew too close, too wild to control. It focused all that attention on him. Rhys stared at the ground, refusing to return the stare.

He backed up a step, turned his back to the creature, though his neck prickled with the sense of danger as he retreated back the way he came. It followed him, whispering at him to pay attention, to turn around, to look, to look, to look…

Rhys walked and walked, the door that the Bogge had once guarded snicking shut again. He kept his hands in his pockets as he walked, his shoulders relaxed. He cast his mind out again and again, turning away any who started to head in their direction, until he’d made it to the long hallway that led to an exit. He couldn’t leave, not with Amarantha’s magic keeping them trapped, but he was able to walk right up to the door and open it with her order freshly loosening his leash. Sunlight blinded him, and he sucked in a sharp breath, hissing as he threw up a hand to protect his eyes.

Then he turned his back to the glorious sight, looking straight at the Bogge. “Your lady requests you visit the Spring Court,” he said, stepping aside out of its way, ready for it to attack. It looked like it would listen to its orders, but take him along as a snack for the road.

The Bogge lunged for him. Rhys ducked, kicking out as it landed on his other side. It fell backward through the doorway, and Rhys slammed it shut in its face.

The Bogge howled its displeasure from the other side, but finally ceased after a minute, off to obey its queen.

And Rhys did the same, walking the hallways back down into the belly of the mountain, until he stood once again at the Deceiver’s side, holding her damned cup.

~

He dreamed of her again, almost every night for weeks. He’d never gotten so many flashes from her life, his painter, his huntress, never seen so clearly the dreams she constructed in the night.

But here, with the end of the curse so close, he did. He recognized it too - those were the hills of the Spring Court, so different from her normal scenery. Kallias had a secret city just like he did, somewhere hidden away where Amarantha couldn't find it, and after that glimpse of the wolf, Rhys had hoped she was safe there. Rhys would do anything to protect Velaris, and he knew Kallias would do the same, so though he watched the High Lord of Winter closely, he said nothing. Let the male plot in the shadows.

What Amarantha didn’t know, she couldn’t order him to uncover.

He thought, briefly, of trying to find his painter. Thought, perhaps, he could see her with his own eyes, rather than her world through hers.

But then he remembered the fae whose wings Amarantha had torn off. Remembered the way she’d laughed, and he’d heard that laugh even in his own dreams.

His painter was safe. That was the important thing. Safe and far, far away from Amarantha. And probably not even real; just some figment of his imagination spawned from the torment of so long compartmentalizing, from wearing a mask and doing horrible things to protect his own people. Even if she was somehow real, how could he go to her? How could he stand before her and let her see the blood on his hands?

Blood he’d put there willingly - not from a desperation to not starve, from hunting for food like her own occasionally were, but rather from the savagery being stuck Under the Mountain brought out in him. Brought out in all of them.

No. She was a dream. A beautiful dream, yes, but one time would soon fade. A dream to keep him sane down here in the dark. Better to leave her there, in the light.

Far away from him.

~

Calanmai came and went. His painter’s dreams shifted. The bonfires gone, the portraits increasing. More fae faces, masks covering their eyes.

Rhys lost track of the days, letting the hellish monotony of Under the Mountain pass him by.

Would Tamlin manage to break her curse? He hadn’t rooted for his old friend in decades, hadn’t wanted him to have happiness in the wake of his betrayal, but he begged the Mother to grant him that this one time.

The thought ran through his head over and over as he watched Amarantha torturing some poor fae. He remained in the shadows, holding the fae’s mind, while Amarantha dug her nails into his neck, pulling flesh and blood out with her nails. Rhys held back his wince at the sound of the fae choking on his own blood only from the practice he’d had doing the same for years.

It was a truly vicious and horrible way to die, and one Amarantha delighted in. often cooing to Jurian’s eye that he should be used to such a sight. Rhys wasn’t sure how anyone could grow used to such a thing, but Amarantha was the proof, he supposed.

Finally, the poor creature succumbed to his injuries, but Amarantha didn’t stop until she’d used her sharpened nails to fully tear the male's head from his body. Blood splattered her neck and face, coated her dress and arms. A puddle surrounded them, and when Amarantha returned to her throne, the head clutched by the hair in her hands, her dress dragged the puddle into a smear across the red marble.

She sat back on the throne, tilting the head back and forth on her lap as she observed it. Her red lips puffed slightly into a pout, then she held out a hand palm up.

“Give me your ring, Rhysand.”

Rhys slid the signet ring off his left pinky, dropping into her cupped hand. Everything in him recoiled at the idea of her touching it, an heirloom passed down from High Lord to High Lord from the very first one to exist. The flat side of the signet, with the etching of Ramiel’s peaks and the three stars above, should never have graced the skin of a usurper. And yet Amarantha took delight in Rhys’ revulsion, the way she always did whenever she desecrated something sacred to Prythian or to him.

She rolled the ring between her fingers until she held it between her thumb and forefinger. “Beron,” she called, waiting for the High Lord of Autumn to approach her before ordering, “Fire.”

Rhys could do nothing but watch as she then carefully held his ring over the fire Beron held in his hand. It turned red quickly, and Amarantha pressed it to the head behind the ear. Her own fingers didn’t burn, protected by the spell she’d used to seal their magic. She could have heated it herself too, if she didn’t find pleasure in ordering the High Lords around.

The smell of burning meat filled Rhys’ nose. He fought back the gag with practiced ease, holding his breath until Amarantha pulled the ring back and tossed it through the air to him. It was still warm enough to hurt, but not enough to scar him too as Rhys tucked it into his pocket. He left his hands there too, hidden as he flexed his fingers, subtly wiping his palm off.

His hands were covered with metaphorical blood already. They didn’t need burned flesh on them too.

“Take this to Tamlin,” Amarantha ordered, holding the head by the hair again out toward Rhys. She was already looking away, looking toward the crowd for her next bit of entertainment. “Put it somewhere he can admire it.”

Rhys took it from her, dipping his head as he left.

Amarantha didn’t bother to watch him go.

~

Spring was… bright. Bright and loud, so busy after Rhys had spent so long in the dark. He couldn't even imagine how much brighter it would get as the sun continued to rise, as dawn melted into day. It was easy enough to slip into the minds of the morning gardeners and turn them to other tasks, to walk right up to the heron fountain and spike the poor fae’s head to the beak.

He stared for long enough that another servant began to come his way, and Rhys slipped into their mind on instinct. He was about to turn them away when he caught a glimpse of their thoughts.

Clean the area for the Lady. She wanted to paint here today.

Rhys froze for a heartbeat. Could it be?

He winnowed past the worker closer to the manor, hiding himself in the shadows still cast from the lingering night. He’d made it two steps before he caught the scent on the air, familiar and close and so, so real.

Cauldron, she was real.

Real, and he’d not come to Calanmai. Not come to the time he could have actually seen her, talked to her. But he could still see her now.

The scent was strongest coming from the open doors of a second floor balcony, and Rhys winnowed there before he’d even made the conscious decision. Soft curtains drifted with the morning breeze, and he approached on silent feet, slowly enough his own movements wouldn’t cause a stir.

He saw the bed first, then the two bodies tangled up in the sheets. Tamlin, eyes closed as he slept, and Rhys’ painter next to him. Her face was pressed into Tamlin’s neck, one arm thrown across his torso. Her hair was bunched up around her face, preventing him still from seeing her, but the sheets were pushed down to their waists, revealing his painter’s back to him.

She was beautiful, with freckles across her shoulders that looked like stars to him. He wondered if they coated her face as well. He wanted to trace the dip of her spine, press his face to her and hear her heartbeat, tangle his fingers in her hair.

His hands trembled at his sides from the wanting.

From the sick pit in his stomach as he watched. His painter was with Tamlin, a golden prince with a beautiful land to match. Her skin was a canvas, one he had no interest in marring with his own touch, his own stained hands.

He dreaded what would happen when Tamlin’s time ran out. Amarantha would slaughter her out of jealousy, unless Tamlin sent her away, back to Winter.

Amarantha would not suffer that a female like this could capture his attention, when she received only his scorn.

Tamlin had better send her away before then. Rhys wouldn’t survive it if she died. Wouldn’t survive seeing her beneath stone, torn apart at Amarantha’s hands. He’d rather die himself than watch this last good thing be taken from him, like everything else he’d lost in his life.

A fresh gust of wind blew then, inward toward the sleeping pair. Tamlin remained asleep, but his painter stirred, shifting slightly and stretching as she woke. Gooseflesh erupted across her back, and she blindly reached down to feel around for the sheets to pull them back up and over her chin. Rhys allowed himself the last look, then winnowed away before Tamlin could wake as well.

He landed at the tunnel entrance and stumbled, hand coming out to catch himself on the stone walls. Tearing himself away from her had felt like tearing a piece of himself away, and he had to breathe through it for a long moment before he could stand straight again. He brushed his hands off, making sure not a speck of dirt was on him as he set his face back into his Lord of Nightmare’s mask.

The Mother had been kind to give him such a gift, the chance to see his painter even once. Even if it meant seeing her with his enemy.

It had been enough. Would have to be enough.

~

Barely a few weeks later, Winter rebelled. Amarantha had grown so angry, Rhys feared she would bring the whole mountain down on them all, regardless of the fact that the rebels had already been slaughtered.

“Ungrateful,” she hissed, pacing back and forth in her room. Rhys tracked her with only his eyes, not daring to move a muscle and draw the ire onto him. “I allowed him to remain here, I host him and his nobles, bestow gifts on him, and he has the audacity to try and usurp me? Just like his father, to revolt. To ignore everything I’ve given them. See if I don’t kill him too.”

“He is the last of his line,” Rhys cautiously said. “Who would the magic go to?”

“I do not care, Rhysand. Perhaps it will go to someone who can do as they're told and obey their Queen properly.”

Rhys couldn’t let that happen, couldn’t let his painter’s High Lord suffer for something he didn’t even know about. Enough had died, and if they ever made it free of Amarantha, he doubted his painter would appreciate her home being in such upheaval from losing a second High Lord in the span of fifty years.

“My Queen.” Rhys stepped closer, knowing he was inviting more pain on himself as he did so. “The rebels are dead, and Kallias could not have known of the attempt. He is as loyal as any of us. He knows he is only High Lord because of you, and I do not believe he would be so foolish as to attack you and your authority in such a way. If they had come to him, he would have gone straight to you. You know I keep an eye on them for you. Even if he hadn’t gone to you, I would have.”

Amarantha watched him approach her back through the mirror on her wall. A test. Rhys reached out to put his hands on her shoulders, gently digging his thumbs into the muscle to try and relax her. Make her a little less volatile. Slowly, her tension seeped away, until she leaned back against him, eyes closed.

Rhys’ stomach roiled at the sight, but he did not stop.

“Perhaps I can excuse his ignorance this once,” she sighed. “Enough to spare his life. But he still needs to learn to keep a better hold of his people.”

