#A Tale of the Southern Sky

[spikedfearn]

Under The Blood Moon

one-shot

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: in the humid belly of the night, you flee through the wild woods, breathless and bleeding, chased by a monster dressed in the skin of a man, and when he inevitably catches you, it's not to kill, but to keep. What follows is neither rescue or ruin, but a slow, savage claim written in blood, hunger, and heat.

wc: 8.1k

a/n: for this request, where anon wanted me to lean into Remmick's more monstrous side. My inbox is always open if anyone wants to submit more! also, thank you all so, so, so much for all the love, support, and general positivity you've all shown my fics lately—it genuinely means more than I can even put into words. I'm still blown away by the responses my fics have gotten in the last week, it warms my soul to no end every time I think about it <3 also have to credit axelboneboy for putting the idea of Remmick with a forked tongue in my head

warnings: heavy dubcon, dead dove: do not eat, blood kink, period sex, heavy breeding kink, monsterfucking, possessive behavior, coercive control, demon x human dynamics, religious imagery, breeding/ownership language, filthy talk, cockdrunk reader, forced orgasm, restraints/restraint kink, forced captivity, manipulation, southern gothic horror, explicit sexual content, obsession, violence, rough sex, blood play, dark romance,  somnophilia undertones (reader too weak to consent properly)

likes, comments, and reblogs appreciated!! please enjoy!!

M I N D T H E T A G S

Your breath saws raggedly through your throat as you run, legs scraping through the underbrush, branches slashing at your arms, the wet slap of mud against your calves. Your shoes are long gone, lost somewhere back on the splintered path—the soles of your feet raw and stinging with every frantic step.

Your dress, once a soft, homespun cotton in faded butter yellow, clings wetly to your skin, torn at the hem, heavy with damp earth and blood from shallow scratches. The thin petticoat underneath is ripped, the neckline torn where it caught on a low-hanging branch. Your bare legs gleam with sweat and dirt under the fevered gaze of the blood moon. The rough, hand-stitched seams bite into your skin with every frantic movement.

Behind you—

Footsteps.

Heavy, deliberate.

Not rushing, no.

He doesn't need to rush.

The blood moon glowers overhead, a bruised red eye in the sky, bleeding sickly light through the skeletal trees. The mist writhes around your ankles like grasping fingers, every breath clogged with the sour, choking scent of wet moss and rot. The forest feels alive—the cypress trees hunching closer, the swamp water sloshing in unseen black pools, the night thick with the buzz of unseen insects and the sticky slap of humidity against your skin.

You tear through a thicket, thorns slicing your thighs, the pain sharp but distant beneath the roaring panic. Your dress snags again—this time you rip free with a sob, fabric tearing in your frantic escape. You don't stop. You can't stop.

Your lungs burn. Your heart pounds a frantic, desperate rhythm against your ribs. Your hands are scraped raw where you shove branches aside. You don't know where you're going—only that you have to keep moving.

You think for one stupid, precious second that maybe you've lost him.

Then you hear it—

A low, rumbling chuckle.

The sound rolls across the mist like thunder, like a beast amused by the futile thrashing of its prey.

You shove yourself harder, feet slipping in the mud, the trees spinning in dizzy circles around you.

You should have listened.

The warning plays in your mind now, mocking and merciless—the old women in town, whispering in the feed store, their wrinkled hands making frantic crosses over their chests.

Don't go out on the blood moon.

There's something that walks these woods. A devil dressed in skin, hunting for its next meal.

You had laughed it off. Old wives' tales. A story to get unruly children to behave. Of course you didn't believe it...

Not until the heavy footsteps started following you.

Not until the woods seemed to shift, herding you deeper and deeper.

Not until the laughter—low, rich, and terrifying.

Your foot catches on a root hidden beneath the mist. You go down hard, the impact knocking the air from your lungs. Dirt and dead leaves cling to your palms as you scramble up, only to be yanked backwards by an iron grip around your ankle.

A scream rips from your throat as you're dragged across the ground, nails clawing uselessly at the earth, the taste of dirt and blood thick on your tongue.

"Well, lookie here," a deep, amused voice drawls from the shadows, thick with a Southern slur, soaked in heat and hunger. "Thought you could outrun me, lil’ hare?"

You kick, thrash, cry but—but it's useless.

He steps into view.

For the first time, you see him. Truly see him.

Broad-shouldered, wrapped in the kind of strength that speaks of old blood, of violence written into the bones. His bangs are slick with sweat and sticking to his forehead, catching the moonlight in glints of silver and soot. His mouth is a slow, cruel curve, teeth flashing when he smiles—serrated and sharp, dangerous in their promise.

And his eyes—

God, his eyes.

Deep, burning red, like fresh blood spilled on freshly fallen snow.

They glint at you through the mist, pinning you in place, drowning you in a voracity so raw it almost hums against your skin.

You whimper, trying to crab-crawl backward, but he just tilts his head, slow and mocking, one hand reaching lazily down to wrap around your ankle again.

"You run real pretty," he murmurs, accent thick and sweet as sap dripping down the bark of a Maple tree, "but you ain't got nowhere left t' go, sugar."

The gnarled woods close around you, the mist swallowing your pitiful cries, the trees bending low to listen.

And the monster—

The one you were warned about—

Grins as he pounces.

The world spins in a dizzy, mud-slick blur as he crashes into you, the full weight of him knocking the breath from your lungs. His hands are everywhere—rough palms sliding up your trembling thighs, your waist, trapping your wrists above your head with a grip so strong it aches.

You thrash, wild and panicked, but it’s like fighting against a landslide.

Every frantic buck of your hips, every desperate twist of your wrists, every teary plea for help, only seems to amuse him further.

He straddles you easily, his thighs like iron on either side of your hips, his body radiating impossible heat. His breath ghosts over your neck—slow, savoring—and when he inhales, it’s with a deep, shuddering drag, as though he’s drinking you in.

You go still.

Frozen.

A scared little rabbit under the paw of a hungry wolf.

Slowly, he lifts his head, and when your eyes meet his, your heart lurches sickly into your throat.

Those eyes—

Red as the blood moon above.

Glowing, starving.

The corner of his mouth curls, a slow, predatory grin, delighting in your overwhelming fear.

"Y' smell it, don't ya?" he murmurs, low and thick with appetite. His nose brushes the curve of your neck, inhaling again, greedily, his voice gone almost reverent. "Sweet lil' thing...bleedin' just f'me."

Your stomach turns over, nausea and terror twining like barbed wire.

He slides lower, his body pressing yours into the soft, damp earth. You can feel every strong inch of him—the way the metal of his belt buckle digs into your hip, the way his thigh muscles tense against you like a coiled predator savoring the final moments before it goes in for the kill.

His nose trails down, brushing the hollow of your throat, the dip between your breasts—slow, agonizing, torturous.

You try to pull away—

He growls.

Not a human sound.

Something low, rattling. Monstrous.

His hand tightens around your wrists until your bones creak. His other hand snakes between your bodies, grabbing your skirt—what's left of it—and dragging it higher, baring your thighs to the muggy night air.

"No use runnin' now," he says, almost gentle, as if talking down a skittish animal. His accent thickens, each word dripping slow as syrup, artificially sweet. "Gotcha all laid out pretty...just how I like ya."

You whimper, twisting helplessly, but he just chuckles deep in his chest, the sound vibrating against your ribs.

And then he goes still.

For one terrible, breathless second, he freezes—nostrils flaring, whiffing deeply, body tense as a drawn bowstring.

His gaze drops between your legs—to where your petticoat is soaked through, a dark, spreading stain betraying you to the night.

The change is instant.

A groan tears from his throat—raw, guttural, almost pained—and when his eyes meet yours again, they're molten red, desperate, devouring.

"God Almighty," he rasps, voice cracking like dry kindling. "Ain't nothin' in this world sweeter than a bleedin' cunt."

You sob, humiliated, terrified, as he shifts lower, his body dragging down over yours.

One hand shoves your thighs apart—roughly, possessively—while the other pins your wrists like shackles above your head.

"You don’t even know," he murmurs, almost tender, mouth ghosting over your inner thigh, his breath scorching hot, even in Delta’s sweltering humidity. "Don't even know what you’re doin' to me, sweet pea."

You can feel it now—his mouth, open and panting against the sensitive skin of your thigh, the tremble in his hands as he fights the urge to tear you open like a cat stretched over a fresh kill.

He presses his face against you, inhaling, low and deep, the sound of it filthy in the night.

And then—

He licks.

Long, slow, obscene—dragging his tongue up the seam of your cunt through the blood-slick cotton, a helpless whimper shuddering out of you before you can stop it.

He growls in response—a sound of such raw, savage pleasure you feel it bone-deep.

"That's it," he croons against you, dragging his mouth over you again, harder now, more desperate. "Let me taste it, baby...let me drink ya down."

You shake your head weakly, gasping, tears kissing along your water lines, vision blurry.

He only laughs —low and delighted—and tears the soiled remains of your petticoat aside with a quick, brutal rip of fabric.

And then there’s nothing between you.

Nothing but blood, skin, and his appetite.

Your thighs quake against the rough spread of his hands as he forces you open wider, his breath scorching hot against the most vulnerable parts of you, the parts that have never known a man's touch.

For a moment, he just stares—a low, reverent rumble building in his chest, vibrating through the muggy, blood-heavy air.

You choke on a sob, trying to squirm away, but his fingers dig bruises into your thighs.

"Nuh-uh, sugar," he murmurs, thick with amusement, the sharp scrape of his accent dragging down your spine like a blade. "You gone run enough."

You feel the shift—

Feel it deep in your marrow—

When he leans in and lets his mouth part against you.

A soft, wet, sinful sound fills the air as he licks—

And not just with any tongue.

When he drags it up your slit, you feel it—the unnatural split, the way the forked ends flick and curl separately, tracing obscene patterns through the slick, blood-slick folds of your cunt.

Your whole body seizes, a ragged, fragmented noise spilling from your throat.

He hums low—pleased, greedy—and licks again, slower this time, letting the twin points of his tongue tease your clit, your opening, flickering back and forth in a rhythm that makes your back arch high against the dirt.

"Mmm," he groans into you, nosing deeper, breathing you in like he means to fill his lungs with nothing but your scent. "Ain't never had a taste so fine. Like honey drippin' straight from the comb."

Tears streak from the corners of your eyes and down your temples, hot and shameful. You wrench your wrists uselessly against his grip, but he just pins you harder, his hand tightening like an iron shackle around your wrists.

He pulls back—just enough for you to see the blood slicking his lips, his chin—

And the red gleam of his eyes as he smiles, wide and mean.

"You wanna know what I was fixin' t' do t' ya?" he drawls, voice syrupy slow, full of wickedness. "When I caught ya runnin', I thought I'd rip that pretty lil' throat open. Watch ya bleed out all soft an' sweet beneath me."

You sob—broken, desperate.

His smile sharpens.

"Still might," he says, almost cheerfully, leaning back in, his nose nudging your clit so softly it makes your legs jerk. "If ya don't play real sweet for me, darlin'."

The implication settles heavy as stone in your gut—brutal, absolute.

Be good.

Or be dead.

You nod, trembling so hard your teeth chatter.

He croons a soft, pleased sound, rubbing his cheek against your inner thigh like a cat marking its prize.

"That's my girl," he says, thick and low, tongue flickering out to taste you again—slower now, more savoring. "Gonna treat ya real nice if ya stay still f'me."

You do.

You have no choice.

And he devours you.

The twin forks of his tongue work you open mercilessly—teasing, dipping, thrusting, flicking over the swollen nub of your clit in relentless, devastating licks. The sensation is too much—too sharp, too wet, too filthy—and you sob against the onslaught, your hips bucking helplessly beneath his iron grip.

He groans against you—filthy, hungry—and the vibrations make your vision white out at the edges.

"You taste like a blessin'," he mutters into your cunt, grinding the words into your skin with his mouth. "Sweet lil' Sunday sacrament, all laid out f'me t' worship."

You gasp, legs trembling violently, as the first orgasm builds—fast and brutal, cresting through you with the same merciless inevitability as the hunter pressing you down into the dirt, refusing to let up.

You don't want it.

You don't want it.

You can't want it.

But your body betrays you—spasming against his mouth, a shuddering cry breaking loose from your throat as you come, helpless and raw, against the wickedly incessant flicker of his tongue.

He moans as if your climax is the answer to damnation.

When you finally sag against the ground, limp and wrecked, he rises up over you—his mouth and chin slick with blood and slickness, his chest heaving, his cock straining hard against the rough denim of his trousers.

And for the first time—

There’s something in his face that’s not just hunger.

Something softer—

Something almost awed.

"Didn't think," he says roughly, almost to himself, "you'd be this damn sweet."

He leans down, pressing his forehead to yours—a rough, possessive, almost tender gesture.

"Ain't lettin' ya go now, sweet pea," he whispers, voice cracking like a prayer. "Ain't never lettin' go."

His hands trail down your body—calloused, devout—and you realize with a sick, fluttering horror that he’s not finished.

Not by a long shot.

He’s only just getting started.

You’re barely aware of him moving—too dazed, too wrecked—until the earth suddenly tilts wildly beneath you.

He rises to his feet in one smooth, terrifying motion, hauling your limp body up like you weigh nothing at all. His arms lock around your thighs, hoisting you over his broad shoulder, your face bouncing helplessly against the curve of his back.