“Perhaps a trip to your dungeons, my Queen. Just long enough for the message to… sink in.”

Amarantha cracked open an eye, lips curling with pleasure at the thought. She hummed, then righted herself and stepped away from him. She strode to her desk, quickly scribbling out a message before vanishing it with a snap of magic. Orders for her soldiers to carry out.

She returned to him then, raising a hand to trail it along his cheek. “Such a good little pet,” she cooed.

Rhys smiled at that. Imagined tearing out her heart with his hands.

Amarantha took his hands in her own and led him over to the bed, and Rhys did his best to not think at all.

Hours later, a knock came from the door, then the Attor stepped in. “It is done, my Queen,” it said, grinning at Amarantha. “They were unprepared for the attack, and our forces found no resistance. The example has been made.”

Rhys’ heart dropped. He reached out with his mind, tried to find what soldiers she might have sent, somewhere nearby in the Winter Court.

He found them easily enough, but stopping them…

It was beyond him. Rhys scraped at their minds, but Amarantha’s spell held him back. They probably couldn’t even feel it. But he could feel them.

Could feel the way they relished in the pain they caused. Pain that was hours old already. The carnage was done. There was nothing he could do anymore but bear witness through memory.

Rhys watched what glimpses he could get, and was horrified.

Children. She’d sent another daemati to slaughter children.

A dozen of them, minds wiped to nothing.

In bed next to him, Amarantha nearly purred with delight as she dismissed the Attor and turned back to him, hand trailing across his skin.

He thought again of just reaching out and attacking her. Of tearing her apart, or at least trying to. Maybe she would kill him too.

Then he would never have to face Kallias.

Never have to face the knowledge of how he’d failed his painter and her people so spectacularly.

Instead, he let Amarantha crawl over him. Looked up at the carved ceiling, and pretended he didn’t care.

~

A few days later, Amarantha ordered him out again. It seemed the closer they grew to the deadline, the more freedom she granted him as her paranoia grew.

He couldn’t deny that most of him wanted to go simply to see his painter again, one last time if it were possible. If she was still there, if Tamlin hadn’t sent her away yet. Even if she hated him for failing her people. He didn’t know which he dreaded more: not seeing her, or having to be the reason she left. Having to terrify Tamlin enough that he ordered her to flee.

He’d do it, but it would hurt.

That was the price of protecting those he loved. He was well used to paying it.

It was a relief to not hide his power this time around. To stroll right down the gravel path cutting through a manicured lawn, up the marble steps of the grand entrance. It was easy to bind the sentries to their places, prevent them from stopping him as he walked inside the manor.

He cast his attention outward to find Tamlin, sense the power roiling beneath his skin, and headed toward him within moments. Lucien was there as well, and Rhys could sense their fear as walked closer, their apprehension rising with every step he took, every scuff of his boots on the black and white checkered floors.

They were trying to be casual when he walked in. Tamlin was cleaning his nails, and Lucien stood by the window, gazing out as if waiting for his lost love to return from the dead.

There was no painter.

“High Lord,” Rhys crooned, hiding his disappointment and his relief.

“What do you want, Rhysand?” Tamlin growled at him, flicking his eyes up without moving his head, the hint of fangs at his mouth.

Rhys smiled, putting a mocking hand over his heart. “Rhysand? Come now, Tamlin. I don’t see you for forty-nine years, and you start calling me Rhysand? Only my prisoners and my enemies call me that.” A lie, of course. He’d seen plenty of Tamlin not even a few days earlier. He didn’t want to think too long or hard about why Tamlin hadn’t been clothed in that bed, why his painter hadn’t either. So he looked to Lucien instead.

“A fox mask. Appropriate for you, Lucien.”

“Go to Hell, Rhys.”

Didn’t Lucien know he was already in it?

“Always a pleasure dealing with the rabble,” Rhys said, pushing that bleak thought from his mind and turning to Tamlin. He’d much rather antagonize him and cause him troubles than think about his own. “I hope I wasn’t interrupting.”

“We were in the middle of lunch,” Tamlin said.

How boring. Rhys almost frowned, but instead purred, “stimulating,” with as much derision as he could manage.

“What are you doing here, Rhys?” Tamlin demanded, still in his seat.

“I wanted to check up on you. I wanted to see how you were faring. If you got my little present.”

“Your present was unnecessary.”

He was one to talk. Tamlin didn’t have to witness the poor creature's bloody death, pick out the burned pieces of their skin from his signet ring and wash it in boiling water just to get rid of the smell. He wanted to cut at Tamlin, make him feel a sliver of that horror too.

Rhys clicked his tongue and surveyed the room. “What a pity that you must endure such… torture up here in the sunlight and fresh air. It really is such a hardship, isn’t it?”

Tamlin sighed, resigned to his fate as he rubbed his temples. “Save it for another time, Rhys. You’ll see me soon enough.”

True. Only a few more days and he’d be beneath the mountain with the rest of them. Rhys wanted to stay while he could, soak in as much sunlight as he could, but Amarantha had ordered him not to linger, so Rhys turned, preparing to leave the way he’d come.

“She’s already preparing for you,” he warned. “Given your current state, I think I can safely report that you’ve already been broken and will reconsider her offer.”

He ran a finger along the back of one of the chairs as he went, and he would’ve kept going if Lucien’s breath hadn’t hitched as he did. What was making him nervous?

“I’m looking forward to seeing your face when you—”

He cut himself off, noticing it at last. The third, half-eaten plate of food. Tamlin’s before him, Lucien’s to Tamlin’s right, abandoned when Lucien had decided to stare out the window, and a third…

Lucien went stick-straight as Rhys lifted the goblet by the plate, sniffing it once before setting it back down, the lingering traces of his painter’s scent on the rim.

She was here, she was still here. “Where’s your guest?” he asked, the sound casual when his thoughts were anything but.

“I sent them off when I sensed your arrival,” Tamlin lied coolly.

Rhys hid his snarl with a mask void of emotion, turning to face his fellow High Lord. Where could he have hidden her? Rhys would have seen her flee the room from where he’d entered the manor, and none of the windows were open-

The windows.

Lucien.

Rhys lashed out at the subtle magic surrounding Lucien, ripping away the glamour Tamlin had thrown over Rhys’ painter to keep her hidden. He couldn’t stop his rage then, couldn’t wipe it from his face as he finally saw hers for the first time, terror stricken as she met his eyes with her own.

Lucien just pressed her harder into the wall, his whole body a shield between them. As if he would ever hurt her. As if he would punish her for the glamour, when it was Tamlin that had done it.

Tamlin’s chair groaned as it was shoved back. He rose, claws at the ready, always one to react first and think things through second. Rhys ignored him, finding that his painter was a far more captivating sight.

“There you are. I’ve been looking for you,” Rhys said, the truth ripped from him before he’d had the chance to shove it down.

He turned to Tamlin, intent on covering that little slip. “Who, pray tell, is your guest?”

“My betrothed,” Lucien answered, the one lie Rhys would never believe.

He laughed, loud and long, then said, “did you know she’s cuckolding you, then? With your own High Lord, no less. I saw her in his bed that morning I dropped off my little present.”

He stalked closer, relishing the way Lucien’s eyes flickered over to Tamlin in apology while Tamlin’s own lit with fury. Lucien pulled his sword free, intent on running Rhys through with it, but Rhys merely batted it away with some of his lingering magic. The sword went flying, smacking the far wall and slicing into the wallpaper. Rhys couldn’t be bothered to look, even as he brushed Lucien aside with his magic as well.

His anger with Tamlin was growing, even as he thanked the Mother over and over again for having a second chance to see her, to finally glimpse her face, the shine of her hair, the way her bangs were just long enough to curl right below her eyebrows, the way her rounded ears held back the rest-

Rounded.

Rhys’ stare fixated on them for a moment, then he took her in in her entirety.

She wasn’t a Winter fae. She was human.

No. No.

Even if she loved Tamlin, Amarantha would slaughter her for daring to exist. Breaking the curse didn’t mean she would be safe - not at all. It would only bring a target down on her back even more so than before.

He had to scare her away, terrify her enough that she sprinted back to her side of the wall and never even thought of looking back.

There was a knife in her hands, and Rhys gently reached out to take it from her. When her weak, human grip failed her, he sent the blade in the same direction as Lucien’s sword.

“That won’t do you any good, anyway,” Rhys said to her, hating every moment of what he was about to do. He gave himself one last look at her, then reached into her mind, holding it gently in his mental talons. Her whole body stiffened, and he felt the pulse of fear deep in his gut.

“Let her go,” Tamlin said, bristling, but didn’t advance forward, panicked that Rhys might crush his painter’s mind for the attempt. “Enough.”

“I’d forgotten that human minds are as easy to shatter as eggshells,” Rhys mused. He brought his hand up to her neck, running one gentle finger along the base of her throat, feeling the pulse of her heart fluttering like a trapped bird. His painter shuddered at the contact, and Rhys would have given anything for her to be shuddering for a different reason than fear. “Look at how delightful she is—look how she’s trying not to cry out in terror. It would be quick, I promise.”

The thought of using his gift to kill her… to melt her mind into mush in the space between breaths. Rhys was almost sick at the thought, and to distract himself - hurt himself, really, with the things he knew he would find - he pushed past her fear and drew forth her memories of Tamlin.

“She has the most delicious thoughts about you, Tamlin,” he said, finding the thoughts he’d been searching for. “She reminisced about the feeling of your fingers on her thighs—between them, too.” He chuckled. “Not just fingers, either.”

“Let. Her. Go.” Tamlin’s face twisted with such feral rage that it struck a different, deeper chord of terror in his painter, and Rhys turned that over for a moment. She cared for Tamlin, but feared his rage too.

Just not enough to outweigh her love.

“If it’s any consolation,” Rhysand confided to him, “she would have been the one for you—and you might have gotten away with it. A bit late, though. She’s more stubborn than you are.”

Rhys caressed his painter’s mind one last time, then retreated. His painter gasped as she sank to her knees, reeling, desperately trying not to scream.

“Amarantha will enjoy breaking her,” Rhys said. “Almost as much as she’ll enjoy watching you as she shatters her bit by bit.”

Tamlin was frozen, arms limp at his side. “Please,” he said.

“Please what?” Rhys coaxed.

“Don’t tell Amarantha about her.”

“And why not? As my ruler, I should tell her everything.”

“Please,” Tamlin managed, as if it were difficult to breathe. As if he had any of the same struggles that Rhys faced, as if he faced even a fraction of the pain Rhys did.

Rhys turned back to his painter. “What’s your name, love?” He hadn’t meant to let the word slip out, but Cauldron, if being perceived as sarcastic was the only way he could voice that truth, then who was he to stop himself?

He waited, nearly impatiently, as his painter held out. He was about ready to gently coax it from her mind when she said, “Clare Beddor.”

Rhys blinked once, the corner of his mouth pulling back. It was such an obvious lie. She didn’t look like a Clare, didn’t say it with any sense of honesty in her voice or demeanor.

But he supposed it was better, safer, that she lie. If only it hadn’t ripped at him to still be left unknowing.

“Are you going to tell Amarantha?” Tamlin interrupted.

Rhys smirked. “Perhaps I’ll tell her, perhaps I won’t.”

Never. He’d never tell her about his painter.

In an instant, Tamlin was on his feet, fangs bared to Rhys’ face.

“None of that,” Rhys tutted, clicking his tongue and lightly shoving Tamlin away with a single hand. “I best be off, back to her. But this was entertaining - the most fun I’ve had in ages, actually. I’m looking forward to seeing you Under the Mountain. I’ll give Amarantha your regards.”

Then Rhys winnowed away, the last thing he saw the terrified face of his lovely painter.

~

Amarantha was eager for his report, dismissing the Attor from her side the moment she saw Rhys walk back into the throne room. He slid his hands into his pockets as he climbed the steps up to her throne, dipping his head in a bow before sliding into place at her side.

“Well?” Amarantha demanded.

“He is resigned to his fate, my Queen.” Rhys lied smoothly. “I saw no evidence of his attempting to break his curse. Just him and the fox moping, drinking away the last of their wine before they come below to your court. Even his servants avoid him, disgusted with his lack of effort.”

Amarantha smiled, her red lips pulling apart like a wound, revealing bone beneath. “Good,” she mused. “Very good. Perhaps this whole thing will be easier than I expected.”

Rhys smiled, but inside, he was screaming.

Three days later, Tamlin arrived Under the Mountain.

He didn’t even bother to fight.

Rhys wondered why he’d ever expected differently of him.

~

Two weeks passed. Two weeks of horror, of Tamlin sitting at Amarantha’s side, his face as stone-like as his heart. He didn’t bother to speak, didn’t bother to give any indication that he’d almost broken the curse.

Rhys was glad for that much at least. Even if it meant he’d never see his painter again, at least Amarantha would never see her either. If she never suspected, then how would she ever know?

Rhys had grown used to hell. He could survive it.

And then the worst happened.

He’d been by a table in the throne room when the Attor had dragged some poor soul in. Rhys waited to see if Amarantha would call for him, but she never did, so he resumed browsing for something to eat. None of the items seemed particularly interesting to him, not when his stomach has been roiling with nausea for nearly an hour.

He tried to tune out the Attor behind him, tune out the torture that was sure to come. But then he really registered what the Attor had said - Just some human thing I found downstairs. Tell Her Majesty why you were sneaking around the catacombs—why you came out of the old cave that leads to the Spring Court.

Rhys spun toward the sound and his heart lurched.

No.

No.

There she was, his painter, on her hands and knees and glaring up at Amarantha like she had a death wish.

It was a lucky thing indeed that no one was near him, because Rhys couldn’t stop the panicked sound that ripped free before he managed to strangle it down.

The Attor kicked her in the ribs, sending her back down as its claws pierced her ribs. Rhys took a few steps forward, already shaking his head as the Attor demanded, “Tell Her Majesty, you human filth.”

“I came to claim the one I love,” she said quietly, looking at Tamlin.

“Stop,” Rhys whispered, but his painter did not hear him. Did not heed his warning.

“Oh?” Amarantha said, leaning forward in her throne, her painted nails already starting to dig into the armrests.

“I’ve come to claim Tamlin, High Lord of the Spring Court.”

Slowly, Amarantha turned her head to look at Tamlin, seated impassively next to her. He hid it well, but Rhys could feel his terror, his dread. There was no hiding this anymore.

When she realized Tamlin wasn’t going to speak, Amarantha then looked for Rhys. People backed out of her line of sight, leaving a clear path right to him.

Amarantha was quiet as she said, “You… lied to me.”

Rhys was trembling, barely holding back from rushing for his painter, from straight out attacking Amarantha. He’d fail, but it was better than nothing, right? Better than watching as she killed his painter.

He didn’t have time to react. She raised her hand and blasted him back with a wall of white light.

He hit the far wall of the throne room hard enough to crack the stone, and landed face first on the ground after, whole head ringing and bleeding from multiple places. He couldn’t even see, was too dizzy as his ears rang, desperately trying to shake it off and get back to the fight.

Distantly, he heard screaming.

By the time he finally shoved himself back to his feet, whole body swaying and sight doubling every few moments before returning to normal, his painter was already broken on the floor.

Amarantha towered over her, kicking over and over at her ribs, snarling insults at the poor girl desperately trying to curl up to protect herself. Tamlin was thrashing on his throne, held in place by more of Amarantha’s guards.

His painter was already black and blue, blood pouring from her nose and mouth, one arm broken so far the bone stuck out.

Rhys managed one step toward her before the Attor was by his side, grabbing him and shoving him down onto the ground again, sprawling across the stone. Rhys hit his chin on the ground, biting through his tongue hard enough that blood filled his mouth. He spat it out and pushed to his knees, crawling all of two feet forward before the Attor grabbed his ankle and yanked him backward again.

In the crowds, the other High Lords watched, horrified. Terrified.

Unwilling to aid him.

Of course they were. When Amarantha was on the warpath, one learned to get out of her way, not step directly into it.

The Attor stepped on Rhys’ back, digging its claws right into his spine. Directly between where his wings sprouted when they weren’t hidden away. It leaned down over him, hot breath making Rhys cringe as it hissed, “You thought you could lie to Her Majesty and get away with it? She will deal with you soon enough.”

Cauldron, he couldn’t move.

Couldn’t get to her.

His painter screamed again, the sound so loud and sharp that Rhys flinched, before it cut off halfway as Amarantha grabbed her throat and squeezed.

Rhys flung his magic at Amarantha, scrambled to get a hold on her mind, but his mental talons simply glanced off, nothing more than an irritating bug.

Tears blurred his eyes as he lashed out again, and again, each time failing to land a hit.

Amarantha snarled at his painter, then let go of her throat to return to raking those claw-like nails down her skin. His painter screamed again, and this time, Rhys reached for her mind instead.

He seized it in his talons, wrapping them around the girl like a protective cage, bars to block out any threat.

He made her continue to scream, but inside, she no longer felt pain.

Just confusion at what had happened. How she’d gone from sneaking down the hallways to rescue the one she loved to bleeding out on the floor within minutes.

Confusion at where the pain had suddenly gone. If it would return. If she was going to die.

Rhys shuddered at that thought.

Yes. Probably.

And he was a fool for ever thinking he could have protected her.

I’m so sorry, he whispered to her.

Her mental attention latched on him. Rhysand? Is that you?

Rhys closed his eyes, letting his head fall to the ground. He didn’t want to see what Amarantha was doing anymore.

Yes, Painter. It’s me.

What’s happening?

She sounded so small asking it, even in his mind. Scared.

I took your pain away. But I… I can’t save you.

There was a pause, during which he forced her body to scream again, to beg for mercy he already knew Amarantha would not give.

You didn’t tell her about me. You lied to her.

Yes. I knew she would hurt you if I told her the truth.

You lied… to protect me? But I thought you and Tamlin were enemies.

Yes, Painter. He sighed. Tamlin is my enemy. Him. Not you. Never you. And I would rather he have won than Amarantha, anyway.

Rhys looked back up at his painter, lying there broken on the floor. Amarantha’s whole body was heaving with her furious breaths. Blood covered her whole face, and she paused her torture long enough to wipe at her face, smearing it across her mouth. Then she straightened, rolling her shoulders back as she stared down at the human at her feet.

Why do you call me Painter?

I do not know your name. You gave a false one.

Amarantha backed up a step, then kicked one last time at his painters ribs. The crack of her bones was loud enough the entire hall could hear.

You knew?

Even her mental voice was starting to weaken.

Rhys mentally nodded. Yes, Painter. I knew.

Amarantha tilted her head back and forth, cracking her neck like she was just getting started.

Rhys didn’t see where she could go from there. His painter was already standing with one foot into the land of milk and honey.

Will you tell me it? He begged.

It came through like a sigh. Feyre. My name is Feyre.

Rhys closed his eyes, the sound of the name an answer to a question he’d been asking for years.

Rhys?

Rhys’ heart jumped at that. At her calling him Rhys instead of Rhysand. Even without being asked.

Yes, Feyre?

She's not going to let either of us live, is she?

Rhys’ cheek was wet against the ground from his own tears as he said, No Feyre. She isn’t.

Rhys?

Yes, Feyre, darling?

Will you stay with me? Until the end?

Rhys sobbed. Even the fae around him looked over in shock, having never heard him utter such a sound.

“Always,” he whispered, both aloud and to her mind.

And some of the fear in Feyre’s heart seemed to melt away at that. At knowing she at least wouldn’t be alone.

And then Amarantha, apparently done observing Feyre beneath her, said, “You mortals are so fragile. So easily broken. But I’m not done having fun yet. Thesan? Heal her while I deal with Rhysand.”

Rhys’ heart stopped.

Amarantha was going to kill him, yet bring Feyre back.

Over and over, if he had to guess, until she eventually tired of torturing her. But Rhys would no longer be there to take her pain. To talk her through it. To be there with her when she eventually died.

He had promised her she wouldn’t be alone.

He would rather suffer another five hundred years Under the Mountain than ever see Feyre suffer like this again. Ever leave her alone, let her feel the pain of every excruciating minute.

Even if it damned him. Even if it broke something in him. At least he would die quickly afterward.

Feyre, darling?

Yes, Rhys?

I’m so sorry, love.

He didn’t give her the time to realize his intention. Simply dug those once-protective mental talons into her mind, and let her slide into peace without any more pain.

Amarantha didn’t even notice her precious plaything die.

Rhys felt every excruciating moment. Letting Feyre slip away, leaving only emptiness behind in her wake, was a new form of torture he didn’t think even Amarantha could have invented. His mind wanted to tug on her fading presence, hold fast to it and keep her here still, safe and coveted, and it took everything in him to relax his hold. Let her slip through his mental talons and vanish at last.

Rhys couldn’t look away from Feyre’s body as Amarantha approached him. He saw Thesan crouch over her body and pause, then look over at him, understanding what Rhys had done. Thesan shook his head and backed away, already gesturing for his court to leave if they could. Escape the coming storm. The other High Lords noticed and began to do the same.

In his throne, Tamlin stilled, staring down at Feyre as the last of his hope died.

All of them could go to hell, as far as Rhys cared.

Amarantha crouched at his head, reaching down to run her fingers through his hair and grip it tightly. The Attor finally removed the claws in Rhys’ back, stepping aside so Amarantha could pull Rhys up by the tight grip she had on him.

Rhys spat in her face, finally letting down the mask he’d had up for five decades. It was petty, perhaps, but he grinned anyway as Amarantha flinched at the sudden wetness on her face.