The rough weave of his shirt scrapes your muddied cheek, damp with sweat and the humid Mississippi night. His scent floods your nose—salt and soil, blood and musk, something darker, wilder, something inhuman.

You whimper—too weak to fight—as his hand slaps possessively against the back of your thigh, holding you steady like a trophy kill.

"Shhh," he croons, his voice a low rumble vibrating straight through the very marrow of your bones. "Ain't no good wigglin', sweet pea. Y'belong t' me now."

Your fingers scrabble weakly against his shirt, nails catching on the coarse fabric, but he just laughs—a low, satisfied growl that rolls through the mist like thunder.

He starts walking—long, lazy strides deeper into the woods—further from the safety of town, further from anyone who could possibly hear you scream.

The trees lean in overhead, their gnarled branches clawing at the blood-colored sky, the cry of the cicadas like a chaotic choir, being taken deeper into the ugly underbelly of the forest.

The swamp breathes heavy and wet around you, the thick reek of stagnant water and moss closing over you like a suffocating shroud.

You can't see where he's taking you.

You can barely think.

Only feel—the slow, relentless sway of his body, the iron strength of his arms locking you in place as you look at the passing blur of gnarled foliage and plant litter every which way you twist your neck.

And his voice—

Low, filthy, almost tender—

Whispering promises against the slope of your thigh, each word branding itself into your skin.

"Gonna keep ya," he mutters, almost to himself. "Chain ya up nice 'n' sweet...keep ya all soft an' wet f'me...pretty lil' plaything, made jus' fer me."

You sob quietly, the sound muffled against his back, not that anything other than things that go bump in the night would hear anyways.

He doesn't stop.

Doesn't waver.

Just keeps carrying you deeper and deeper into the black heart of the woods, where no one will ever find you.

Where you’ll be his.

Body and soul.

Whether you want to be or not.

The world sways sickeningly with every step he takes.

Your body hangs limp over his shoulder, the thin fabric of your torn dress sticking to your skin, soaked through with sweat, blood, and the sticky breath of the Delta night. Every time he shifts you higher, the calloused drag of his palm across the backs of your thighs sends a tremor through your aching muscles.

The woods are different here.

Deeper.

Darker.

The trees older, skeletal and gnarled, twisted into shapes that look unnaturally human in the bloody moonlight, the knots in the bark large and gaping like mouths frozen mid-scream. The air thickens, heavy with the reek of standing water, mold, the cloying sweetness of rotting flowers.

You choke on it—each breath a struggle, sticky and wet in your throat.

He walks without hurry, the heavy tread of his boots sinking into the soft, muddy earth. The mist clings low around his legs, swallowing the ground whole. Crickets scream somewhere in the black, distant and frantic, but otherwise the world is eerily, horribly still.

You try to lift your head, try to see, but it only makes your vision tilt crazily, a low moan of sickness rising from your gut, feeling the bile trying to crawl up your esophagus.

He chuckles—low and knowing.

"Easy, lil' thing," he drawls, one broad hand stroking up the back of your thigh like a man soothing a spooked filly. "Ain't no sense gettin' y'self all riled."

His bloody fingers trail higher—under the torn remains of your petticoat, brushing the damp, sticky mess between your thighs. He hums, pleased.

"Still drippin'," he mutters almost to himself. "Still sweet."

The mist parts ahead like a curtain—and then you see it.

The chapel.

Or what's left of it.

A crumbling ruin of warped wood and sagging stone, half-swallowed by ivy and moss. The windows are shattered, jagged teeth of stained glass glinting in the blood moon's light. The steeple leans drunkenly to one side, bells long since stolen or fallen.

It should have been abandoned.

It was abandoned.

But now—

It breathes.

The mist coils around its dirty white skeleton, hugging it tight, the trees bending low like penitents around a grave.

He shoulders through the warped doors, boots echoing hollowly against the splintered floorboards. The air inside is thick—choking with mildew, smoke, old blood, the slow, sweet rot of something long dead, something long past salvation.

He carries you down the nave like a groom bearing a bride—if the groom were a wolf and the bride a carcass.

In the very center of the chapel, where once an altar might have stood, there’s only a low, crude bed—little more than a frame of old wood lashed together with vines and rope, a soiled mattress bowed low in the middle. Chains dangle from the bedposts, dark with rust, heavy enough to hold an ox.

Your heart stutters against your ribs.

He stops at the edge of the bed and lets you slide from his shoulder like a sack of grain, dropping you onto the mattress with a grunt. The springs wheeze under your weight. You scramble weakly, trying to push yourself up, but he just watches—arms folded, a slow, wicked grin playing at the corners of his bloody mouth.

"Look atcha," he says, voice dripping slow and fond. "All scared and pretty."

You whimper, trying to scoot back—away from him, away from the bed, away from the chains meant to shackle you to the floor. To him.

He lets you.

For a second.

Then he moves—faster than you can track—grabbing your ankle and yanking you back down the mattress with a savage jerk that knocks the breath from your lungs, chuckling low and mean under his breath, smiling like a predator playing with its food.

He looms over you—all broad shoulders and hungry red eyes, his chest heaving, his hair sweaty and sticking to his face. The crumbling roof of the chapel overhead caved in like a skylight created by time and erosion, the moonlight streaming in creating a bloody halo behind his head.

You kick out at him, weak and feeble. He catches your other ankle, spreads your legs wide with ease, and pins them to the bed.

"Y'know," he says thoughtfully, almost conversational, "I ain't never done this before."

You stare up at him, wide-eyed, chest heaving.

"Usually," he drawls, slow and deliberate, your blood dark and drying to his jaw, teeth sharp and daggered like the canines of a beast. "I catch my prey...an' I tear it open. Bleed it dry. Toss what's left t' the buzzards."

His hands slide up your calves, over your knees, rough palms mapping the shivering muscle of your thighs.

"But you..."

His grin widens, sharp and wicked.

"You got somethin' special in ya, sugar. Somethin' sweet. Somethin’ addictin’.”

His hands move higher, pushing the torn hem of your dress up around your hips.

"Gonna make a pet outta you," he murmurs, almost worshipful. "Gonna keep ya chained up nice and proper. Keep ya fed, keep ya warm...keep ya wet and loose."

You sob, twisting against the hold he has on your legs, but it only makes him chuckle low in his throat.

"Not just a meal, no sir," he says, voice thick with something like wonder. "Ain't never turned a meal inta a pet before."

He leans down, his mouth brushing your ear, his breath hot and damp and hungry.

"Gonna fuck ya every which way," he whispers, each word sinking into your flesh like thorns pricking your skin. "Gonna break ya in nice and slow. Make ya forget y'ever had a name b'fore me."

You shake your head, tears spilling over.

He just laughs—low and delighted—and kisses your temple, obscene in its mockery of tenderness.

"You'll see," he croons. "Ain't nothin' sweeter than bein' wanted, sweet pea. Nothin' sweeter than bein' kept and cared for.”

He shifts, reaching for the chains.

You hear the clatter of iron against wood, the heavy clink of rusted links.

Your blood goes cold.

You realize—

This isn't a nightmare you can wake from.

This is your life now.

Your body.

Your blood.

Your soul.

All belonging to him.

And the monster smiles.

The chains rattle in his fists, thick and rust-bitten, heavy enough to feel like fate.

You kick again, heart thundering in your chest, but it’s nothing against him.

He grabs your wrist with one hand, slamming it down against the splintered wood of the bed frame. The iron cuff closes around your wrist with a brutal finality, locking tight with a groaning snap of the old metal.

You cry out—a broken, pitiful sound that nothing but the cicadas will hear.

He shushes you—a low, almost tender croon—as he grabs your other arm, dragging it above your head and shackling it too.

The chains clink as you struggle, the cold bite of them against your bruised skin making you tremble harder.

"There we go," he murmurs, stepping back to admire his work, red eyes gleaming under the dripping shadows of the ruined chapel. "All trussed up like a good lil' prize hog."

You sob again, humiliated, terrified—but he only grins, predatory and bright, his chest rising and falling with heavy, panting breaths.

Slowly, leisurely, he kneels over you.

His hands trail down your body—dirty palms leaving streaks of blood, sweat, and swamp filth over the ruined silk of your dress. He hooks his fingers into the ripped neckline and tears—a wet, brutal sound of fabric giving way.

Your dress peels open like fruit skin, baring your chest to the swamp-choked air.

He makes a sound then—not quite a growl, not quite a groan—something broken and devout.

"Goddamn," he breathes, one palm spanning your ribs, feeling your heart rabbit helplessly beneath the thin shell of bone and skin. "Y'look sweeter 'n a sunrise after the flood."

His thumb brushes one nipple, watching it harden instantly under the humid chill.

You try to twist away—shame burning hotter than the blood in your veins—but the chains rattle uselessly, locking you in place.

He chuckles, low and dark.

"Ain't no hidin' from me, sugar," he says, rough and sweet, dragging his knuckles down your trembling belly. "Ain't no shame neither. Y'was made fer this. Made fer me."

His hands find the bunched remains of your petticoat around your hips.

Slowly—cruelly slow—he tears the rest away.

Until you're laid bare before him.

Blood-slick, shaking, eyes wide and wet.

He stares at you for a long moment—drinking in the sight of you like a starving man at a banquet that hasn't been permitted to feast yet.

You can feel the weight of his gaze—heavy and hungry.

"Mmm," he hums deep in his throat.

"Prettiest lil' pet I ever seen."

He palms your thighs, rough thumbs pressing bruises into the soft flesh as he pushes your legs open wider.

You sob—mortified, helpless—but it only seems to please him more.

"Lookit that," he murmurs, dipping his head down, close enough that his breath fans hot across your cunt. "Still bleedin'...still so damn sweet."

And then—

The flicker of heat—

The twin points of his forked tongue lash out, slick and obscene, stroking along the weeping seam of your cunt.

You gasp—body jolting violently against the chains—a sharp, helpless cry tearing from your throat.

He groans deep, low and guttural, as he licks again—slow, deliberate—tasting the blood and slick pooling between your thighs.

He moves with maddening patience—the split tips of his tongue teasing either side of your clit, circling, flicking, taunting.

"You hear that?" he mutters thickly, rubbing his mouth over your cunt, tongue dragging up every inch of you. "Hear how messy y'are f'me, sugar?"

You can't answer.

You're beyond answering.

Your thighs quiver against his shoulders, muscles locking and spasming as he devours you—slow, relentless, merciless.

He pulls back only long enough to watch you squirm—your face flushed, your lips trembling, your hips jerking up helplessly as if chasing the wicked flick of his tongue.

"Poor thing," he croons, mock-sweet. "Y'bleedin', cryin', achin'...and ya still openin' them pretty legs f'me."

He laughs—low and pleased—and dives back in, feasting like a man who'd been starved for a hundred years.

You can already feel yourself unraveling—

Can feel it building again—

That terrible, traitorous heat coiling low in your belly, shame burning so brightly it tastes like iron on your tongue.

He tongues you deeper, forked tongue writhing against your soaked, blood-slick entrance, and you sob, straining against the chains as your body gives in.

You come—

Harder than before—

Your cunt clenching helplessly around nothing, your blood and slick gushing against his mouth.

He groans, hips grinding into the bed, rutting against the mattress like he can't stand it, like the taste of you is killing him.

He pulls back, panting hard, mouth and chin dripping in a fresh coat of crimson.

When he looks at you—

It's not just hunger.

It's possession.

"That's it, baby," he rasps, voice raw, shredded with want. "Give it all t' me. Ain't gonna leave nothin' behind."

You whimper brokenly, chains rattling as you pull uselessly at your bonds.

And then—

You see it.

Him undoing his belt.

The clink of metal, the low rasp of fabric sliding down heavy thighs.

His cock springs free—thick, veined, flushed red—already weeping at the tip.

Your mouth goes dry with terror.

He crawls up the bed like a predator stalking wounded prey, his glowing eyes locked on you, his smile wide and merciless.

"Gonna claim ya proper now, sugar," he says, his voice low and trembling with barely-restrained hunger. "Gonna fuck ya bloody, fuck ya dumb...make ya forget the whole damn world 'cept me."

You sob, head thrashing weakly against the mattress.

He just laughs—low, light, loving—as he fits the head of his cock against your slick cunt.

And pushes in.

The first push of him inside you is a shock—

Stretching, burning, splitting you apart on the thick, heavy drag of his shaft.

You sob, twisting against the chains, but he just groans guttural and filthy, shoving deeper with a slow, brutal roll of his hips that forces your body to open up for him.

"There we go," he pants, sweat dripping from his brow to your heaving chest. "Takin' me real sweet, ain't ya, darlin'?"

The stretch feels endless, unbearable—every ridge and vein of him dragging against blood-slick, swollen flesh.

Your body tries to resist, clenching tight, but he's relentless—grinding deeper, forcing himself past the trembling, fluttering grip of your cunt.

"You fightin' me," he groans, voice ragged with pleasure, "but ya can't stop it, can ya? Body knows. Body knows who owns it now."

Tears spill from your eyes, hot and helpless.

The chains rattle with every shuddering breath you take.

He leans down, pressing his forehead against yours, his skin sweaty and warm same as yours, trapping you together in the sticky, blood-sweet air.

"Y'made fer this," he whispers, voice breaking on the edges of worship. "Made fer me."

With a slow, grinding thrust, he bottoms out—buried to the hilt, your body stretched taut around him, trembling with the effort to contain him.

He doesn't move at first.

Just breathes—hard, shuddering—his cock pulsing hot inside you, his hands gripping your hips so tight you know you'll wear the bruises for days.

"Sweetest cunt I ever had," he murmurs, almost dazed, rolling his hips just enough to grind against the blood-slick walls of your cunt. "Sweetest thing I ever tasted."

You whimper, wrecked, overwhelmed.

He starts to move—slow at first, almost lazy, dragging his cock nearly all the way out before slamming back in with a wet, obscene slap of skin on skin.

The bedframe groans under the force of it. The chains rattle. The chapel breathes with the rhythm of it—an old, rotted cathedral witnessing your ruin.

He keeps his forehead pressed to yours, breath coming hot and ragged between clenched fangs.

"Fuck," he snarls, thrusting harder, grinding deep. "Ain't never...fuckin'...lettin' you go, sugar."

Each word is punctuated by a savage snap of his hips, driving you higher up the mattress, making the iron cuffs bite deeper into your bruised wrists.

Your world narrows to the brutal stretch of him inside you, the thick heat of his body pinning you down, the filthy grind of his cock dragging more slick, more blood from your battered cunt.

He groans again—a raw, broken sound—and pulls back to stare down at where your bodies meet.

Blood coats his cock, painting the base of it slick and glistening in the crimson moonlight.

He growls—a deep, vibrating sound—and slams in harder, hips jerking.

"Bleedin' all f'me," he mutters, awe bleeding into the filthy cadence of his voice. "Markin' me proper. Good lil' bitch, lettin' me ruin ya."

You sob—don't know if it's from the pain, the shame, the unbearable rush of something darker pooling low in your belly.

He leans in, dragging his split tongue up your throat—slow, languid—tasting the salt of your skin.

"Gonna fill ya up," he rasps, thrusting harder now, the rhythm getting ragged, desperate. "Breed ya good. Chain ya to this bed and fuck ya full every night till y'don't know nothin' but my cock."

Your hips jerk helplessly against him, legs trembling, blood and slick dripping down your thighs onto the ruined mattress.

He bites down suddenly—not hard enough to break the skin, but hard enough to bruise—right over the frantic pulse at your throat.

You keen—a high, broken noise—and the orgasm hits you like a lightning strike.

Your cunt clamps down around him, spasming violently, drawing a raw, broken snarl from his chest.

"That's it," he growls, fucking you through it, his cock thickening even more inside you. "That's it, dove, milk it. Milk it good."

You come undone—

Body locking, heart hammering, chains rattling—

As he drives you through wave after wave of brutal, bloody pleasure.

His rhythm falters—

Hitches—

And with a hoarse snarl, he slams deep one last time.

You feel it—

The hot, thick flood of him spilling inside you—

Coating your walls, mixing with the blood already slicking your thighs.

He stays buried deep—panting, shaking, his arms trembling where they cage you in.

For a long moment, the only sound in the chapel is the labored, broken gasps of breath—his and yours, tangled together in the hot, heavy dark.

He nuzzles into your throat, murmuring low, senseless things against your skin.

"My girl," he breathes, over and over, as if trying to convince himself. "My sweet girl."

You lie limp beneath him—wrecked, used, ruined—your body claimed in every way it can be claimed.

And somewhere—

Buried under the terror, the humiliation—

A dark, terrible heat begins to flicker in your chest.

You're his now.

There’s no going back.

And the monster—

The one you were warned about—

Whispers that maybe, just maybe—you don’t want to.

The world feels soft and hazy when he finally moves.

You’re barely aware of it—just a weak, blood-warm ache where your legs sprawl open, your wrists burning raw from the chains. Every nerve ending feels stretched thin, humming with the aftershocks of being wrecked and claimed and ruined.

He shifts over you—his cock sliding free with a wet, filthy sound that makes you flinch—and you feel the thick, sticky mess of blood and come seeping down your thighs.

You whimper weakly, body too used up to fight.

But instead of leaving you—instead of walking away like the monster you thought he was—

He stays.

He kneels between your ruined thighs, the broken mattress sagging beneath his weight, and for a moment he just looks at you—head cocked, hair wild and dripping sweat, red eyes burning.

Something like awe flickers across his face.

"Sweet lil' mess," he murmurs, voice thick, almost tender.

One large, calloused hand cups your knee—thumb stroking slow, idle circles into your bruised skin—as he leans in.

You feel the first press of his tongue before you can even gasp.

He drags that wicked, forked tongue up the inside of your thigh again, lapping at the blood and slick smeared there like it’s the finest ambrosia.

He groans deep in his chest, his hands tightening on your trembling legs to hold you wide open for him.

You sob—broken, humiliated—but he just keeps licking, slow and steady, cleaning you up like a beast grooming his mate.

"Can't waste none of it," he mutters between licks, his breath damp against your skin. "Every drop...mine."

You twitch beneath him, wrists jerking weakly against the chains, but there’s no strength left in you.

There’s no fight left at all.

He licks higher—over the tender, battered folds of your cunt—gathering the mixture of blood and seed with obscene thoroughness, his tongue darting deep, savoring every taste.

You shudder violently, a broken whimper escaping your throat.

He shushes you again—so softly, so lovingly it makes your heart twist.

"Easy, sweet pea," he croons against your skin. "Ain't hurtin' ya now. Jus' takin' what's mine."

His tongue splits and flicks, teasing your clit, making your hips jolt despite yourself.

"That's it," he murmurs, smiling against you. "That's my good girl."

When he’s satisfied—when every drop of blood, every smear of slick has been licked from your trembling body—

He pulls back, wiping his mouth lazily with the back of his hand.

He looks down at you sprawled out on the soiled mattress—swollen wrists chained, thighs open, skin sticky with sweat and tears—and his smile softens.

"Pretty lil' thing," he murmurs, reaching out to thumb the tear tracks from your cheeks. "Took it so good. Knew ya would."

You try to flinch away from his touch, but it’s pathetic—a trembling, fragmented twitch.

He hums low in his throat, pleased.

Slowly, purposefully, he reaches for the shackles binding your wrists.

For a sick, dizzy second, you think he’s going to tighten them—punish you for even thinking of pulling away.

But instead—

You hear the click of old iron locks giving way.

The weight of the cuffs falls from your wrists, leaving raw, angry bands of flesh behind.

You sag back against the mattress like a puddle of liquid bones and flesh, too stunned, too hollowed out to move.

He watches you for a moment—head tilted, red eyes gleaming—like a man admiring the final brushstroke of a masterpiece.

Then he moves.

He scoops you up with terrifying ease—one hand under your knees, the other cradling your back—lifting you like you're weightless.

You make a weak, pitiful sound against his chest, but he just hushes you—soft and sweet—pressing a rough kiss to the crown of your filthy, sweat-drenched hair.

"Shhh, baby," he croons. "Ain't gonna hurtcha. Ain't gotta run no more."

He carries you to the far corner of the chapel—to a weathered old pew tucked into the shadows—and settles down onto it, shifting you into his lap like you belong there.

Your thighs straddle his hips, your chest crushed against his filthy shirt, your legs dangling uselessly on either side of his body.

He rocks you—nice and easy—the way a man might rock a newborn calf.

And all the while, he talks.

Low, sweet, steady.

"Got a place fer ya," he murmurs into your hair. "Back in the bayou. Little cabin where nobody'll never find ya."

His hands roam lazily over your battered body—soothing, petting, possessive.

"Got a bed there," he goes on, voice almost dreamy. "Big enough to tie ya spread-eagle. Big enough t' keep ya wet and ready all the time."

You shudder in his lap—a broken, helpless thing—but he just rocks you harder, nuzzling into your neck.

"Teach ya how t' live on nothin' but my cock and my seed," he whispers. "Keep ya full, keep ya heavy...make ya forget the whole damn world but me."

You sob softly against his chest.

He smiles against your hair.

"That's it," he croons. "That's my sweet girl."

His hand slides between your thighs again—unhurried, filthy—and cups the used, swollen heat of your cunt, thumb stroking lazy circles into the mess he left behind.

You twitch helplessly in his lap.

"Always knew I'd find somethin' special out here," he mutters, more to himself than to you. "Didn't reckon I'd find my forever meal...my lil' blood-slick pet."

He presses his mouth to your temple—a kiss, obscene in its tenderness.

"Mine now," he whispers. "Mine 'til the river runs dry."

The chapel groans around you—old wood settling, whispering, watching—as he rocks you slowly in his lap.

You’re weightless against him.

Soft.

Malleable.

The chains are gone, but you’re no freer than you were before.

Your body has surrendered.

Your mind—

God help you—isn't far behind.

He hums low under his breath, a tuneless, lazy thing—some old hymn twisted into something darker. Something damned.

His hands roam over you without hurry—stroking your bruised thighs, cupping the raw stretch of your hips, smoothing down the arch of your spine.

One of his palms cups the back of your head, pushing your face against his chest, holding you there like a possession too precious to lose.

"You feel it, don'tcha," he murmurs against your hair. "Way y'body melts into mine. Way y'cunt still pulses f'me even now."

You whimper—soft and splintered—and he smiles, wide and slow.

"Don't fight it, sugar," he says, low and coaxing. "Ain't nothin' left but me now."

You feel the slow, lazy roll of his hips beneath you—the thick, heavy press of his cock, still slick and blood-warm, nudging insistently between your thighs again.

You sob weakly, your body jerking against his.

But it’s useless.

Inevitable.

He shifts you higher, lining himself up, one broad hand guiding your hips as he pushes back inside—slow, deep, claiming.

You choke on a whimper, trembling violently in his lap as he fills you again—stretching your battered, blood-slick cunt to the limit.

"There we go," he croons. "There she is."

He rocks you on his cock—gradual, thick, obscene—grinding deep with each lazy roll of his hips, never pulling out, never letting you escape the feel of him inside you.

His mouth finds your ear, breath hot and heavy.

"Y'ain't even know my name yet," he murmurs, almost laughing. "Been takin' ya, ruinin' ya, bleedin' ya dry...and you don't even know what t' call me."

You shudder helplessly against him.

He presses a kiss to the hinge of your jaw—filthy, tender.

"Remmick," he breathes.

"That's what ya call me, sugar."

Another slow grind of his hips—another thick, aching thrust deep inside your ruined cunt.

"Say it," he whispers, voice breaking sweet and sharp against your skin. "Say my name."

You sob—mind reeling, body burning—but the word tumbles out of you like a rejected prayer.

"Remmick."

He groans, raw and reverent, and rocks you harder, the weathered pew creaking beneath the slow, punishing grind of his body.

"Good girl," he pants, forehead pressing to yours. "Sweet lil' thing...mine now. Mine forever."

He kisses you then—

A brutal, clumsy thing—

Mouth crushed against yours, tasting of blood and salt and something older. Something primordial.

You sob into the kiss, legs trembling against his hips, your body clinging to him without thinking, without reason.

Remmick smiles against your mouth.

"That's it," he murmurs. "Ain't no runnin' now. Ain't no leavin'."

He rocks you again—slow, deep—every thrust branding you, sinking you deeper under his spell.

"You got my name now," he whispers, voice thick with triumph and devotion. "And soon enough, baby...you gonna carry the rest of me too."

His hand slides down, splaying wide over your lower belly—

Possessive, filthy, promising.

"You gonna carry me inside ya, sweet pea," he breathes, voice almost shaking. "Gonna grow fat an' heavy with me...my blood, my seed, my babies."

You sob against his chest—wrecked, overwhelmed—as he rocks you through it, slow and relentless, every movement carving your fate deeper into your body.

And Remmick—

The monster, the devil, the man—

Just holds you tighter, crooning low and filthy against your skin.

"My girl," he whispers. "My sweet, bleedin' girl."

The slow grind of him inside you never stops.

Remmick rocks you lazily in his lap—the pew creaking under the weight of his possession—each slow thrust pushing you deeper under, erasing everything but the burn and the stretch and the unbearable, filthy tenderness of him.

Your head lolls against his shoulder, sweat-soaked hair sticking to your temples, every nerve frayed to a live wire.

He strokes your back in long, rough sweeps—the calluses of his palms rasping over every bruise, every bite mark, every blood-smeared inch of you.

"You feel it, don'tcha, sugar," he breathes into your ear, voice sweet and sticky as syrup. "The way yer body listens to me now. Way it wants me even when you don't."

You sob weakly, too broken to deny it.

His arms tighten around you—one locked around your back, the other spreading wide over your hips, guiding you up and down the thick, blood-slick length of his cock.

"You was made fer this," he murmurs, his breath hot and humid against your skin. "Made t'be mine. Made t'be fucked full, bred fat, kept warm an' wet in my bed."

He rocks you harder—deeper—the swollen head of his cock grinding up against that raw, aching place inside you, making your whole body jolt and shudder helplessly.

Your wrists curl weakly against his chest, the instinct to cling overpowering even your fear.

Remmick hums low, satisfied.

"Good girl," he praises, voice rough and ragged. "Good lil' thing, clingin' so sweet."

He kisses the side of your throat—a slow, open-mouthed drag of lips and teeth—and you feel him smiling against your pulse.

And then his voice drops lower—softer, darker—as he begins to whisper.