Then she snarled at him, the sound beastlike. Wholly animal.

She didn’t give him the chance to speak before she’d dug her nails into his neck and pulled it out, dropping him back to the ground as he choked on his own blood.

It was painful, but Rhys relished every moment. He deserved it, really, for his part in Feyre’s death. For not protecting her enough, for not killing Amarantha fifty years ago when he had the chance.

But Amarantha wouldn’t get to hurt Feyre anymore, at least. Would have to find someone else to torture. And to Rhys, that was enough.

His vision slowly began to fade as he coughed and sputtered, never able to get enough air, but he knew where her body was at least, and no one was holding him back anymore.

Rhys crawled to her, sure he was leaving a trail as he went, finally collapsing at Feyre’s side.

He barely heard it as Amarantha screamed, finally realizing that Feyre was already gone. It didn’t matter anymore.

He’d lost.

He wished it could have been different. Wished he’d heeded the fucking warnings he’d gotten through his dreams. Hadn’t he dreamt of Feyre killing Tamlin’s sentry? It had been months earlier that he’d dreamt of a wolf in the woods. Months that he could have spent preparing. Planning. But he’d been too foolish.

What he wouldn’t give for a different outcome.

I’m so sorry, he thought toward Feyre’s body, the last thing he knew he’d ever think.

And then, finally, Rhysand slipped into unconsciousness.

Into death.

~

Death was… cold.

Rhys opened his eyes to a labyrinth of trees coated in ice and snow, with harsh winds gusting through and wracking his body with shivers.

Well then. He’d suspected, of course, that he wouldn’t make it to the land of milk and honey, but to actually see it? Feel it?

At least Feyre wasn’t there. She’d make it through the gates to the immortal lands. She deserved that, deserved an eternity of sunlight and warmth. Of flowers, and birds chirping. Of never feeling hungry again.

Not like Rhys did right then, his stomach growling.

He hadn’t expected that, at the very least. Hunger wasn’t exactly something the dead felt. But then again, who was to know for sure? The dead didn’t tend to talk.

A branch snapped close by, and Rhys’ attention snapped to it.

When he saw the deer, he froze.

This… was so familiar.

He pulled back the arrow - when had he picked up a bow? - and aimed for its heart, and then the wolf appeared.

He loosed the arrow. Approached the beast and watched it die.

Knelt in the snow to skin it.

Sat up with a gasp, hands turning to talons as he fell from the bed, hitting the ground hard and loudly.

Where was he? Rhys’ eyes wildly scanned the room, taking in the bedding, the chiseled ceiling, the fireplace glowing with embers.

“Rhysand?” Amarantha’s voice came from above the bed. “Did you just fall out of bed like a child?” Her mocking face appeared over the edge.

Rhys snapped, lunging for her. Her eyes went wide for a moment as his hands locked around her neck, lips pulled back into a snarl as he pressed down.

She’d tortured Feyre. Forced him to kill her to spare her any more pain. Killed him, then. She deserved to die. Who was he to waste such an opportunity?

He wasn’t sure how exactly he’d gotten it, how he’d survived getting his throat torn out, why Amarantha would have healed him. Have him returned to her room, her bed, to sleep beside her as if he hadn’t made it clear where his true loyalties lay.

Amarantha gasped uselessly for air, hands scrambling first at his face, then under her pillow. Rhys squeezed harder.

Her arm came back up, dagger clutched in her fist. She drove it into his chest and shoved him off her. Rhys didn’t even feel the pain as he toppled back to the ground, landing once again on the hard stone floor.

He could feel his heart fruitlessly trying to keep beating, to keep him alive, but the dagger had been true.

Amarantha sneered above him. “Really? You actually thought that would work? What a waste.”

Rhys’ vision faded again.

And again, there was cold. Hunger.

A deer and a wolf.

He woke quietly the next time. Eyes fluttering open to stare at the chiseled ceiling. The bedding. The fireplace. The Deceiver next to him.

What was happening?

Rhys rose from the bed, pulling on his sleep pants and quietly leaving the room. He winnowed to the throne room, stumbling slightly in his haste as he landed. The room was empty due to the time, and Rhys slowly padded barefoot across the stone floor.

There was no stain where Feyre had fallen. No trail from where he had crawled to her. There was no second throne beside the first for Tamlin to sit in.

Rhys stared at the spot on the ground, losing track of time until he heard soft footsteps. His head whipped up, and the lesser fae on the other side of the room jumped in fright at having Rhys’ sudden and full attention on them.

Rhys blinked.

He knew that fae. Amarantha had torn their wings from their back and sent them to Tamlin. They had died.

Months ago.

What was it he had thought, again? Laying there in a pool of his own and Feyre’s blood?

He’d wished it could have been different. Wished that he’d heeded the dreams Feyre had been sending his way for months.

Years.

What he wouldn’t have given for a different outcome.

It seemed the Mother had heard him.

Wasn’t quite done with him yet.

Rhys turned his back to the fae he’d startled, retreating from the throne room.

Feyre was coming, and he only had a few months to plan how he was going to save her. Change things, this time around.

He wouldn’t ever let her die again.

[jamdoughnutmagician]

Creatures Of The Night (18+)

Vampire!Eddie x Werewolf!Steve X Reader

Summary:Not very much here in terms of plot if we're being brutally honest, just some very fun and sexy times involving some monster steddie!

Warnings:NSFW, 18+, Making Out, Teasing, Fingering, Size Kink (slightly), Praise Kink, Oral Sex (Brief F Receiving), Missionary Sex, Cuddles afterwards for good measure!

Word Count:2, 213

Authour's Note:Maybe i'm unhinged for writing this but i'm just here for a good time and to fuck monsters, if that's not your thing then maybe this isn't the fic for you.

Masterlist

It was only ever under the bright white light of the moon that their true forms revealed themselves to you. The pitch black midnight provided them the chance to present themselves as they truly are.

Eddie with his pale skin, red-rimmed dark eyes, and spread of imposing bat-like wings. His wicked smile proudly shows off his two prominent sharp, pearly teeth. A few of his long dark curls had fallen loose from the bun tied at the nape of his neck, framing his pale face. He’d long been drawn to you, the scent of your blood called out to him, a rich, cherry-sweet scent unlike anything he’d ever come across before. His nose would brush against your neck, as his tongue licked over the pulsing veins in your neck, and despite it all, he could never bring himself to sink his teeth in, never wanting you to come to any harm, especially not at his cost.

And Steve, who’s broad shouldered frame is covered in thick coats of soft brown hair, his usual hazel brown eyes now glowed a honeyed golden sparkle in the moonlit dark of the bedroom. Even in his shaggy, wolf-like form there was still something incredibly human about him. The glint in his eyes that lets you know that underneath it all, he was still just your Stevie, and nothing could ever change that.

Maybe the way that you three came together each night wasn’t the conventional thing that was expected of three young adults living together in a small and quiet town like Hawkins but somehow you managed to make your rather unconventional situation work.

Most people wouldn't look twice at your boys in the harsh light of day. Steve in his usual look of light wash denim and striped polo shirts, a normal everyday outfit for the common man in Hawkins. And Eddie clad in his typical garb of some metal band's tour t-shirt, black leather jacket and black ripped jeans leading down to an old pair of tattered dark DMs was a look that most people turned their nose up at with a scoff. 

So yeah, mostly the residents of Hawkins, Indiana paid no mind to the two polar opposite boys who roamed their streets.

No. It wasn't until the sun dawned down each evening that your boys came out to play.

Being pinned between their two monstrous bodies was something that you welcomed. The touch of the supernatural was unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. 

It started out as a typical night, with you in bed relaxingly cuddled against the warm, soft hairs of Steve’s chest, fingers absentmindedly playing with his soft brown coat. Your head resting against him, listening to the steady beat of his heart, his chest rising and falling with every breath.

In stark contrast to the warmth you feel lying next to Steve, you feel Eddie’s presence sidling up beside you. The ice cold touch of his hand coasting up your arm as he leans in to press kisses along your collarbones, you feel his smirking smile against your skin as you shiver under his affections.

Eddie’s button-tipped nose is buried in the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of you with a deep breath, before pressing one more cold kiss just underneath your ear. 

Steve wasn’t blind to what Eddie was trying to do, in fact he all but encouraged the vampire’s quest to arouse you. Steve quietly chuckled to himself as he felt you slyly trying to grind yourself naked body into his hairy thigh where your legs were tangled with his under the bed covers.

"Well would you look at that.." Steve's deep voice rumbles out "..it would seem as though our mate is getting a little squirmy from all those kisses your giving her, Munson" 

"Indeed it would, Harrington. How about we do something about that, huh pretty girl?" Eddie asks you, his voice a low raspy whisper beside your ear.

You lift yourself from the soft comfort of Steve's chest to nod your head. 

"I'm gonna need you to use your words, Sweet Thing." Eddie purrs out, ever the tease.

You nod your head once more

"Yes please.." you breathed.

"Always so polite.." Eddie smiles. He looks over to Steve and gives him a subtle nod of his head, which Steve understands right away, as his massive hands gently man-handle you into a position where you’re sat on the bed, with your body relaxing back against his soft furry chest, your head leaning against his shoulder.

Steve’s large hands are pawing at your exposed chest, squishing the soft flesh of your boobs under his rough touch. His fingers eagerly toying with your nipples, rolling each one between the calloused tips of his fingers. His lips hungrily sucks dark marks against your skin, trailing his kisses up the side of your neck.

“Hold her open, Wolfie.” Eddie commands Steve teasingly, knowing how much Steve hated Eddie’s affectionate nick-name for him. 

Steve’s hands immediately skate down the sides of your body, his nails leaving light scratch marks as he does. His big hands settle themselves on the soft skin of the inside of your thighs before spreading them and holding them open.

Eddie stands up and makes his way over to where you're so tantalisingly spread out for him. Stalking the room, his dark eyes never leaving your exposed frame.

You watch his movements with anticipation. There’s a delicious heat that warms through you as you watch how he lewdly spits in his palm before dropping his hand down and teasing his cock in slow strokes, his thumb swiping over the mess of pooling pre-cum gathering at the tip as his fist strokes upwards making sure to glide over the prominent vein that runs the underside of his length.

"Don’t worry Pretty Girl, I'm going to make you feel real good, real soon" Eddie promised. "Just gonna let Harrington have his moment with you first, you know he's gotta stretch you out to get you ready for me"

You feel the insistent press of Steve's cock at your back and all too quickly you're reminded of why he has to stretch you out. In his human form Steve was not small by any shred of the imagination, but with enough prep and slow, gentle movements from both parties you could take him.

However, in his humanoid-wolf hybrid form it was a different story. Everything about him was bigger, in every sense of the word. Of course you’d tried to take him, so desperate to feel the stretch of him inside you, but it would be a while before you could accommodate the press of his thick length in your tight wet heat. For now you had settled on a happy medium of being opened up by the rough and calloused touch of Steve’s fingers.

Starting with only one of his fingers, carefully teasing his way around your pussy, gathering the wetness on the pads of his fingertips before drawing it up and rubbing on your clit in tight circles. His thick finger slips back down and slowly inches inside you, just letting you adjust to the feeling of his finger for a moment before he begins to thrust in and out of you.

Your head falls back against his chest whimpering quiet little moans into the crook of his neck.

“Aw, is Stevie making you feel good, Sweetheart?” Eddie’s voice taunts, a slight tone of condescension as he watches Steve slip another one of his fingers inside you, working them in and out of your wet cunt.

Steve noses into your hair, deeply inhaling the sweet scent of your shampoo, little gruff whines of approval falling from his lips as he feels you tighten around his fingers.

"That's it…There's my good girl, gonna come from me, aren’t you, Sweet Thing?" Steve growls against your skin, his sharp teeth nipping little marks against your neck.

You whine and babble incoherently as Steve continues to thrust his fingers and rub your clit in quick circles, holding you close to his body. 

Your orgasm rushes over you, clenching and pulsing against Steve’s thick fingers with a wet gush.

Steve gently rubs over your clit as tenderly as he can with his big pawing hands, helping you to come down from the high of your orgasm.

“There she is, my good girl…So sweet and pretty..” Steve breathes against your neck in-between placing tender to your skin.

“Think you mean our girl, Harrington. Thought you wolves were all about sharing with the rest of your pack, huh.” Eddie teases from where he’s sat on the edge of the bed, his dark brown almost black eyes scarcely tearing away from your steadily breathing frame. His long fingers are still slowly stroking over the length of his cock, keeping himself hard and ready just for you.

“You ready for me, Angel?” he asks, all too cocksure of the fact that you were never going to give him an answer short of a shy nod of your head and a breathy whine of ‘please’. 

“I’m ready please, Eddie..I just want to feel you..” you plead desperately, which earns you a rumbling chuckle from the vampire above you.

"Well since you asked so nicely, who am I to deny such a request?" Eddie smiles broadly, bearing his pearly fangs to you.

He leans his head between your spread legs, where Steve’s big strong hands hold you open, and places one soft, solitary kiss against your clit before sweeping his tongue the length of your pussy, slurping up glistening wetness.

"You know I can never resist getting a taste of your sweet cunt, my Darling" he purrs “..but it’s only fair that Wolfie here gets to have a taste too..” before leaning over your shoulder and bringing Steve close with a cold hand snaked around the back of his neck, his long fingers tugging into the soft strands of Steve's scruffy hair. Eddie presses his lips against Steve’s, his tongue slipping between his fangs to allow Steve to taste the sweetness of your juices in a heated and passionate kiss.

An appreciative growling hum resonates from the wolf as he licks his lips when Eddie pulls away from him.

“Always so sweet for us, Pretty girl..” Steve praises, making you beam under his affections.

“Oh! Does our pretty girl like being praised for being a good girl?” Eddie notes as he takes in the way you shy away into the crook of Steve’s neck.

Eddie hooks his finger under your chin, gently tilting your face up, forcing you to look at him.

You shyly nod your head, your words failing you as you’re pinned between these two supernatural beings.

“Well since you’re being such a good girl for us, then I guess it’s only fair that Eddie gets to feel you come for him the way I did.” Steve tells you, his fingers running back up your body to toy with your nipples.

With one more breathy whimper of ‘Please’ falling from your lips Eddie takes his cock in his hand and begins to sink himself into you inch by inch.

Eddie rolls his hips into you, filling you so completely every time he thrusts into you. The cold touch of his fingertips make you shiver as they sink into the warm, soft flesh of your thighs.

Steve takes his opportunity to snake one of his hands down your body to rub circles over your sensitive clit.

“Keep that up Harrington, she’s squeezing me so tight, she feels like a fuckin’ dream” Eddie praises as he continues to rut his hips into you, hitting against that spot inside you that has a flaring heat building in your stomach.

The lewd sounds of Steve’s growled kisses against your neck, Eddie’s sloppy thrusts as he chased his orgasm, and your own whining whimpers resound in the otherwise quiet bedroom.

It didn’t take much more than a few sharp thrusts from Eddie hitting so deeply inside you and Steve’s pawing hands rubbing your clit with just the right amount of pleasure that you were coming around Eddie’s cock. Your orgasm shuddering through your body.

With the way your walls were squeezing him so tightly Eddie buried himself deep inside you once more before he was filling you with the hot spurts of his release.

Taking a moment to gather yourselves, Eddie slowly pulls himself out of your tight wet heat with a hiss of sensitivity.

Steve pulls your body back to his, wrapping his arm around your shoulder, and placing a sweet kiss to the crown of your head.

“Did so well for us sweetheart.” Steve praises once more.

“I love you, you know that, right? Both of you?” you say, looking between the two creatures.

“Yeah we know you do, sweetheart, we love you too.” Steve smiles “Now, you get your blood-sucking ass over here, Munson. I’ve got two arms for a reason.” he smirks, gesturing to the other empty space in the large bed.

Eddie slinks over to the bed, sidling up to Steve, and for the rest of the night that’s how you two spend your time together. You and Eddie snuggled into the soft warmth of Steve’s chest, falling into a relaxed and easy sleep.

@sunflowerdaydreamer @munsonology @xxhellfiregirlxx

[the-sycophant]

FFXIV Write 2024 - Prompt 01 - Steer

Words | 682 ——————–

“Faster!”

She could imagine it, the bite of wind at her cheeks and ears, the cold at her toes. The sound of snow crunching underneath as she paved her way through it, molding the terrain to her command like she was a god. A god rushing down a smooth, untouched hill on a sleekly polished sled. Her knuckles ached from squeezing the rim of it, her elbows. A bumpy ride regardless, she hit roots and stones. Almost tipped each time. Almost.

Calyx was a professional at this, even with just his one arm. He had said it was a different creature that had taken it each time she would ask, and always had a different, but elaborate story to go along with it. A morbol, a wolf, a chocobo, a wooly yak that had suddenly been bestowed with the mad desire for human flesh. He had said it was another person, once, too. That interested her the most. He never said that again.

“Watch out! It’s a bear!!”

“I see it.”

His voice was soft, as it always was. She had never heard him speak above a whisper. It helped reign in her delighted screeching. 

Somewhat.

“A BEAR!! I’m gonna jump over it…and it’s not gonna get me!”

Wicker creaked as she tugged on its handles, trying to pick up speed, trying to BE speed. She was going to fly over it, she could see it in her mind. She could make the jump! She bent low in her sled-

“Oh, but what reach it has!”

“Calyx!!”

“It’s gonna get ya!”

She did fall, then, as the arm holding the basket she sat in made her fall. Made her tumble to the ground and squeal. The stone was not as fluffy as she imagined snow to be. It wasn’t at all like falling into a cloud of iced cream. “Waaaaah!” A loud, albeit playful, wail as said bear did get her. Her laughs were shrill, hiccuping, face red as she was tickled, as he *chomp chomp chomped* at her. “W-wait! My…my dress! My…you’re getting it dirty!”

He sat back, apologized, murmured that it was ‘just life’, that bears ‘had to eat too’.

But he had gotten her this dress- a coat, really. Powder blue and fluffed with so much fluff, balls of fur puffing out and swinging on woven strings. Pretty wooden buttons and shiny, pearlescent stitchings. She dusted herself off, stood. It was her most favourite dress. The prettiest. He had seen it while he was away, said he thought she would look cute in it. She did. She looked very cute, felt very pretty. “I wanna go again!”

“Now-”

“I wanna…I wanna…the bear- I was gonna fly over it. I was going so fast. Did you see!”

“Yes.”

“And I almost made it the whole way down this time.” She picked up her shiny sled, the wicker basket. Hoisted it over her head and held it high. “And I almost made it. And I couldn’t get around the bear.”

“I know.”

“I wanna go again, Cal! I wanna-”

“Brother.” 

She jumped, shrieked. Dropped the basket on her head and started running before she was grabbed. The basket grabbed. She wriggled, fought.

She was held.

“Mother would be displeased.” The masked man rumbled, eying the pair. Eying her dress.

They were to be reprimanded for ‘slacking’, for being caught outside of prayer.

“P-please, Cal…can’t I keep it? It’s mine!”

She was wailing proper now, blubbering into the pretty sleeve of her pretty dress as she held his hand. “It’s mine and you…and you got it for me! Please don’t let them take it away! It’s mine! I like it! I’m sorry- please don’t take it away!”

It was dark where they were going. It only made her cry harder.

“I-I-it’s mine and…I just wanna…go sledding I...I’ll let you steer this time, It’s…I just got it- it’s mine and…and…”

And he only said that he would get her a new one. When he could take her to see real snowy hilltops, feel the real wind and cold...then he’d get her a new one.

One of many lies.

[robthegoodfellow]

You Know You Gotta Understand

Bondage, Distracted Sex for Day 7/8 of @harringrovekinktober additional incidental Edging/Orgasm Denial, Praise Kink, Cock-Warming, Dom/Sub Dynamic

(roommates, kink experimentation, fledgling power dynamic negotiation, billy needs a binky, nsfw, immediately follows Let's Give the Boy a Hand)

After his bombshell revelation, Robin had wolfed the rest of her cone in under a minute, all the while prodding him down the sidewalk toward the cemetery—not because his life was over, but because it offered isolated benches, ideal for unburdening the soul.

Which is what he did, to an extent. Didn’t quite have the wherewithal to loop her in on the stuff he barely had the words for, himself—the… obedience stuff, the possessive stuff, the game they’d been playing, making the rules up as they went along. 

No, he mainly focused on the basics: how, under the gruff exterior, Billy was pretty great—funny, and considerate, and talented, and smart and—and actually, the gruffness had its own appeal, too, you know?

To her credit, Robin listened without judgment, nodding in apparent agreement, until he’d wrapped up his treatise on the wonders of Billy Hargrove with so we started hooking up a few weeks ago and she’d nearly fallen off the bench.

It’s not like we’ve—like, fucked, he clarified, assuming that had been the source of the tsunami. We’ve only—well, actually, we haven’t really kissed, now that I think about it. Not like full-on kissing. Mostly it’s been hand stuff and mouth stuff and like—uhm, cuddling?

Robin was blinking hard, still recalibrating. And… now you—love him?

Well, when she said it like that, it sounded stupid. Although, on reflection, I’m in love with him sounded even stupider. But he didn’t know how to put it into words. Listing it off—how he couldn’t stop thinking about Billy and constantly wanted to be near him and touch him—it just sounded like typical Lovestruck Steve, which was actually Infatuated Steve. Steve with a crush. Most of the time, a passing crush.