"But if y'ever think about runnin'..." he murmurs, rocking you a little harder, his cock dragging thick and slow inside your cunt, "if y'ever try t'leave me, lil’ hare...I'll hunt ya down."

You shudder violently in his arms.

"I'll drag ya screamin' back by that sweet lil' ankle," he whispers, almost lovingly. "Chain ya tighter. Fuck ya harder. Make sure next time ya can't even walk."

You sob—broken, breathless.

He kisses your ear, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your tears.

"Maybe I'll break that pretty lil' ankle," he muses, his voice so soft it’s almost a lullaby. "Keep ya bed-bound...keep ya needy...make ya beg for me t'feed ya, to fuck ya, to touch ya."

You whimper, hips jerking against him without meaning to.

Remmick groans low in his chest, thrusting up deeper inside you.

"You'd look so pretty like that," he pants. "All bruised up an' cryin'...beggin' me to keep fillin' this sweet lil' cunt."

His hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit—swollen, aching, blood-slick—and starts to rub slow, relentless circles.

You gasp, high and needy, clutching at him, legs trembling where they sprawl weakly around his hips.

"That's it," he breathes, rocking you harder now, rubbing you faster. "Cum f'me, sugar. Milk me good. Show me who ya belong to."

You sob, mind fracturing under the thick, unbearable pleasure—under the dirty, endless tenderness of his voice—under the awful, overwhelming rightness of it.

Your orgasm slams into you—sharp, brutal, dizzying—your whole body clenching down around him, sobbing his name against his throat.

Remmick groans, burying his cock deep one last time, grinding slow and thick against the fluttering spasms of your cunt.

"That's my girl," he whispers, voice cracked and worshipful. "My sweet, bleedin' girl. Mine."

He holds you through it—rocking you gently, slowly—cooing filthy promises against your skin.

"Never lettin' ya go," he breathes, voice drunk with possession. "Never."

And you know—

With a dark, shattered certainty —

That he’s telling the truth.

Your body trembles in his lap—used, slick, overflowing—and still, Remmick doesn’t stop.

Still buried deep inside you, he rocks you lazily—thick, slow drags of his cock against your raw, battered walls, the wet, messy sound of it filling the ruined chapel.

You whimper, limp and broken against his chest.

He shushes you, petting your hair, pressing kisses to your temple, your jaw, your throat.

"That's it, sweet pea," he praises. "Just keep takin' it. Keep takin' me."

His hips move slower now—deep, grinding thrusts that make you feel every vein, every throb of him inside you.

You sob weakly when you feel the telltale pulse of his cock thickening again—feel the way he holds you tighter, groaning low in your ear.

"Poor thing," he breathes, voice shaking with hunger and something darker, deeper. "Ain't built t'keep up, are ya?"

He rocks you harder, the sticky, bloody mess of your body clinging wetly to him.

His mouth finds your ear again—voice low, filthy, almost laughing.

"Y'know why?" he whispers. "Y'know why ya break so easy f'me, sugar?"

You whimper, unable to answer, unable to think.

He licks the shell of your ear—slow, lazy—before speaking again.

"'Cause I ain't no man, sweet thing," he says, voice rich with wicked delight. "Ain't no mortal that tires out an' falls asleep after one fuck."

He grinds deeper—hips jerking, cock twitching inside you.

"A demon’s stamina," he murmurs, "ain't like a man's."

You shudder violently in his arms.

"I can do this," he breathes, voice low and full of terrible promise, "forever."

He thrusts again—slow, heavy, final—and you feel it.

Feel the thick, molten flood of him spilling inside you again—hotter, heavier than before, painting your ruined cunt, seeping out around his cock.

Remmick groans low, deep in his chest—a sound full of brutal satisfaction.

He holds you there—stuffed full, pinned tight—grinding the mess deeper with lazy, possessive rolls of his hips.

"There we go," he murmurs against your throat. "Fill ya up good. Mark ya so deep ya gonna leak me out fer days."

You sob, a broken little sound that only makes him hum in pleasure.

He strokes your hair, your back, rocking you gently in the wreckage of the chapel.

"You're mine now," he whispers. "Ain't no priest, no preacher, no god up there that can take ya from me."

He kisses your temple—filthy, loving.

"Belong t' me, sweet lil' thing," he breathes. "My pet. My meal. My mate."

You lie limp in his lap, broken open, owned.

And you realize—with a dark, awful clarity—that you don't even want to run anymore.

You belong here.

With him.

Forever.

And the monster—

The demon—

Your Remmick—

Rocks you slowly into the night, crooning sweet, filthy promises against your skin.

[risingoftime]

SANCTIFIED LIES | REMMICK X F!READER | PART ONE

synopsis: they say the devil drinks blood and hides in the woods just past the burned-down church. But you know better, the devil wears charm like cologne. The devil has hands that once pulled you from a fire. The devil kisses like he remembers every version of you and mourns each one. You should run. When he looks at you like you’re the last beautiful thing left in this godforsaken town, the hate dissolves on your tongue, and all you can taste is the ghost of his mouth sweet with lies.

18+ mdni, mentions of the KKK & racism, remmick has a saviour complex, explicit sexual content, blood play, predator & prey, vampirism, biting, rough sex, southern gothic erotica, reader is a hoodoo practitioner, slow burn, fire, manipulation, swearing, spit kink, dirty talk (remmick knows how to talk a girl through it), oral, face fucking.

The fires started slowly: a tiny house, a sharecropping community, then the fields that once paid your granddaddy’s bills. Folks say it’s the heat, the drought, or maybe God has come down to smite what’s left of this cursed parish. But you know better. You’ve seen how the flames dance, too clean and precise. The way they lick up walls like they’re searching for something. You’ve felt him near before the smoke even rises. Remmick never leaves soot on his boots or ash on his collar. No, the devil here walks like a man, smells like cedarwood, and falls from grace. And whenever you hear the sirens wail, you wonder if it’s your turn to be saved or sacrificed.

You woke up in the middle of the night to the smell of thick smoke being carried in the humid southern air. The covers clung to the perspiration that coated your skin as you threw them off your body to the side. Looking out the window, the night sky pulsed orange and red. Down the road, you could see your neighbour’s house lit up like a lantern, flames dancing greedily along the porch beams. You could hear the screams, muffled at first, but their pleas grew louder to a high shrill, then nothing at all—just the crackle of fire swallowing wood, bone, and memories.

The Klan must have struck again. Nothing felt real, and everything looked straight out of a fever dream. You stumbled out barefoot with a heart thudding against your ribs like a warning, but you already knew you were too late. The land around you, once quiet, now reeked of smoke and heavy sorrow. Cotton fields looked like little ghosts in the distance, and the countryside plantations were still fresh, a cruel reminder that nothing ever really changes in the Mississippi Delta. 

There he was when you looked off to the yard's edge, past the gnarled oaks and overgrown cotton fields. Remmick was watching, shirtless and still as death, a hunter stalking his prey, awaiting the perfect time to strike. You squint your eyes to see if your sight has tricked you. Searching for any signs that may relieve the unease in your spirit. The longer you looked, the more wrong he felt. A single White man observing from a distance the Black community of sharecroppers. The breeze shifted around him, and the cicadas fell quiet in his presence. 

You'd heard all of the stories from your mama and other kinfolk. The tales that are whispered after baptisms and buried deep beneath the guise of our hymns that we hum. They were about things that wore the shape and skin of a man but walked in the shadows, older than time as we know it. Things that couldn't cross salt and garlic or enter uninvited. You don’t know how long you’ve been out there, but you can sense it. It’s been a while since the crowd started to disperse and return to their four-walled sanctuaries. You took note of the death looming around from the devastating fire and returned to your grandmother’s home. Someone will see to it shortly. 

You pressed your hand against the door frame, stilling your heart as you locked up again for the night. However, you could still feel him, similar to a weight in your chest. He wasn’t just watching; it was a silent warning, and you were sure of it. But fear didn’t come easily to you. Not since you were twelve when your grandmother taught you how to boil bones and speak to your ancestors for guidance. Before she passed, she handed you an old silver key that opened a crawlspace under the floorboards and taught you, “Whatever walks through that field, baby, don’t let it catch you unarmed.”

You lit the lamp and sat down at the table. Your bloodline blessed you with prayer and ash. Your hands moved gracefully, pulling all the things you would need close. Dirt from your mother's grave, a twist of black thread, and dried petals from your grandmother's rose water jar. The wind whistled low and strange, the tide of grief kissing the grounds of your yard. In the distance, you could hear the firefighters put out the resisting flames, but the souls of the house were long gone by the time they’d arrived. Outside, Remmick hadn’t moved from his hiding place. He was waiting for the night sky to be the darkest and the moon to rise at its highest. 

Suspicion is useful when you know how to wear it correctly. It was armour under a nightdress. You crushed the grabbed items, binding them together with a pinch of grave dirt and spit. The words came next and rolled off your tongue in your grandmother’s voice. Protection charms don't work if you whisper them scared. You could feel him coming closer now. The land between you was shrinking, inch by inch.

Remmick wasn’t just a man. You knew that long before tonight. A man didn’t pull flame from bone or walk through housefires without smoke in his hair. You were just a girl then, wide-eyed and disobedient, pretending to sleep but watching from behind the simple linen curtains. Your grandmother had told you to shut your eyes, say your prayers, and rest. But you didn’t listen. And now, all these years later, you’re sure he was the one who started it. A man didn’t make the living restless every time he passed by. After the fire, the whole street wore silence like mourning clothes. The house was gone, nothing left but blackened wood and the smell of something far worse than ash. Nobody talked about the screams. Nobody talked about how the fire danced, moving faster than any flame had a right to. They sure as hell didn’t talk about the figure that walked calmly into the flames, then vanished before the sirens arrived. It had seemed like you were the only one who had remembered what that White man looked like emerging from the flames with blood smeared across his mouth and dripping down to his chest. 

Uncertain about Remmick's intentions and unwilling to discover them, you secured the charm bag firmly around your wrist. Searching through the jars in the kitchen, you found garlic and ate two cloves. The unliving had begun to walk among us, and we could no longer hide. It was time to expel the evil, even if it was just you. You were tired of running, navigating through the world with a bent head and pleading hands to the White man who constantly undermined you and spat at your feet. That’s when the knocks came, and it wasn’t at your door. Remmick dragged his claws across the window pane, and the thin glass threatened to crack under the pressure of his touch. His shadow loomed from the moonlight, causing his figure to appear on the curtains. You didn’t even think to peek in the corner, in anticipation that he might try to break it open. 

Your breathing turns shallow as you try to think of a plan, but your mind remains blank. There was nowhere to run. Remmick was goading you, seeing what he could get away with before you met your endpoint. He was now on the roof, and the only hint of his footsteps echoing above your head was the ceiling, rickety and creaking under his weight. He was on your Mama’s roof. The haint blue paint covered the front porch, and Nana believed any protection against haints was reasonable. However, you weren’t sure Remmick was a haint, although he seemed restless towards achieving a goal. The problem is that you didn’t know what he wanted. Too afraid to think of what was worse, an aimless monster or a trained predator seeking his prey. 

A tiny rock shot through the wooden door like a bullet, grazing the side of your cheek and drawing a surprised yelp out of you. The hot, stinging sensation was immediate. An inch further to the right, and it would've been over for you. You felt the blood trickle down your face. 

As if it summoned Remmick to move closer to the edges of the house, he yelled out.  His voice is gravelly and urgent with an Irish rasp. “Didn’t mean no harm, just wanted a word, is all. Could we have a talk, yeah?” 

You paused before opening your mouth, “S’alright, it's a tad bit too late to be chattin' up strangers.” 

When he walked up on the sea blue porch, Remmick made it known that he ain't no regular haint. He was something far more sinister. “We both know i'm not no stranger, now do we?” His voice was almost amused, like he savoured the truth you’d tried hard to forget.

You couldn't answer. Your throat had run dry, and your joints signalled you to run, but your feet stayed rooted to the wooden floor. The porch screeched, and then you saw him peek his eye in the hole he had created in the door. 

“Ain’t no need to be afraid now,” he said softly, eyes flicking to the blood still drying on your cheek. “Let me in, sweetheart. Just for a minute.” Remmick’s smile wasn't welcoming, and it was calculated and waiting. “I got all night. But you and I both know… It’s easier when you open the door.” The porch boards groaned beneath his weight as he reached the last step.

“Say yes, and I swear I’ll be gentle.”

The mojo bag pulsed at your wrist like a second heartbeat. He couldn’t cross the threshold unless you let him. And he knew it. Still, he lingered with a purpose. Remmick let the silence stretch for a breath too long, then slipped a small silver flask from his pants pockets. Without breaking eye contact from the makeshift peephole, he popped the cap and poured the liquor steadily across the porch boards, spraying it across where your grandmother used to set out sweet tea and protection jars.

The sharp scent of whiskey hit the air like a warning, and he took a swig of the last drop before putting it back. 

“You know, back in the old days,” Remmick murmured, striking a match against the wooden panels,

“Folks didn’t wait for witches to come out polite.” The flame flared, gold and hungry. He held it close to the wood, just long enough before continuing. “They burned ’em. Said it cleansed the sin. Said it set the spirits free, same thing I overheard you, Mama, chat about.”

He leaned forward, flame dancing in his eyes. “But me? I wanna talk.” He flicked the match to the side onto the grass, not lighting the porch yet. 