Maybe this time around just felt different because his crush was a guy? Like—the novelty made it more intense? Or—the other stuff? The game? The weirdly entrancing dynamic they were toying with?

Who could say?

I don’t know, he said, finally, and sounded so glum, so lost, that Robin patted his arm, brows arched in sympathy, and told him it would be all right.

.

When he got home, the couch had been scrubbed clean of every stain, the wake of Billy’s swipes still embedded in the grain of the fabric. Billy himself was fast asleep in his room, damp hair from a recent shower coiled on bronze shoulders, his arms folded under the pillow. The fan spun lazy overhead, affording a faint breeze through the rumpled sheet.

Steve knew with certainty he was buck naked under that sheet, the fabric draping his ass and upper thighs in a way that made him envy the cotton.

Every vestige of ice cream and Robin and emotional upheaval vanished the moment Billy murmured, “Hey,” and Steve jerked his gaze to meet sleepy blue. A come-hither blue, so Steve stepped inside, shut the door behind him, his pulse already skyrocketing at the shocky tension in the air.

Stopping by the bedside, he swept an appreciative stare down the length of the body he was coming to learn so well. Swept back up, but only got halfway—arrested by that ass. Because what an ass.

Obliging, Billy spread his thighs, arched his spine, and that was invitation enough. Steve perched on the edge of the bed, cupped the back of one thigh and smoothed upward, over the asscheek, fingertips tracing his crack.

Billy shivered, hips flexing under the sheet, thighs parting wider. Steve let out a rumbling hum, speculative, and kneaded the round swell of flesh, first one side, then the other, taking care to tease along the crevice with fingers and thumb.

“Let me see you,” Steve said, quiet, and Billy gulped, nodding against the pillow, lifted his hips to feel the drag as Steve drew the sheet down to the backs of his knees. “Wider.” And the knees inched further, so wide, his cheeks so parted Steve could see the furl of his hole, twitching as he clenched. “I can touch you there?”

“Yeah,” Billy gasped, burying his face in the pillow. “Yeah, yeah—”

Heart throbbing since the moment he sat down, it now hammered in his throat, his temples. A harsh exhale as the pads of his fingers drifted up an inner thigh, caressed the rise of his ass. Watched his thumb sweep to the fluttering hole, and press. Brush back and forth, learning the texture.

Steve heard himself start to ask, “You ever—?” 

“No.” The whimper was muffled, desperate.

It was like he’d slipped into a trace, hypnotized by his own touch—or the effect it was having. The thundering heartbeat was somehow distant. “Would you want that?”

The whimper slipped to a sob. “Yes.” A hiss, turned just enough, expression pinched in torment. “Yes. Now?”

“No.” Ignoring the whine, Steve stretched out alongside, hand coasting up his panting back. He nosed at Billy’s ruddy cheek—the one on his face. “Not now. But I want that, too.”

Before Billy could reply beyond a mouth lax in relief, Steve pushed him onto his back, leaning over him. Noted how his arms, formerly crossed beneath the pillow, were now arched above his head like a ballerina, fists gripping the upright slats of the bedframe. 

“Keep your hands there,” Steve said. Throwing a leg over Billy’s waist, he sat astride his stomach. Propped himself on generous pecs, and indulged in a long, luxurious grind, rolling his hips to relieve the mounting want. “I realized earlier—we haven’t kissed much.”

Distracted, it took a moment for the words to sink in. A furrowed brow, then: “Oh.”

Unsure how to interpret that reaction, Steve revised his initial plan to plow Billy’s mouth with his tongue. “Just an observation,” he said, mild, dragging gentle hands down the pecs as he straightened. He looked down, tracking where he brushed the backs of his fingers along the sloping skin beneath pert dusky nipples. “And we’ve kinda been—checking in before we do stuff. New stuff.”

“Yeah,” Billy acknowledged, eyes downcast when Steve flicked his up. “Kissing’s fine.”

The tone was distinctly unenthused. 

“It’s okay if it’s not fine,” Steve said, hushed like it was a secret. “If you don’t like it as much. Or at all.” Curious, he stroked Billy’s temple, down to his cheek. His chin. “Did you like it when I kissed you here?”

Billy squirmed beneath him. Nuzzled into a raised arm, abashed. “Yeah.”

Steve bent, ghosting his lips along a scratchy chin, shivering at the rough against thin skin. “Then I’ll keep doing that.” He trailed to his cheek, barely pressing, then bussed the edge of an eyebrow, a fluttering eyelid. “When you’re good.”

Burrowing into his upper arm again, a breathy sigh. “Was I?”

Steve made a thoughtful sound. “You cleaned the couch.”

“And the blanket,” Billy mumbled.

“And your arms are still where I want them.”

The fists tightened around the wooden spokes, voice likewise tight: “I like it.”

“Orders?” Steve asked, and kept his lips waltzing along the bristly chin.

“That, and—” It was like Steve could feel the blood rushing, heating his skin. A swallow, and Billy went on: “And not being able to—move. Much.”

The words hit like a punch, and Steve pressed his forehead to Billy’s brow, staving off the driving need to—well, drive into the body below him. Instead, he fumbled to undo his belt.

“What else do you like, baby?” Clumsy fingers struggled with his button, zip.

Another whine, faint and thready. “My... mouth? Want my mouth—full. Things in my mouth. Like—” He cut himself off, frustrated, and Steve shushed him, hand a blur on his stiffie, so hard it hurt. With his remaining brain cells, delegated his other hand to cup Billy’s face, smear gasping lips with a thumb, and Billy opened for it, eyes rolling closed as he sucked.

The sight alone, nevermind the wet suctioning heat—Steve grunted, ropes of come streaking the flushed heaving chest. And Billy kept sucking, lost in it, as Steve raked blunt fingers through his mess, then flattened his palm, rubbing it in.

“Let go, babe,” Steve whispered, winded, and his thumb was free—wet and shining. He put himself away, did up his pants, left the belt gaping. As expected, when he flopped to his original position stretched out alongside, he saw Billy’s poor neglected cock, rigid, flushed a deep rose, drooling on his belly. Tsking in sympathy, Steve settled his hand where Billy wanted it—then didn’t move. “You want to come right now, or be patient?”

Billy groaned, teeth bared in a grimace. A couple wheezing breaths, then: “Patient.”

“Okay.” He paused, toying with the sticky tip of the crown, smearing precome, a plan taking shape in his twisted, randy little mind. He was seriously turning into some kind of sex genius. Craning to Billy’s ear, he said, softly, “Here’s what I’m thinking…”

.

When Steve emerged from his own bedroom with the tie he’d worn to work earlier that week, Billy was kneeling in front of the couch, eyes a bit glazed, hands already clasped behind his back. Rather than go to him, Steve detoured to the TV, fiddling with the controls—sports and more sports this time of day on a weekend. NBA would do. Appropriate, given this all started from a casual chat during a basketball game. 

He pushed aside the coffee table, making room enough for him to crouch behind Billy and tie his wrists—not too tight. “Tell me if it gets uncomfortable,” he said, and Billy nodded.

Now he’d made it to this point in the plan, his thrumming pulse kicked up a notch, stomach pitching in anticipation. Stacking the throw pillows that had come with the couch, he made a cozy seat for himself, back against the pillows, placing him near enough the edge that Billy could reach him without straining, nestled between Steve’s legs.

You ready? he was about to ask, but one glance at Billy’s face and all language left him—as it had for Billy, clearly. The blue eyes were unfocused yet fixed, half-lidded, on Steve’s bulge, plush mouth parted, jaw hanging loose.

Steve pressed the heel of his palm to the base of his trapped cock, teeth clenched, lungs shocky. He had to last—this whole thing hinged on his lasting. Should’ve put on a movie, something more riveting than fucking basketball.

Wresting back control, he forced himself to go slow—unbutton his jeans almost absent-minded, take his time with the zipper. Fish his dick from his briefs, unrushed, eyes on the TV screen. Breathing even.

It was seven minutes into the first quarter, according to the announcer.

He gripped himself midshaft, held it steady, and waited. Couldn’t help his eyes slipping shut when blazing heat encased the tip, a swirling lick round the head. Blindly, he grasped for Billy’s curls, something to hold onto, and threaded his fingers deep, cradling the scalp. Coaxed him forward a bit, let him adjust, spit gathering at the lips, then slid further in, his cock gliding on a bed of tongue.

Sank as deep he could go—deep as Billy could take and breathe—and there Billy rested, warming the cock in his mouth, not sucking so much as… suckling? Was there a difference?

There was. Like this gentle, undulating pull, not enough to tug him over the cliff but enough to keep him balanced on the edge, drugged on it.

Steve was fast approaching mindless, buzzing blur between the ears, gaze locked on the television with every ounce of his willpower even as every sense registered the salty musk of their sweat and leaking spunk, the rasp of air through Billy’s nose, the sopping glove of his mouth snug and hot and perfect.

“Halftime?” Steve said, voice rough, shattered, when the whistle blew on the quarter. He had no idea the score—or even who was playing. The important thing was that he followed the bouncing ball back and forth down the court. “Halftime,” he decided.

Billy exhaled long, so long, the gust buffeting the base of Steve’s dick, his pubes, and his head tilted, cheek resting on Steve’s thigh with the air of someone settling in for a nap. Finally, Steve risked a glance down, and his stomach clenched, the banked heat flaring in his gut. 

Those eyelashes looked so long, brushing his cheeks like that, his brows relaxed but for the faint furrowed line that appeared when he swallowed down the gathered spit and precome Steve knew he was oozing like a loose faucet. 

Was it weird to think someone looked beautiful with your cock in their mouth? Because Billy did. He really did.

Breaths shaky all over again, Steve pet hair away from Billy’s face, softly as he could. Smoothed a thumb from temple to jaw, to the corner of his mouth, where his lips stretched around the intrusion. His lashes fluttered, and then dreamy blue stared up at him.

“Like you were made for me,” Steve said, wondering. “Made for this.”

A shudder, deep inhale, and Billy sank lower, skewering himself, plugging his throat.

“Ah,” Steve gasped, cradling the skull between his thighs. God, he wanted to drive deep, grab hold and just drill into him, but didn’t—didn’t. “Ah-ah.” Reproving, that time. “Be good.”

The pressure let up as Billy shifted back, contrite. Resumed his resting position.

“Halftime,” Steve reminded him, and Billy hummed, the vibrations skittering down every nerve ending. “Shh.” Stroked Billy’s hair, clinging to composure. “Shh.”

Over the next eon, Steve perfected the illusion that he was just… floating in a hot bath, maybe a jacuzzi with jets, to account for the waves of pleasure… 

These fucking refs, though. Just let them play, for Christ’s sake. Every whistle stabbed, the knife twisting the closer they crept to Steve’s self-inflicted finish line. And all these fucking commercials—

“Deep breath,” he said, with a minute left to go. Please God, no fouls. Just a sprint to the buzzer. He heard Billy inhale, and then Steve plunged, ground into the seizing inferno, holding him there, hips hitching, compulsive. He drew back, let Billy recover, then let it roll, jackhammering into him, feet planted on the floor, holding his head steady, drool dripping down his balls.