But the threat still stood, “open the damn door, girl. Or I’ll let the fire do the askin’.”

You yanked the door open with rage fresh on your face and fury hot in your belly. “Yah, do you think fire scares me?” Your voice was sharp like a knife, waiting to gut whatever it came in contact with. This porch held sacred memories, your grandmother's humming and Sunday prayers. Stepping close to the doorway, close enough for your shadows to meet. 

The way Remmick looked at you like you were some missing piece he’d been hunting for across lifetimes made your skin prickle. It was in his eyes that had seen too many wars, too many deaths, too many rituals performed by candlelight and blood. 

“You think I’d come all this way just for talkin’?” he asked incredulously. “You got what I need, girl. Somethin’ old and powerful.”

He tilted his head, gaze dragging over the mojo bag tied to your wrist with a knowing curiosity, “Your blood carries a name older than yours. And I reckon your ancestors know mine.” A cold wind pushed through the trees, and somewhere, something howled.

You yanked your mojo bag tighter on your wrist, heart pounding but unwavering. “You ain’t the first devil to knock on this porch, Remmick. And you sure as hell won’t be the last.” If you didn't have your grandmother’s house, you had nothing. Your siblings didn’t stick around for long after her heart ran out. But you stayed, gave her the best burial that you could manage out back. You wrapped her in linen and laid her to rest beneath the willow tree out back, the one she always said hummed when spirits passed through.

The Mississippi Delta was your home. All that you've known. Remmick won’t be able to run you out that easily. You’d be damned if he lit your grandmother’s house to nothing but ash, the same way they burned every proof that a Black woman ever owned anything worth keeping.

Every board held a prayer. You could still hear your mama’s voice humming “Wade in the Water” when she hung herbs to dry.

“I was born on this land,” you said, voice low. “My mama picked cotton ‘til her fingers split. My grandmama kept a roster of every lie the white folks told. They worked this dirt, prayed over it, and died on it. And now you think you gon’ scare me off it?” 

“I ain’t here for no quarrel… unless you make me earn one.” Remmick took one step towards you, stopping short of the doorway, as if it pained him that he couldn’t maneuver his body through. You took a step back in return, more instinct than fear, but he noticed. 

“I remember this place,” he murmured, glancing toward the willow tree. “Your grandmother used to have a heap of rituals for protection, she said. Against things like me.” You felt the chill curl around your spine.

“She knew you?” 

Remmick smiled then, slow and humourless. “Knew of me. Your kin have been dancing with shadows longer than you think.”

“You got her eyes, y’know,” he said. ”That fire in your veins? Your foolish heart? It was hers before it was yours.” He crouched, letting his fingers play with the pool of liquor that he spilled. “Precious blood runs in you,” he said, voice dipping low like a secret. “Same as hers. Same as the ones before her.”

You tried to let the words digest, but your mind has yet to wrap its mind about how a man who doesn’t look a day over thirty knew your bloodline. “Blood that doesn’t just call spirits... it bends ‘em. Breaks ‘em. Feeds ‘em.”

“That’s what your grandmother never told you, right?” His voice softened, almost pitying. “She shielded you as best she could. Wrapped you in prayers and grave dirt. Hid you from the ones who’d drink you dry just to taste a little of that power.”

You didn’t move, didn’t breathe. “But me?” He tapped his chest with two fingers. “I don’t wanna bleed you, baby girl. I want to build with you. You and I could own every acre from here to the Gulf.” He grinned, wide and wolfish, like he could already taste it. "All you gotta do is let me in."

“I ain’t born yesterday, you ain’t welcome ‘round these parts.” You stated.

He got up to his full height, towering over you. His pupils flashed red for a split second. “You ready to burn with me, baby girl?” In a flash, before you could blink, he got out his pack of matches and lit one. Remmick struck the match against his boot. A hiss, a flare of orange, and then he pressed the little flame to the porch rail. The old wood caught instantly, hungry after so many dry seasons. Flames licked upward, low but fast. 

Your rage was insurmountable, but something profound inside you shivered awake. The air around you shifted, thickened, heavy with the copper scent of stirred magic. The flare that had just begun to spread stuttered. The wood blackened but refused to break. The fire coiled on itself, guttering, whining that it's been trapped. 

Remmick’s eyes narrowed, watching. “There it is,” he said, a rough purr. “Knew you had it in you.” As he stepped back from the smouldering porch, the matchbook dangled from his fingers.

“You ain't just your grandma’s girl,” he murmured. “You're a goddamn birthright walking.” You barely heard him. The power in your body pulsed once, twice, a rhythm as old as the Delta itself. And though the fire still flickered at your doorstep, it did not touch you. The fire roared where Remmick had pressed it to the porch rail, growing faster than it should have. The flame that stuttered moments ago now surged, as if your blood had called to it, but you hadn’t meant to, and you didn't know how.

Your heart slammed against your ribs. If you stayed at your grandmother’s house, the last piece of her you had would be transformed into nothing more than the dirt and ash that filled your mojo bags.

A harsh sob broke from your throat as you yanked your bag tighter and slammed the door shut before charging out the back door, sprinting off and taking that last leap into the heavy night. Behind you, the fire roared louder, and somewhere in the crackling din, you swore you heard Remmick laughing triumphantly.

The ground shivered under your feet as you ran, and the willow tree at the back of the yard, which was your grandmother’s grave, hummed as you sprinted past it. Before you felt him creep up behind you, you barely made it off the land and already stepped into a current too strong to fight. The fire behind you spat and snapped, the light throwing his silhouette in sharp, devilish relief.

"Thought you could outrun it?" he drawled, voice like velvet dragged over gravel. "Outrun me?" He pushed off the tree, slow and sure, that lazy grin stretching across his face, it was hard to ignore how tempting the Devil looked then. There was a hunger in his eyes that was dark and sharp; he was a man stepping up to claim something he’d already marked as his. Remmick moved with a raw, predatory grace, the kind of man who didn’t need to chase. 

Broad shoulders strained the worn fabric of his shirt, with sleeves rolled to the elbows, exposing forearms dusted with old scars and new sins. His jaw was sharp, stubbled, and dangerous, and that mouth was full, crooked, and parted just enough to flash the sharp gleam of his elongated canines. Lord, his eyes burned with something hungrier than lust, pupils blown wide, rimmed in a glow that no mortal could ever have.

"You can feel it, can’t you?" he said, closing the distance in unhurried strides. There was magic in your blood, old and defiant, and it screamed at you to ward him off, salt the earth he walked on, and spit in his wicked, beautiful face. But another part that knew loneliness, quivered toward him like a smoker starved for air. “Mmmm,” he said. “You’re overthinking, sugar.”

He stepped closer, the tip of one claw tracing lazy circles in the space between you. “Thinking gets you killed.” Before you could answer, he flicked the matchbook in his hand and tossed a lit match into the dry brush at the yard's edge.

Fire bloomed, crackling and eager, a rough circle hemming you both in. “Could you fucking stop lightin shit on fire?” He's destroying everything that he sees with his touch. 

“You wanna run so bad?” Remmick asked, fangs fully bared, cruel and gleaming. "Let’s make it interesting." He licked his thumb, snuffed out the match he'd struck, deliberately never taking his eyes off you. "You've got ’til the count of three." The thrill of the hunt made Remmick excited.

The heat behind you pulsed like a heartbeat. Flames curled at the yard's edges, circling in toward the house but not touching it. They were waiting for his command. And in the middle of it all, Remmick stood like the conductor of some unholy symphony.

“Before we play,” he said in a low and sweet tone, “I want you to know what you agree to.” He circled you as he spoke.

“You run,” he murmured, pausing just behind your ear. “And I chase.”

You swallowed hard, and it felt like something was lodged in your throat. “If I catch you before the sun touches your porch, you’re mine. Fully. Not just your blood. Not just your gift. You.”

He came back around to face you, his gaze pinning you like a hand to the neck, not violent, just sure of its power. “No more hiding behind salt lines. No more prayers whispered in your sleep. You gone let me into that little heart wrapped in bones and grief.” He leaned in, forehead nearly brushing yours.

“And I’ll teach you what your grandmother never did. What your mama was too scared to face. I’ll open every locked door inside you and let the fire run wild.”

You shivered, despite the warmth licking at your ankles. “And if I don’t catch you…” He said, stepping back now, hands open like he was offering peace. “Then I walk away. No tricks. I won’t cross your land again, unless you ask for me.”

He gestured toward the tree line, just beyond the fence. The woods had never looked so dark.

“But,” He tipped his head,  “You’ll never make it ‘til dawn.” 

It took everything in you to turn your back on him and map out a plan, because your survival depended on it. Even if you didn’t make it past dawn you were going to try your damn hardest to put up a fight. Wasting your breath on conversation wasn’t going to make him spare you.

Behind you, Remmick’s voice followed, "One..."

part ii | taglist | @marley1773 @iheartamora @childishgambinaax @klssngss @remmickcherie @sinnersappreciation

[novaursa]

Valyrian Bride (Final Chapter)

- Summary: When your older brother, Jacaerys, promised you to Cregan to be his bride, the Lord Stark did not expect what he got - a trueborn dragon.

- Pairing: velaryon!reader/Cregan Stark

- Rating: Mature 16+ (just to be safe)

- Previous part: continuation

- Next part: dragon eggs

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @daeryna @melsunshine @21-princess @ferakillia

The dawn of their wedding day broke with a rare warmth for the North, the sky a deep, endless blue above Winterfell. Snow clung to the castle’s ancient stones, but the air was still, as though even the wind itself held its breath in anticipation. The entire stronghold seemed to hum with energy, its people gathered from every corner of the Stark lands to witness a union that had already become the subject of countless whispered tales.

Cregan Stark stood in the courtyard, the grey furs of his cloak draped across his broad shoulders, his usual starkness softened by the weight of the day. His heart, so often steeled against emotion, was lighter today, a sense of anticipation thrumming in his veins. He had faced battle, the harsh winters of the North, and the endless responsibilities of leading his house, but nothing felt quite like this. Today, he was not just Lord of Winterfell—he was a man about to be wed.

The courtyard was bustling with activity. Banners of House Stark and House Targaryen fluttered side by side, their sigils sharp contrasts—wolf and dragon, winter and fire. His bannermen, all garbed in their finest, stood near the towering trees of the godswood, while the castle’s women prepared the space for the ceremony that was to take place beneath the Heart Tree.

The great Weirwood loomed tall, its ancient face carved into the pale bark, its red leaves fluttering like the blood of old gods. This was where Cregan had wanted to wed her, beneath the watchful eyes of the gods of the North, and though she had been born to the faith of the Seven, the princess had agreed without hesitation. She was to become a Stark, after all, and she would take her place among their traditions.

The quiet murmur of the crowd hushed suddenly, as a figure appeared at the edge of the courtyard. Cregan’s breath caught in his throat as he saw her.

She stood at the threshold, wrapped in rich silver and deep crimson. Her gown was a marvel of southern craftsmanship, its fabric shimmering in the morning light like molten fire. The silver thread that wound through the delicate embroidery reflected her Valyrian heritage, its designs reminiscent of the ancient sigils of her forebears. Her hair, like strands of spun moonlight, was woven into intricate braids, entwined with tiny pearls and rubies that caught the light, making her appear as though a crown of stars rested upon her head.

And yet, for all the beauty of her attire, it was her bearing that stole Cregan’s breath. She moved with the quiet confidence he had come to admire, her violet eyes focused on him as though there was no one else in the world. There was no trace of nervousness, no hesitation—she was every inch the dragon’s daughter, proud and regal, yet today, she walked toward him as his bride.

The crowd parted for her, whispers trailing in her wake, but no one dared to speak aloud. Even Cregan’s bannermen, hardened men of the North, stood silently, as if afraid to disturb the moment. He heard the faint murmur of the word Valyria pass between them, a reminder of the ancient blood she carried, blood older than any in Westeros.

As she reached him beneath the Heart Tree, Cregan felt the weight of the moment settle over them both. She lifted her head, her eyes locking onto his, and for a moment, the world around them seemed to fade away. The godswood, the crowd, the banners—all of it was distant, insignificant. There was only her, and the promise they were about to make.

Maester Kennet, chosen to officiate the ceremony, stepped forward, his voice strong but reverent. “We gather here beneath the eyes of the Old Gods, to witness the union of House Stark and House Targaryen. Winter and fire, bound together.”

Cregan turned toward her, taking her hands in his. They were warm despite the cold air, her skin soft against his roughened palms. As they stood there, so close, he could see the faintest flicker of emotion in her eyes—a softness that she seldom let others see.

“I, Cregan Stark, take you, Y/N Velaryon, to be my wife,” he said, his voice firm but laden with meaning. “From this day until my last. I will stand with you, through fire and snow, through war and peace. I swear it before the gods, before my people, and before you.”

Her lips curved ever so slightly, her voice steady and clear when she spoke her vows in turn. “I, Y/N Velaryon, take you, Cregan Stark, to be my husband. I pledge my fire to your winter, my strength to your cause, my loyalty to your heart. From this day until my last breath, I will stand with you. This I swear before the gods, before your people, and before you.”

The words hung in the air, tangible and full of weight. Cregan felt them settle into his soul, binding him to her in a way that was more profound than he had anticipated. There was a finality to it, but it was not a burden—it was a promise he wanted to keep.

Maester Kennet raised his hands. “By the old gods and the new, I declare you husband and wife.”

Cregan didn’t wait for the maester to finish. He pulled her to him, his hands still wrapped around hers, and kissed her. It was not a show for the crowd, nor was it born out of any sense of duty—it was a moment just for them, filled with the raw certainty of the vows they had exchanged.

The crowd erupted into cheers, the sound filling the courtyard and echoing off the ancient walls of Winterfell. Cregan, for once, did not care who was watching. When he pulled away, the smile on his face was genuine, and for a moment, he saw a glimmer of the same emotion reflected in her eyes.

They turned to face the crowd, and as they walked through the throng, hand in hand, Cregan caught the glances exchanged between his bannermen and the ladies of Winterfell. His bannermen, who had known him since boyhood, seemed almost astonished by the expression on his face. They had rarely, if ever, seen him smile like this.

Later, the maesters would record that no one had seen Cregan Stark smile more than on this day, save for the birth of his first child with the princess. But in that moment, as they walked through the people of Winterfell, his heart felt as though it might burst with the weight of the joy he carried.

As the newlyweds entered the great hall, the feast that awaited them was grander than any Winterfell had seen in years. Tables were laden with food, goblets filled with wine and ale, and laughter already filled the room. But even amidst the celebration, Cregan’s focus remained on her—his wife.

He leaned in close, his voice low enough for only her to hear. “You make Winterfell warmer, princess.”

She tilted her head to him, her smile soft but knowing. “Perhaps it’s not just the fire in me, but the wolf in you.”

He chuckled, a deep, content sound. “A wolf and a dragon. We’ll see what kind of legends they make of us.”

“They will make legends of us, Cregan Stark,” she whispered. “That I promise.”

And as the night wore on, with the fire roaring in the hearth and the joy of the wedding spreading throughout Winterfell, Cregan knew she was right. This day, this union, would be remembered long after both of them were gone. And the legends would speak of the dragon that brought fire to the North, and the Stark who stood beside her, unflinching and steadfast.

The cold air of Winterfell’s courtyard bit at Cregan’s cheeks, the chill seeping through even his thick furs as he stood with his arms crossed, eyeing the great dragon Vaetrix. Her crimson scales glinted in the pale northern light, each one like a shard of polished ruby set against the stark white backdrop of snow. Even at rest, her massive wings were tucked tight against her sides, a vast stretch of membrane that flickered like flame when she shifted, the tips of her talons sinking into the frozen earth.

To say Cregan Stark was a man comfortable on solid ground would have been an understatement. He was born of stone and ice, a wolf bound to the earth, as much a part of the North as the walls of Winterfell itself. But today, as he stood beside his wife, watching the dragon’s great form settle before them, he felt that comfort slip away, like snow melting beneath an unexpected spring sun.

She had offered—no, insisted—that he take to the skies with her, on the back of Vaetrix. Cregan had held his ground through worse. He had fought battles, endured the harshest winters, but none of that prepared him for this. He could handle swords and shields, but flying? That was a different beast entirely. Quite literally.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked, casting a skeptical glance at his wife, who stood beside him looking perfectly at ease, even amused.

Her silver-gold hair, tied back to keep it from whipping in the wind, gleamed in the cold sunlight. There was a mischievous glint in her violet eyes, and a faint smile played at her lips as she regarded him. “You’re not afraid of a little flight, are you, my lord?” she teased, her tone light but carrying just enough of a challenge to make Cregan’s jaw tighten.

He looked back at Vaetrix, the dragon’s head lowering to the ground with a snort that sent a puff of steam curling into the air. The dragon’s golden eyes—deep, intelligent, and unsettlingly aware—fixed on him with what he could only describe as amusement. As if the beast knew exactly what he was thinking.

“Afraid? No,” Cregan grumbled. “But I’d be a fool to not be cautious of flying on the back of a creature who could swallow me whole.”

She laughed then, a bright, musical sound that carried over the stillness of the courtyard. “Vaetrix isn’t interested in eating you. She’d much prefer a herd of sheep over a Northman. Too much wool, not enough meat.”

Cregan raised a brow. “Comforting.”

She placed a hand on his arm, her touch warm despite the cold. “Come, Cregan. You’ve fought in battles, faced down far worse than this. Flying will be nothing. Trust me.”

It wasn’t the flight that unnerved him, but the idea of relinquishing control. He was used to being on solid ground, where he could command his surroundings. The sky was unknown territory, one he had no desire to claim. But as he met her gaze, the playful challenge there mixed with something deeper—her faith in him, and perhaps a desire for him to share in her world. He couldn't refuse that.

With a deep breath, Cregan nodded. “Very well. I’ll fly with you. But if we fall, I’ll haunt you from the afterlife.”

Her smile broadened, and before he knew it, she was pulling him toward Vaetrix. The dragon lowered her massive form even further, folding her legs beneath her to allow them to mount. Up close, Cregan could truly appreciate just how enormous the beast was—her scales, tough and unyielding, were the size of his hand, and her wings, even at rest, stretched out like the sails of a great ship. Each breath she took seemed to rumble through the earth, and the heat radiating from her was enough to melt the snow in a wide circle around her.

He watched as his wife climbed effortlessly onto Vaetrix’s back, her movements fluid and graceful, as though this was second nature to her. It probably was. When she looked back at him, the challenge was still in her eyes. Cregan sighed, grumbled something under his breath about never being able to say no to her, and climbed up after her, though with significantly less grace.

Once he was seated behind her, his hands gripping the edge of the saddle far tighter than he’d ever admit, she glanced back over her shoulder, her smile still firmly in place. “Hold on, my lord.”

“I already am.”

“Good. You’ll want to hold on tighter.”

Cregan opened his mouth to ask what she meant, but before he could form the words, Vaetrix gave a mighty heave and pushed off the ground. Cregan’s stomach lurched as the world dropped away beneath them, the courtyard and the walls of Winterfell shrinking rapidly as the dragon’s powerful wings unfurled and beat against the sky.

He swore, loudly and without shame, as the icy wind whipped against his face, stinging his skin and making his eyes water. The ground, which he had spent his entire life firmly planted on, was suddenly nothing more than a distant blur of white and grey far below them. The sensation was like nothing he had ever experienced—wild, untethered, and completely out of his control.

His wife laughed, the sound carried back to him on the wind. “Are you alright back there, my wolf?”

Cregan, still clinging to the saddle for dear life, managed to mutter something that sounded vaguely like, “I’ll kill you for this.”

She only laughed harder.

As Vaetrix rose higher into the sky, her wings beating with a steady rhythm that shook the air around them, Cregan forced himself to breathe. Slowly, the initial shock gave way to something else—a sense of awe. The land stretched out beneath them in all directions, a vast expanse of snow-covered wilderness that seemed to go on forever. Winterfell looked impossibly small from up here, just a cluster of grey stones nestled against the white of the North.

The sky itself was a wonder—endless, clear, and so achingly blue that it made him forget, for a moment, the biting cold of the wind. Up here, the world was different, quieter, as though they had left the cares of the earth behind.

“This is what it’s like,” she said over her shoulder, her voice softer now, no longer teasing. “To be free in the sky.”

Cregan didn’t respond immediately, still adjusting to the sensation of being so far above everything he had ever known. But as he watched the vastness of the North unfold beneath them, he began to understand. Up here, there were no boundaries, no limits. It was just them, the wind, and the dragon’s wings.

“It’s…” he started, struggling to find the right word. “Incredible.”

She glanced back at him, her expression softening. “I knew you’d like it.”

“I didn’t say I liked it,” he shot back, though the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

She smirked. “You’re smiling.”

“I’m cold,” he retorted, though he was no longer holding on to the saddle quite so tightly. In fact, as they soared above the snow-covered forests, he realized that his fear was ebbing, replaced by something closer to exhilaration. The wind roared in his ears, but instead of dreading it, he felt alive—more alive than he had in years.

Vaetrix let out a low rumble as if sensing her riders’ mood. The dragon's massive wings tilted slightly, adjusting their course, and Cregan felt the shift as they glided smoothly over the treetops. The ground below seemed distant now, almost irrelevant.

Cregan glanced down again, marveling at how small everything appeared. "I’m still not sure how you trust her to do this."

His wife’s voice was warm as she replied, “Vaetrix is my partner, not just a mount. She flies because I trust her, and because she trusts me. It’s not about control—it’s about the bond.”

He nodded slowly, her words sinking in. Perhaps that’s what made the Targaryens so different from anyone else—their bond with these creatures was deeper than a rider and a horse, deeper than any earthly connection. It was fire, blood, and something more.

Vaetrix’s wings beat steadily as they soared toward the horizon, and for the first time, Cregan let himself relax, loosening his grip just a little. He even allowed himself a small chuckle.

"Alright," he said, leaning in slightly toward her. "Maybe I don’t hate this as much as I thought."

She smiled, her laughter carried on the wind, and as they flew together—wolf and dragon—Cregan knew that he had just crossed a threshold. This, too, was part of the life he had chosen with her, part of the legend they were creating together.

And despite himself, he was beginning to enjoy it.

The chill of winter had wrapped itself around Winterfell like an old, familiar cloak, but inside the thick stone walls of the castle, the air was thick with heat and anticipation. The hearthfires burned fiercely, their flames casting flickering shadows on the ancient stones, but it wasn’t just the fire that made the air feel so stifling. It was the weight of the moment, the hush that had fallen over the great hall, the tense waiting, and the murmured prayers to both the Old Gods and the new.

Cregan Stark paced the floor just outside the chambers where his wife labored. His usually composed demeanor was gone, replaced by a restless energy that he couldn't shake. His boots scuffed against the flagstones with each turn, and though the men around him—his bannermen, his household retainers—watched him with a mixture of concern and amusement, no one dared to speak.

It wasn’t that Cregan feared what was happening behind the door. He had seen battles, endured the harshest winters, and ruled his people with a steady hand. But this—waiting for the birth of his first child—this was different. This was something far beyond his control, something that stirred a deep, primal worry in him.

He had been kept from the birthing chamber, of course, as was custom, but the muffled sounds of his wife’s labored breathing reached him even through the thick door. It was agonizing—knowing she was enduring such pain, and yet there was nothing he could do but wait.

One of his bannermen, Arnolf, an older man with a long, weathered face, stood beside him, watching the young lord with a hint of a smile. “My lord, pacing a trench in the stone won’t bring the babe any faster,” Arnolf said, his tone light despite the gravity of the situation.

Cregan stopped mid-step, shooting a half-hearted glare at his bannerman. “If I don’t keep moving, I’ll go mad.”

Arnolf chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Ah, the first child is always the hardest. You feel as though the world is on the edge of changing forever—and you’re right, it is. But trust me, my lord, it will all be worth it.”

Cregan nodded, though his jaw was still tight with worry. He knew the risks of childbirth, even for a woman as strong as his wife. She was no fragile southern lady—she was a dragon rider, fierce and unyielding—but still, childbirth had claimed queens and common women alike. He had never feared for her before, not when she flew on Vaetrix, not when she faced down the dangers of the North, but now...

Another sound, a sharp intake of breath from behind the door, sent Cregan’s heart racing again. He clenched his fists, resisting the urge to burst through and be by her side. He hated this helplessness. Hated that he could do nothing but listen.

“Cregan,” came a voice from the shadows. It was his half-sister, Sara, stepping forward, her dark hair pulled back from her face, her expression soft but commanding. “She’s strong. She’ll make it through this. You know she will.”

He looked at her, his eyes searching hers for reassurance. “I know. But it doesn’t stop the worry.”

Sara placed a hand on his arm, squeezing it gently. “It never does. But trust in her strength. She’s born of dragons, after all. And you’ll see your child soon enough.”

Before Cregan could respond, a cry pierced the air from beyond the door—a new, sharp cry that did not belong to his wife. It was the cry of an infant, high-pitched and insistent, as though the child had already inherited the fire of its mother’s blood.

Cregan froze, his heart thudding in his chest as the door creaked open, and the midwife stepped out, her apron bloodied but her face bright with a smile. “A son, my lord,” she said, her voice warm. “A strong, healthy boy.”

For a moment, Cregan couldn’t move. The words washed over him, sinking in slowly. A son. His son. He felt as though the ground beneath him shifted, like his world had just expanded in ways he hadn’t thought possible.

“A son,” he repeated, his voice almost reverent. He had dreamed of this moment—had imagined it a hundred times—but nothing had prepared him for the reality of it.

The midwife nodded. “Your wife wishes to see you. She’s tired, but well.”

Cregan didn’t wait for more. He strode through the door into the chamber, his heart still hammering in his chest. The room smelled of blood and sweat, but it was warm, almost stifling, and lit by the soft glow of candles. His eyes immediately found her—his wife—reclining in the bed, her silver-gold hair damp with sweat, but her face flushed with triumph. In her arms, bundled in soft furs, was their child.

She looked up as he entered, and the faintest smile touched her lips, though exhaustion lined her face. “Cregan,” she breathed, her voice soft but steady. “Come meet your son.”

He moved toward her slowly, as if in a dream, his eyes fixed on the small bundle in her arms. As he reached the bedside, she shifted slightly, lifting the child toward him.