Seconds left, and Steve looked down again. Shaft sliding, gleaming spit, into lips swollen red, cheeks hollow as a starving man.

“Hungry, baby?” he said, and Billy’s moan rippled from his belly to his throat—shook Steve apart. Gulped him down.

Steve levered himself to the floor, and despite limbs loose as a rag doll, summoned the coordination to reach around, untie Billy’s wrists. “Sit, sit,” he babbled, lowering him to the carpet. “Lay back.”

Billy sprawled, dopey smile hitched crooked, his lashes wet. Didn’t seem to notice as Steve clambered half on top of him, though he hissed when fingers danced across his dick.

“You did so good,” Steve said, words hushed, and didn’t know why he kept his touch soft, a gentle rub where Billy’s cock lolled against his stomach. “So good. My good boy.”

A halting gasp, blinking at the ceiling, tear dripping down his temple into his hair.

“Billy.” Steve leaned forward, nuzzling his cheek. “Come for me. Be good and—”

Sharp inhale, and a full-body twitch wracked his frame, coating Steve’s hand in his release.

“Good.” He repeated it—good, good, good—wrapping Billy in his arms, smearing come between them. Rolled back, hauling Billy to lie draped over him, cradling his head to Steve’s shoulder.

Billy was quiet so long, save for his labored breaths, that worry sprouted in Steve’s chest. He’d been onboard with the plan, but maybe it’d been—too much?

“Baby,” Steve began, hands calming—and stopped, words caught in his throat. 

His throat, which Billy was kissing, light, lingering presses, lips buzzing with something barely audible. Like a purr. 

.

Now with following chapter: No Romeo, But He's My Loving One-Man Show

[witchthewriter]

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈𝐬 𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧?

⤷ commissioned piece, male reader.

Warnings: nothing

a/n: thank you to @rexburn12 for the commission!

ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ | ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ ᴵᴵ

In a hidden corner of the world where dark forests met silvered mountains, lived a creature of ancient power and unparalleled mystery. His name was Kiros, a rare hybrid of vampire and werewolf, born of a forbidden union between two realms that loathed each other. His existence was a paradox: the unyielding hunger of a vampire and the wild strength of a werewolf, bound together in a single, tortured soul.

Kiros Lucian Yoruba. Named after his grandparents as was a common tradition amongst werewolves.

Kiros’s beginning was a sad one. Only a few months into the pregnancy, his mother, a werewolf, had been bitten by a centuries-old vampire. The venom had worked its way through her blood stream and straight to Kiros.

In retaliation, his father; a noble and forthright man, had killed the vampire. Tracked him across the seas, all in revenge.

A true wolf, bitten by a vampire, had never happened before. Not in all of history. Until Kiros.

He became a myth, a legend. His story was one that the supernatural world told one another in front of fireplaces. It changed over time; each of the details changing in one way or another. As he was the type to keep to himself, Kiros never challenged the differing tales. There was no need to.

    So, thousands of years later, in the 20th century, Kiros now stood with a coffee cup in his large hand. His body had stopped ageing at 27, he stopped growing when he reached just passed seven feet tall. Watching over his land as the sun went down, in the distance he saw two figures approaching.

…

On the other side of the country, the Cullens had brought together their closest friends to stand against the Volturi. The young Renesmee had touched their hearts. Even those who had hearts of ice, were starting to melt.

And Irina had made a mistake and forced herself to come back to her coven to apologise. To grovel, in all truth.

“I had flashbacks of the past,” she said. Her eyes sad and tearful. She meant every word, and yet, she hadn’t entirely been truthful. But her family not knowing her true intentions would save them. Irina told herself that she could sacrifice one family for another. For the Cullens had been living a good life for a long time.

…

Kiros stood at the front door, his fist about to touch its surface when it swung open. A handsome blonde man, Carlisle from Alice’s description, stood before him.

   “We didn’t think you would get here so quickly; I hope your journey wasn’t too tiresome.” Well-mannered, Kiros noted and stared into the vampire’s golden eyes.

    “It was fine,” Kiros said in his deep and rumbling voice. It was pure earth. Unmovable, just how he appeared. “Where are they?”

 Carlisle’s eyes flicked from Kiros to the dense forest behind him. Kiros, with his depth-perception, noticed it and turned around.

There was movement, and then two large wolves appeared. They were startled to see him; none of the pack had noticed Kiros enter Forks, nor their territory.

   The untraceable speed was an ability that most of the supernatural world hadn’t seen. Kiros possessed many gifts that only a hybrid would; and he seemed to be the only one of his kind.

It was why unease had crawled its way through the Cullen’s residence. No one knew of a creature like Kiros.

  And that’s why Jacob had bid his new pack to disperse; but only the opposite was done.

Leah. The name echoed in Kiros’ mind. One of his four mates. One of the names Alice Cullen had promised him a month ago on his doorstep.

  Kiros walked down the front steps and one of the wolves whined. He ventured further but a warning growl sounded behind him.

   “I wouldn’t do that if I was you,” a young man stalked towards the two wolves from inside. A wave of anger crashed within Kiros.

  “I am not you,” he answered with a snarl. And Leah, now changed from her wolf form, made a small noise.

   “You?” her voice was harsh and yet familiar at the same time. Kiros’ attention turned wholeheartedly to Leah. And a rope had knotted itself between them. Tying them together for eternity.

This happened within seconds and nearly knocked the short-haired shifter to her knees. But her balance was rectified by Kiros. He seemed to leap through the air but again the shifters had been unable to comprehend the fast movement. Faster than any normal vampire.

   “I’m not your only imprint…

“How is that even possible?” Jacob said, clearly irritated. His arms crossed over his chest, almost as if he was trying to make himself appear larger.

   “It is not known,” Kiros replied.

…

“Alice should have told them,” Esme murmured to Carlisle. Three pale, blonde-haired women stood on one side of the room.

Kiros stood opposite them. His eyes moving from one woman to the next. None looked happy to see him. Not at all.

   The once crowded room had dispersed, leaving only the Denali coven, Carlisle and Esme.

Eleazar’s eyes went wide as his gift took in the stranger. Carmen noticed, her eyebrows knitting together with worry.

     “There have been myths about a being like you,” Eleazar said, barely above a whisper.

All Kiros gave him was a nod.

    “I really don’t care,” Kate said and started to move, her hand ready to attack.

“No-“ Eleazar said, watching on with the others as Kate advanced.

   But the severe nature that was expected did not appear. Kiros only smiled as he felt a small zap on his chest.

    “Huh… that should’ve-“

“Done something more deadly? Yes. It would have, if I was anyone else,” Kiros said, gently taking Kate’s hand and removing it from his body.

Something shifted in the room. To everyone but the three females, Kiros became infinitely more alarming.

But they understood him. Even though they were hesitant. The three women weren’t easily swayed, in most things. Their minds, their hearts and souls – were their own.

They wouldn’t let anyone change that.

Not a man.

Not a vampire.

Not even a Hybrid who had been alive for thousands of years.

But in that moment, Kiros had earned the three females’ respect.

[shiyorin]

Animal instincts

#Just romcom in 40K

#Today's menu: Leman Russ and Lion El'Jonson

#Primarchs x Reader, Reader is Imperial Agent

#Late Christmas gift and early New Year gift

Leman Russ

The endless snows of Fenris stretched as far as the eye could see, blanketing mountains and wilds alike under pristine powder. You found yourself overwhelmed at the awe-inspiring landscape, so different from your world upbringing. 

But greatest curiosity lay with one who called these frigid wastes home - Leman Russ, Primarch of the Space Wolves. You observed him now, surrounded by his warriors yet apart, a lone towering figure contemplating the white void. 

His austere features seemed carved from the very stone and ice encasing this planet, immovable yet holding untold depth and power beneath granite exterior. Thick fur-lined armor and coarse pelt draped his massive frame, like the predators ruling these inhospitable wastes.

But as Russ turned toward some comment, face transforming with gruff laughter at his pack's roughhousing, you saw not an impervious demigod but something familiar. Great shoulders shook in mirth like immense boulders slipping loose, blue eyes alive with warmth despite frigid surroundings. An involuntary thought slipped through, that in this moment, he resembled not conqueror but some canines, mighty and playful. 

Shaking off fanciful musings, you continued observant tasks, keeping distance respectful between yourself and the lords of this domain. But later as briefings commenced, Russ stopped his gigantic form before you, breath curling like frost wolves from a mouth curled in question. 

You blinked up into eyes keen yet gentle, all rational thought scattering like snow on gale winds. Impulse surged before discipline could rein it, and you found hands rising of their own accord to Russ' massive brow, carding gloved fingers through coarse hair as one might a trusted hound. 

Silence descended, thick as the powdery drifts. Russ' features slackened in blank shock, pale eyes blinking owlishly. "Lass..." he rumbled, uncomprehending. 

You started as if slapped, jerking hands back so swiftly your wrist protested. "My lord, I..." Words fled, face aflame to your hairline. What folly had possessed you so?!

Yet to your surprise, Russ laughed, a booming, resonant sound like glaciers calving. "By Fenris's ball, lass, yer got the spirit!" 

His tone held no anger, merely bemusement. But when you swallowed apologies, you glimpsed what may have been wistfulness flickering through feral eyes, gone as swift as the thought that spawned it. Had his invisible tail genuinely twitched to wag? Definitely you are crazy or something.

"Aye, lass. Well, if the fur satisfies yer hands, s'pose I'll oblige." 

To your shock, he leaned nearer once more, an unmistakable invitation dancing in blue eyes. Hypnotized, you carded soft locks obediently, finding they are softer than you think. Russ sighed, almost seeming to lean into your touch. An absurd image flickered of an immense wolf nuzzling against your hand, tail wagging invisible yet content. Smiling softly, you traced strong jaw and was rewarded with a look of such warmth and longing, all of your rational thought dissolved. 

Lion El'Jonson

Your survey of the growing threat in Caliban's wilds brought you regularly to the Lion's tower, poring over maps and missives seeking the root of corruption's spread. This eve found you and him yet at work as dusk deepened, twin flames bending over parchment and discourse. 

A lull arose as analysis hit dead ends once more, frustration mounting. You sighed and stretched tired limbs, risking a sidelong glance at your lord. The Lion remained absorbed, strong brows furrowed, stroking his trim beard absently as strategic mind raced. 

A strange thought struck then, in this dim shuttered space, with dusk masking Caliban's savage beauty, did he not seem every inch a great cat himself? Powerful yet graceful, thinking moves ahead with predatory cunning, alone yet bound to wilder instincts doubtless few witnessed.   