Cregan gazed down at the infant—his son. The child’s skin was soft and pale, his tiny fists clenched tightly as he wailed, his little face scrunched in displeasure at being so new to the world. But what struck Cregan most was the shock of silver-gold hair atop the boy’s head, unmistakable, just like his mother’s.

“He’s perfect,” Cregan whispered, his voice thick with awe. He reached down, hesitantly at first, then more surely as he took his son in his arms. The weight of the child felt impossibly light, yet it was as though Cregan’s heart had just doubled in size.

His wife watched him, her violet eyes gleaming with warmth. “He has your hands,” she said softly, her voice touched with amusement. “Strong, like a Stark.”

Cregan chuckled, though his throat was tight. “And his mother’s hair. He’ll stand out here in the North.”

She smiled faintly. “Let them stare. He is both wolf and dragon. They’ll come to respect him for it.”

Cregan looked down at the boy again, his son, his heir. The child’s cries had quieted now, and he blinked up at his father with curious, unfocused eyes. Cregan could see it already—the strength, the fire that would burn within this boy. He was a Stark, but he was also more than that. He was part of a legacy that would shape the future of the North and beyond.

“He’s beautiful,” Cregan murmured, the weight of everything hitting him at once. The responsibility, the joy, the pride—it was overwhelming, but in the best possible way.

“He will be great,” his wife said quietly, her voice soft but filled with certainty. “I can feel it.”

Cregan nodded, leaning down to place a kiss on her forehead, his gratitude for her—for everything—too deep for words. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice rough.

She smiled, though her eyelids were drooping with exhaustion. “We did this together.”

He stayed by her side as she drifted off to sleep, their son still cradled in his arms. As the night deepened outside Winterfell’s thick walls, Cregan knew that the world had indeed changed forever. The child in his arms was not just his son—he was the future of House Stark and House Targaryen, the bridge between ice and fire.

And as Cregan looked down at the tiny face peeking from the furs, he smiled—a smile that his bannermen had not seen since the wedding, a smile that would be remembered in the histories of the North, alongside this day, as the day the first dragon-blooded Stark was born.

The sun hung low in the sky, its orange glow turning the snow into a strange mix of fire and ice. Cregan Stark, now a bit grayer around the edges but still every bit the Lord of Winterfell, stood near the training yard watching his men practice their swordplay. His face, as usual, was etched in concentration, though every so often, his gaze flickered toward the godswood where his daughter had spent most of the afternoon.

He knew her well enough to sense when mischief was brewing, and today, there was something in the air that told him she was up to something. He just hadn’t quite put his finger on what.

It wasn’t long before his suspicions were confirmed. His daughter, all of ten years old but with the same silver-gold hair and fiery spirit as her mother, came bursting through the courtyard gates with something bundled in her arms. Cregan immediately recognized the familiar look of determination in her eyes—he’d seen that look before, mostly when his wife had her mind set on something impossible, like teaching him how to fly on a dragon without looking like he was going to throw up.

“Papa!” she called, her voice a mix of excitement and urgency as she half-skipped, half-ran toward him. “Papa, look what I found!”

Cregan raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued, though a part of him braced for whatever his daughter had gotten herself into this time. He folded his arms over his chest, his deep voice calm as he spoke. “What have you brought me this time, little one? A dragon egg, perhaps? Another wild idea about climbing the walls of Winterfell?”

She shook her head, a wide grin spreading across her face. “Better,” she declared, and with that, she opened her cloak to reveal a small, squirming ball of fur.

It took Cregan a moment to register what he was seeing. A direwolf pup—tiny, scruffy, and with impossibly large paws for its body—peered up at him from the folds of her cloak. Its wide, blue eyes blinked curiously, and its little tail wagged as though it had already made up its mind that this was where it belonged.

Cregan let out a deep sigh, the kind that comes from years of parenting and knowing exactly what was coming next. “Where did you find that?”

“In the woods by the godswood,” she answered cheerfully, holding the pup up as if presenting him with the greatest treasure the North had ever seen. “Isn’t he wonderful?”

The pup let out a small yip, clearly eager to be part of the conversation. Cregan eyed the creature with a mix of fondness and exasperation. The wolf looked like it had been born to cause chaos, and somehow, his daughter had already taken a shine to it. He could almost hear the arguments forming in her head.

“And what exactly do you expect to do with this… wolf?” he asked, trying to sound stern, though his resolve was already weakening at the sight of her beaming face.

“I want to keep him,” she said, her tone so matter-of-fact it was as if she had already made the decision for him. “He’s too little to survive on his own. And I’ve always wanted a wolf, Papa. You have one! Why can’t I?”

Cregan rubbed the back of his neck, fighting the smile that was threatening to break through. “I have a wolf because I’m the Lord of Winterfell, not because I found one wandering around the woods and decided to bring it home like a stray dog.”

His daughter’s eyes narrowed, and she tilted her head, giving him that look—one that made him feel as though he were about to be outwitted by a ten-year-old. “But you are the Lord of Winterfell, and that means you get to decide things like this, doesn’t it? You could say yes, right now.”

He sighed again. “That’s not exactly how—”

“Please, Papa?” she interrupted, stepping closer and cradling the pup against her chest, her eyes wide and pleading. “He won’t be any trouble. I’ll take care of him, I promise. I’ll feed him, and train him, and everything.”

Cregan glanced down at the pup, who seemed entirely unfazed by the conversation, content to nestle into his daughter’s arms. The little wolf let out another soft yip, as if to back up her case.

“Do you even know how to train a wolf?” Cregan asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I’ll learn!” she insisted, her excitement growing. “He’s smart, I can tell. And I’m smart too. We’ll figure it out together.”

Cregan stared at her, knowing full well that he had lost this battle before it even began. She had that same stubborn streak as her mother, that fire that wouldn’t be extinguished no matter how hard he tried to reason with her. And truth be told, he wasn’t entirely opposed to the idea of her having a wolf. A direwolf was part of the Stark legacy, after all. And though it was a bit earlier than he had planned, this felt… right.

He took a deep breath, looking from his daughter’s hopeful face to the pup in her arms. “Fine,” he said at last, his tone resigned but soft. “You can keep him.”

Her face lit up, and before he knew what was happening, she had thrown herself at him, wrapping her free arm around his waist in a tight hug. “Thank you, Papa! Thank you, thank you!”

Cregan chuckled, placing a hand on her head. “But you’ll be responsible for him, understand? That means feeding him, training him, and making sure he doesn’t tear through Winterfell like a wild beast.”

“I will, I promise!” she said, pulling back to beam at him, her eyes bright with joy.

The pup let out a soft whine and squirmed in her arms, wiggling until his head poked out from her cloak again. He gave Cregan a long, inquisitive look, his tiny tail wagging with uncontainable energy.

“I suppose we need to give him a name,” Cregan said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “What will you call him?”

His daughter thought for a moment, her brow furrowing in concentration. Then, with a grin, she said, “How about… Storm? Because I found him after that big storm last night.”

Cregan nodded, glancing down at the pup who was now chewing on the edge of his daughter’s cloak. “Storm it is, then. A fitting name for a troublemaker.”

As they turned to head back inside, the newly named Storm trotting happily at their heels, Cregan couldn’t help but smile. His daughter had her wolf, just as he had his. The pack was growing, and despite his earlier reluctance, he felt a deep sense of pride swell in his chest.

He leaned down to ruffle his daughter’s hair, his voice warm with affection. “You’ll do well with him, little one. Just don’t let him eat all my boots.”

She giggled, glancing down at Storm, who was already sniffing the ground with intense curiosity. “I’ll try, Papa. But no promises.”

Cregan chuckled, shaking his head. “That’s what I thought.”

The years had settled quietly over Winterfell, and though the seasons had come and gone, bringing with them both harsh winters and gentle springs, the castle remained the sturdy heart of the North. Cregan Stark, now older, with silver threading through his once dark hair and lines etched into his strong features, stood at the window of their chambers, looking out over the snow-covered courtyard. The sky was a soft grey, typical for this time of year, but the wind had stilled, leaving the world in a peaceful, almost serene silence.

Behind him, the familiar crackle of the hearthfire filled the room, its warmth seeping into the stone walls, casting a golden glow that softened the edges of everything. He could hear the gentle rustle of fabric as his wife moved about, though they no longer rushed through life the way they once had. These days, time was kinder, moving slower, allowing them to savor the quiet moments.

Cregan turned from the window, his gaze settling on her. She was seated in the large, cushioned chair by the fire, her silver-gold hair, now streaked with strands of white, falling loosely over her shoulders. Her beauty, undiminished by age, was not the fiery, untamed force it had been in their youth, but rather something more enduring, more graceful—a calm, steady flame that had warmed him for decades.

She looked up as she felt his eyes on her, her violet gaze meeting his, and a soft smile touched her lips. “What are you staring at, my wolf?” she asked, her voice still carrying that playful lilt, though it was quieter now, softened by the years they had shared.

Cregan smiled, crossing the room to her side. “Just thinking,” he replied, lowering himself into the chair beside her with a soft grunt. His joints weren’t quite what they used to be, but he still moved with the strength of a man who had led Winterfell for decades.

She raised an eyebrow, setting aside the book she had been reading. “You’ve always been a man of few words, but thinking? That’s dangerous.”

He chuckled, the sound deep and warm. “Dangerous for some, maybe. For me, it’s just remembering.”

Her smile deepened, and she leaned back in her chair, the firelight flickering in her eyes. “And what are you remembering, Cregan Stark?”

He reached over, taking her hand in his. Her fingers, though not as nimble as they once were, still fit perfectly in his. He traced the lines of her palm, thinking of all the years they had spent together—of the battles fought, the children raised, the moments of laughter and sorrow that had woven their lives into something greater than either of them could have imagined.

“I was thinking of the first time I saw you,” he said, his voice quiet. “When you rode into Winterfell on Vaetrix. I had never seen anything like you, and I was certain, in that moment, that my life was about to change.”

Her laugh was soft, more of a breath than a sound, but it filled the room. “I remember that day. You looked like you were trying very hard not to run for the hills.”

Cregan shook his head, grinning. “I wasn’t about to run. I was too busy trying to keep my mouth from falling open. You were this fiery, untouchable force, and I was just a man standing in your shadow.”

She squeezed his hand gently, her thumb brushing over the back of his knuckles. “You were never just a man, Cregan. Not to me.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the crackling of the fire filling the space between them. Cregan let his gaze wander around the room, settling on the small tokens of their life together—the furs draped over the bed, the carvings of direwolves that adorned the wooden posts, a tapestry that depicted both the wolf and the dragon entwined, a gift from one of their children.

“I never thought we’d come this far,” he said quietly, his voice almost wistful. “Through everything. Wars, winters… raising our children.”

She laughed again, this time with more warmth. “Oh, the children. They were more of a challenge than any war we faced, weren’t they?”

Cregan smiled, thinking of their brood—strong, stubborn, each with their own fire. Their son had grown into a man of great strength, a natural leader who now stood as Lord of Winterfell. Their daughter, with her direwolf by her side, had become a force in her own right, a woman who carried both the blood of wolves and dragons with equal pride.

“They were. But we managed.” He looked at her, his gaze softening. “We did well, didn’t we?”

She tilted her head, studying him with that knowing look she had always given him, the one that told him she saw right through him—through his walls, his defenses, straight to the heart of him. “We did better than well, my love,” she said softly. “We built something that will last long after we’re gone.”

He nodded, feeling a deep sense of contentment settle over him. She was right. The legacy they had created together, the family they had raised, would endure. House Stark and the blood of dragons would continue to thrive, long after their bones had returned to the cold ground of the North.

Cregan lifted her hand to his lips, brushing a kiss across her knuckles. “I’m glad it was with you,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I wouldn’t have wanted anyone else by my side.”

Her eyes shimmered with emotion, and she leaned forward, resting her forehead against his. “I know, Cregan,” she whispered back, her breath warm against his skin. “It’s always been us.”

They sat like that for a long while, the fire crackling softly beside them, the weight of the years they had shared resting lightly on their shoulders. They didn’t need to speak—everything that mattered had already been said.

Outside, the night deepened, the stars beginning to peek through the grey skies, but inside Winterfell, there was warmth, and love, and the quiet peace that only came with a life well-lived.

And in that moment, as they sat together, hand in hand, Cregan Stark knew that he had found everything he had ever needed—here, in the heart of Winterfell, with the woman who had brought fire to his life and warmth to his winter.

[unfriedough]

Hey sorry if your request aren’t open but I had a thought about Zuko x water tribe/bender reader!Like three years after the war he wants to propose to reader and So he ask Katara and Sokka about marriage traditions within the tribe and he carves a betrothal necklace for her?? And the readers reaction!! Thank you

An: HEY. Sorry this took like, so long I think you requested last summer, however I’ve kinda lost most of my determination to write and this account became more of a chore than what I had initially wanted. Either way, maybe somehow I’ll be able to be more consistent soon but I also don’t wanna make myself hate writing so :(

Thank you for requesting, I really do appreciate it, hope you enjoy :)

Zuko’s nose twitched as the cold nipped away at his extremities, huddled up in a few too many jackets. There’s a striking difference between cold and cold and right now he wished he was on fire.

Your gloved hand was intertwined with his as you lead him off of the fire nation ship and onto the white snow of the southern water tribe. This trip was planned as a way to visit Sokka and Katara, but Zuko had another plan in mind.