Before rational thought could intervene, curiosity overruled. Stepping softly, your hands found scratching points along Lion's bearded jaw and throat. Beneath your ministries his eyes slid shut, muscles unwinding with a contented sigh. Success! Like any feline such attentions soothed.

Encouraged, your nails lightly raked his scalp, eliciting a startling response, a primal rumbling purr trembled his massive frame. His relaxation vanished in an instant, eyes flying open to stare at your in wild-eyed alarm. 

You stumbled back several paces, own eyes round as moons. Had Lion just...purred? Like some overgrown house tabby? Your mind reeled, seeking logical explanations amongst unfathomable strangeness unfolding. 

Lion's pupils elongated before your gaze, resembling nought cat-like slits in green eyes gone feral-bright. His confusion melted into predatory stillness, fixing you with an eerie stare that raised all hairs standing on end. What strangeness possessed them?

For long moments you and him remained suspended, breathing halted, shock and unnamed sparks passing between hands dropped limp to sides once more. Then all broke at once, your stammered excuses and the Lion retreating to the shadows of his tower, retreating from… what?

That night, your sleep proved fitful, your mind restless with possibilities. Had you gone too far when crossed a line with Lion that afternoon, awakening forces better left slumbering? 

Morning comes, dread coiled cold and heavy in your gut. Open the tower's door with trepidation, you froze at the grisly sight awaiting just beyond threshold. A massive deer carcass lay splayed, crimson pool already attracting swarms of flies. 

Your breath caught in horror, had Lion's frustrations boiled over in vengeance? Was this brutal warning of what further torments awaited should your act overstep once more? Shaking, you backed hurriedly inside, thoughts whirling. 

Meanwhile across Caliban's wilderness, Lion admired graceful flickers weaving between ancient trees, oblivious to turmoil sown. Inhaling your lingering scent lost to the mists. Pride swelled that his token gained your notice, for what better way to proclaim your worth and pique your interest further? 

He would await your next visit, gifting further demonstrations of prowess to stoke your regard. In time, you would see none matched his prowess for providing and protecting what he deemed most worthy.

Extra:

Russ: Pat me, pat me, woof woof!

Lion: If I give a bigger prey, will the agent love me more?

[eilinelsghost]

The wolf howls. The ravens flee. The ice mutters in the mouths of the Sea. The captives sad in Angband mourn. Thunder rumbles, the fires burn – And Finrod fell before the throne.

[midnightsun-if]

how would the ROs react if someone was making MC cry?

(I'm asking this for all the people who hate conflict and feel like crying when anyone yells at them i.e. me)

Koda: His first instinct is to figure out why someone would do such a thing to you— it seems completely implausible to him that someone would wish to make you sad. The much stronger instinct would win, however. He’d quickly take you into his arms, probably rumble out a growl if the other person tried to do something in response, and just take you away. Would try to cheer you up with your favorite activities once you get back to the dorm. He just wants to make you smile again.

Scarlett: That person would be lifted up against a wall, sharp nails digging painfully into their neck, before they’d be even aware of the danger headed straight for them. Scarlett’s eyes would be nearly black with her rage. She’d hold back from doing anything permanent, however, because she knows that you need her, and she wanted to get back to you as quickly as she was able, she wanted to give you all the attention that you deserved. So she’d simply threaten them, probably leave them with a few bruises, and head straight back towards you and carry you back to the dorm. Being the sweetest/softest bean in the world the entire time.

Cyrus/Cyra: Their eyes would flash red, anger quickly causing flames to lick at their fingers, before they stop before the person. They wouldn’t even have to say anything, their presence alone, the way in which they were looking at the person, would showcase how fucked said person is. No one messes with a phoenixes bond-mate and no one will ever make you cry, not if they could help it. They’d be sorely tempted to do something, but they refrain, years of training kicking in, and simply watch as the person scampers off. Only when they’re sure you’ll be safe, that there wouldn’t be anything more coming, they’d turn to you, eyes shimmering a gentle gold, and ask you what you wished of them.

Quinn: It would take everything Quinn has to not shift instantly at the sight of your tears, at the sadness that etched itself across your face. Their canines and claws might sharpen, however, and it’d be clear to the person that if they didn’t back the fuck off soon then they’d be dealing with Quinn’s wolf— and Quinn’s wolf might just tear them apart. Quinn would take you somewhere you could relax, where people wouldn’t come across you both, and they’d simply comfort you— potentially shifting so their wolf can do so too. They don’t want to see you cry, and they’ll always try their best to abate it.

Caden: A sudden chill would work its way through the area, silvery eyes, tinged with a ghostly shimmer, filled with nothing but ice as they stride towards you. They wouldn’t hesitate in wrapping their arms around you, nor would they hesitate in giving the person a peace of their mind, the calm way in which they do it completely unsettling, without any hint of their normal flustered quality. Powers, that lurk underneath their skin, would beg to come out but Caden would stomp down the possibility. You were more important, getting you somewhere safe and sound, everything else came second to that.

Sloane: They’d see your tears, see the asshole in front of you, probably would have faintly heard what had been said… The math adds up. They’d punch the asshole in the face instantly and would grab them by the back of their collar before roughly shoving them away from you. A snarl would be on their face, eyes flashing like crazy as their wolf wished to appear, but they’d simply settle on a warning growl, a deep rumble from within their chest, in making the person stay away. If you weren’t there, and they didn’t have to get back to you, they’d probably do more, but they had to put their focus on you— take you somewhere else. Maybe they’d find the person later…

Blake: Their easygoing smile would vanish instantly, violet eyes going dark instantly, and they’d be by your side within an instant. They would want nothing more than to lash out at the person, which they’d do at a later date, but they needed to focus on you— not anything else that could potentially get in the way of that. They’d take your face in their hands, make you see them and only them, and ask you where you wished to go. They’d go anywhere you wanted to go in that moment, do anything, as long as they didn’t have to see you cry anymore. They hated to see you cry. Seeing it now? It would only harden their resolve to deal with this issue later.

Reginald/Regina: They wouldn’t really know what to do to be honest. A supernatural individual is making you cry? Not necessarily someone they could take in a fight, which they’re well aware of. But, seeing the tear tracks on your face, the sadness that etches across it, makes them not care. They’d definitely get in the persons face, damn the consequences, and once they feel like they’ve been correctly chastised— R would take you away from the entire situation. Probably would start rambling on various activities you could together/they might have planned. Anything to keep your mind off what had happened.

[princecharmingwinks]

Sterek Fic Rec - January 2023. I am hurting, team. I was one of the few that fully watched the movie and I can say, it hurt so much. You’ll find a lot of fix-it fics making an appearance below and over the next months because I need them. 

here is the repeated image of the lover destroyed by elisela (1/1 | 7K | Teen)

Stiles doesn’t go home right away.

The urge is there—when he answers the phone to Lydia’s shaking voice, when he gets the text from his dad, when he stares out at the sun glowing soft peach and golden over the buildings in D.C. and he thinks about Derek never seeing another sunrise. It’s there weeks later when he gets a check from the Estate of Derek Hale, when he crumples it up and throws it in the trash, when he fishes it out an hour later and tries to salvage it by weighing it down with a book from the Hale vault.

It’s there, it’s there, it’s there.

Stiles doesn’t listen to it.

Because Stiles isn’t going back to Beacon Hills to say goodbye.

A Big Surprise by novemberhush (1/1 | 1K | General)

If you go down to the woods today you’re sure of a big surprise...

Scott and Malia McCall’s youngest daughter is having a Teddy Bears’ Picnic-themed birthday party, but that’s not all the pack will have to celebrate today because Stiles and Derek have some exciting news to share with everyone.

A Divine Move by alikatastic (1/1 | 2K | Not rated)

After Derek died, Peter was the one to let Stiles know. Stiles rushed to Beacon Hills to attend Derek's funeral and take care of Eli. When Peter takes Stiles to the Nemeton to show Stiles what happened, they make a discovery. Derek was trapped in the nemeton. All they had to do was pull him out.

Is That a Gun In Your Pocket Or...That's a Gun In Your Pocket by Elpie (Horribibble) (2/2 | 8K | Explicit)

Derek Hale is the best boyfriend. He's sweet. He's funny. He recites Pablo Neruda completely unprovoked. He also happens to be in the murder business. But hey, nobody's perfect.

-

A romantic comedy with guns and roses. (Well, maybe not the roses.)

Last Lovesong of a Dying Lemon by wldnst | podfict by knight_tracer (1/1 | 10K | Mature)

Stiles' Jeep keeps breaking down. Derek is a mechanic.

Safe by Hedwig221b (1/1 | 976 | Not rated)

“Where is he?” Stiles rumbled, glancing at each member of the pack in front of him, before settling his incinerating gaze on one person he once considered a brother. “Tell me, Scott, where is my husband?”

Best Laid Plans by justonemoremiracle (1/1 | 2K | Teen)

As it turned out, spending months away from Beacon Hills —and thus, the pack— had completely screwed up his ability to come up with good, sensible plans. “… You’re asking me to be your fake boyfriend.” As a sidenote, Stiles had to give it to Derek. His ability to sound completely unimpressed, even over the phone, was stellar.

Cold as Ice by Gia279 | podfict by misswhimsy (1/1 | 10K | Teen)

A man stood in front of Derek, three feet away. He had blood on his mouth, throat, and left arm. He blinked at Derek but he looked more dazed than afraid. He grinned, baring bloodied teeth, held up two fingers, and rasped, “Hey,” in a voice that sounded like it hadn’t been used in weeks, before collapsing straight down in a dead faint.

Solitary Animals by Mollyamory (Molly) (1/1 | 13K | Teen)

In which the Alpha pack wants to take something important away from the Hale pack, and there's only one sure way to keep Stiles safe. Negotiations of a personal nature ensue.

Teen Wolf Movie: Post Credits Scene by HelloWhyTheFuckAmIHere (1/1 | 1K | General)

No post credits scene at the end of the Teen Wolf movie, you say? Maybe you just missed it...

princecharmingwinks special mention (The first fic that helped me breathe again after watching it. I didn’t really realise how long I was holding my breath until I read this <3)

like lightning to the abyss by evcndiaz (1/1 | 3K | Mature)

All that to say, he's asleep when he feels it. Asleep with his head pressed against his dining room table, drooling onto a stack of bills when the world (his world) suddenly falls out of orbit. It's different this time, though. Whatever fine-tuned sense he's got locked into Derek Hale doesn't just stumble this time, doesn't just hiccup like he's in pain. It goes quiet, there one minute, snuffed out the next.

Permanent.

Final.

Stiles is out the door before his phone even rings.

Or; Stiles brings Derek back to life. Because of course he does

Thank you Sterek fandom family, you are all helping me through this. Soon we will be able to consider the movie a distant memory that was just a bad dream. Until then, let’s stick together hey? Big hugs everyone!