Finally, after three years of struggling to settle down, the fire people finally relaxed and he was able to make more time. In that time, he realized he’d wanted to marry you more than anything. So here he was, in a nation far too cold for someone like him, with a goal in mind.

He had exactly 5 days (and a half if you’re counting from now) to get ready a betrothal necklace. Why a necklace? Well, Zuko had watched you for days on end in the castle library, a book bigger than your head on the table being analysed by your eyes. You’d smile brightly when you locked eyes, and call him over. He’d sit next to you, shoulder to shoulder, attempting to read with you. The books were always about old water tribe traditions, tales, legends, history, everything of the sort. You’d wanted to stay connected to your culture and upbringing - it made you who you were today.

And so that brings you to today, here, the water tribe.

“Katara!” You squealed, running forward and pulling her into a hug. You two squeezed each other tightly, excited noises being expressed.

Zuko and Sokka nodded to each other, trying to be kinda nonchalant but Sokka couldn’t hold it much longer, he sprinted at Zuko and tackled him to the ground into an oh-so-warm hug. You laughed at the site, Katara too. Zuko felt a twinge of pink on his cheek, from the cold or embarrassment he couldn’t really tell, but he still wrapped his shaking arm around his buddy. After a few more ‘I missed you!’s and giggles, Zuko and Sokka got back up. Katara grabbed your hand and pulled you deeper into the village, you laughed the entire way, giddy from being back home here with your family. You threw a glance backwards at the fire lord, there was something very slightly off about the way he was smiling, you brushed it off as just the cold getting to him.

It was most definitely the cold getting to him.

Sokka led him to the ice on the outskirts of the village and brought some chairs along. They were gonna go fishing while they talked. As they both sat, another shiver ran up the poor fire bender’s back.

“How do you guys survive the cold?” He groaned.

Sokka chuckled, handing him a rod, pushing the bucket of bait closer to him, “You get used to it… I could ask you the same thing about the heat,”

“I’m a fire bender it’s in my blood,”

“Yeah well you learn a thing or two when your lovely sister starts learning how to bend and suddenly you’re always wet,” he cast the line, leaning back, putting one leg over the other.

“I guess,” he laughed.

They sat in a suffocating silence for a minute, Zuko just awkwardly holding the pole and Sokka staring into the sky.

“Are we going to address the camelephant in the room?”

Zuko looked to him from his peripheral, “I’m kinda nervous I guess, I don’t know what to do,”

Sokka sat up a little straighter, getting up to help Zuko with his fishing issues. He stood behind him and helped his arm into the correct place, slowly to be sure he understood.

“Just like fishing, you have to be precise and confident to get what you want, and if you cast your line just right, you’ll catch the fish,” he winked once the bob hit the water, stepping back to admire his own work.

“Not sure that’s the best metaphor,”

“Say you love it, he's been working on it ever since you wrote to him,” Katara rolled her eyes, holding your hand as you both struggled to not slip on the ice.

“KATARA.”

Zuko couldn't help but laugh, then he was met with the puzzled look on your face.

“I thought this was a surprise trip, when’d you write to them,” you tilted your head, eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“…needed to make sure they were free,”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah…”

“That totally checks out,” you rolled your eyes, getting a serious case of FOMO.

Sokka coughed to try to clear the awkwardness, “So fishing…”

“What’re you trying to catch anyways?”

“Does it matter, it’s about the process YN get with the times,”

“Since when did you fish for fun?”

“Since now.”

“I thought you hated fishing,” you were all standing up by this point, including Sokka and Zuko.

“Only because Miss Katara always splashed me,”

“And I won’t hesitate to do it again!” She bent a small stream into his face, giggling when he stumbled back.

“Oh it’s on Katara,” he paused, “As soon as I get snow,” he waddled away to get to the snow on shore.

You laughed when the waterbender used more ice to cause him to slip.

“I’ll go help him up,” you laughed, moving towards him as he laid helplessly on the ice, not even bothering to get up anymore.

Zuko watched your figure, missing the way Katara turned to look at him.

“I think you should do it here,”

“What?”

“The proposal,”

“That’s not enough time, it’s barely enough for me to learn how to carve the necklace,”

“Lucky for you, Sokka’s pretty efficient with plans, he’s been plotting since you told him,”

The fire bender smiled, shoving his hands into the pocket of his jacket. “Okay, maybe, but how can I get started when she’s with us all the time?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll handle her,” she smirked.

-

“Are you sure this is safe?” You shivered, standing in your bathing suit on top of a huge rock, below it freezing water.

“No!” Katara, “But let’s do it anyways,”

“I don’t know, what if I freeze?”

“Good thing we have a fire bender with us,” she pointed to Zuko, who was in the distance learning about what tools to carve and what stones to use, he’d settled on one that reminded him of your eyes, and the band matching the deep royal blue usually used. He wanted to alter the pattern as a way of commemorating both elements. Currently, he and Sokka were doodling designs on the snow with sticks.

“Look at those dorks, I wonder what they’re doing,”

“You know Sokka, they’re probably drawing,” she laughed nervously.

“Hmm, that kind of looks like a-“ you were cut off as she pushed you off of the rock. You shrieked as you first dropped, then as you got more air time you changed into a more streamlined position with your head downwards. Instant regret when you hit the water though.

You resurfaced, drenched and in pain from the cold. Your fingers felt like they were gonna fall off any second now. Before you got to dwell on it, Katara joined you, also screaming in fun-agony.

“WHY’D YOU PUSH ME?” You splashed her.

“You were talking for too long…” she giggled, going under and pulling you down.

You inhaled a large amount of air before going under, making sure to keep her under with you as well. After a few seconds of freezing cold, you resurfaced, feeling pain in all your joints from the water.

“Why did I ever think this was a good idea?”

“I’m honestly not sure,” she shrugged, waterbending herself back up to the ledge so she could jump again, “But it sure is fun,”

Sokka and Zuko heard a splash in the distance.

“I think Katara is torturing your wife,”

“What?” he mumbled, looking at where you were very clearly lecturing her about something, “What’re they doing?”

“Ice bath, Katara tricked me into doing it once… I never fully recovered,”

Zuko chuckled, using his stick to doodle another design. Which he then stared at for a while.

“This is it.”

“Oh?” Sokka glanced at it, “It’s perfect.”

The men stared at each other proudly, as if they’ve just completed a super hard mission.

Immediately, Sokka took him inside a tent, quickly teaching him methods of carving with different tools. A few more splashes could be heard and you and Katara had fun.

“I wonder what he’s doing to Zuko,”

“Boy stuff,”

You furrowed your brows, “what does that even mean?”

After a lot of time (and a few cuts) Zuko finally had a necklace ready. Sure, it needed to be refined, but his hands were tired and shaky. Sokka patted him on the back, watching the fire bender weave the blue band into the loops.

What they failed to notice was you approaching, now covered in a warm coat.

“What’re y'all up to?” You breathed out, still cold but beginning to gain your senses.

Zuko panicked, hiding it under his leg. You looked at him weird.

By this time, Katara had joined the group, and behind her the sun fell into a pink and purple type hue. Zuko didn’t miss the way your breaths were so laboured, and he took it upon himself to lead you back to where Sokka said you two were staying. You changed into some clothes while he surveyed the room, moving around nervously.

“You’ve been acting weird all day,” you pulled a sweater over the thermal shirt, reaching over to grab an undercoat.

He walked up to you, fingers working shakily to button up the buttons. “Just cold,”

“No, the cold doesn’t make you avoid me.”

“I’m not avoiding you,”

“Really? It feels like Katara and Sokka are trying to keep us apart.” He grabbed another, heavier coat and draped it over your shoulder, you inserted your arms in the holes.

“I didn’t notice,”

“You’re lying,” you stepped back, putting your boots back on and tucking your pants into them.

He frowned, reaching out to you, but you stepped back.

“It’s weird, the letter thing as well- why didn’t you tell me you sent it to them? I thought it was last minute?”

“It was!”

“You’re lying again,” you frowned, folding your arms.

“I promise it’ll all make sense soon,”

“How soon? What’re you hiding?”

“I-“

“Actually. Don’t tell me. I don’t wanna know.” You huffed, storming out of the room, leaving a different kind of cold lingering.

Zuko sat down on the large bed, dropping his head into his hands. He sighed deeply, reaching over multiple layers of clothing to his pocket to pull out the carved stone. Truly, it was mediocre at best. And after this misunderstanding, the sinking feeling of impending rejection poisoned his thoughts. He couldn’t help but trace his finger over the patterns, wondering what could’ve been- he was half sure he was single now.

“I forgot-“ you gasped as you walked back in the room, catching a glimpse of the rock in his hand.

“Yn!” He quickly shoved it behind him.

“Zuko… what was that?”

“What was what?” He said, looking so suspicious it was stupid.

You took a few steps closer, inching towards him slowly, “In your hand,”

“My hand’s empty…”

“Liar…” you dragged on, standing right infront of him now.

“Zuko,”

“Yn,”

You tried pulling at his arms, but he wasn’t budging.

“Cut it out! What’s behind you?”

“Nothing!”

You sighed, walking away in defeat, just as he let his guard down, you pounced, having to grab it and rolling onto the bed. He barely had time to process it when your face immediately changed.

You sat up, moving on your knees towards him on the bed, patting his bicep, “Zuko light,”

The fire lord frowned, embarrassed that he was about to get rejected, although that’s no foreign feeling. A small, dancing red flame illuminated the carved necklace.

“It’s…” you covered your mouth with one hand, tears welling in your eyes.

“Tacky- I know, I just thought- you don’t have to do a-“

“Beautiful…” he glanced sideways at you, “Zuko…”

“This isn’t at all how I wanted this to go…” he sighed, dropping his head.

“No… probably not,” you sniffled, “but it was perfect,” you laughed, he chuckled as well.

He got up, lighting an oil lamp for better lighting. Zuko circled the bed and stood next to you, still nervous and fidgety.

“Yn,” he breathed out, shakily.

You nodded, glossy eyes meeting his.

“The years you’ve spent by my side, against me, with me- those have been the best years of my life. When I’m with you, I feel like I’m truly myself. I’ve never,” he swallowed harshly, “I’ve never felt more at home,” he paused again, looking up at the ceiling, “then when I’m with you.”

You let out a small noise of excitement, bouncing your legs.

“I’ve made so- so many mistakes in my life, every single day of it, but I think… I think letting you go would be my biggest mistake, Yn-“

“YES!!” You pounced on him, hugging him so tight as your heartbeats both skyrocketed.

You giggled as he looped the necklace around your neck, it was simple, and dainty, but most of all it was so Zuko. The more someone could stare at the imperfections in the craftsmanship, the more they’d love it. A man carved it with love and intention.

You held each other for a while, just swaying in the dimly lit room. You leaned back, cupping his face in your hands.

“Is this why we're here? You wanted to carve the necklace?”

“Yeah, pretty much, you ruined my plans though,”

“I did, didn't I?” You giggled.

“I had a lot planned for us, with the help of Sokka of course,”

“Ohh now that makes sense,”

“What makes sense,”

“Literally everything, you were being so weird,”

“I’m not great at keeping secrets,”

“Good, never keep one again,” you kissed his cheek.

“I suppose we should tell Katara and Sokka,”

“Yeah, I suppose we should.”

And so, hand in hand, you walked out to the bonfire, where the siblings sat.

Sokka was so mad his plan foiled.

[leirastar]

new world | prologue

Pairing: Ot8 Ateez x reader AU: fantasy AU | stranger -> mates Summary: In Hala, a house of eight kingdoms, each boasting its own wonders, you never imagined that amidst the pain, you would also fall—this time, in love. Word Count: 1.6k | 7 minutes Warning: wings, weapons

Beneath the vase expanse of the golden-hued sky, where the sun and moon dance in harmony, located in the heart of an endless sapphire sea lies Hala.

A chain of islands said to be molded by the hands of ancient gods, each whispering a story of creation, balance, and power.

Its skies shimmer with the iridescent glow of the Aetherion, whose bearers are gifted the ability to soar between earth and sky and serve as the stewards of the land.

At the center of the land, Kaizo Kingdom, the Heart of Hala, stood tall and unyielding, its golden spires reaching for the heavens. Its black bat-winged ruler was renowned for his keen intellect, ensuring that the kingdom remained both the center of commerce and an untouchable entity. Ruled by the sovereign Kim Clan and led by King Hongjoong, descendants of the Shadow Monarch, Kaizo was a beacon of unity and wisdom.

Kaizo city is alive with activity, its streets teeming with merchants, scholars, and travelers from every corner of the seven kingdoms. Though neutral in the wars that raged around it, Kaizo’s alliances carried weight, and Hongjoong’s choices could shift the tides of battle in an instant. Proudly safeguarding the Pact of the Eight Kingdoms, the kingdom was heavily guarded, as its borders touched all seven kingdoms. The bustling markets of Kaizo showcased goods from every corner of Hala, and its rulers, known for their impartiality, served as mediators in times of strife, making the city a beacon for those seeking opportunity—or refuge—if they could survive the journey.

To the Southeast, Leon kingdom stands proudly. Ruled by the Choi Clan, where endless golden sands meet towering forests and deep, labyrinthine caves. Its ruler rumored to possess the strength and cunning of a lion.

King Jongho, adorned with powerful wings veined in shades of earthy brown and sunlit gold, rules quietly. Known to have mastered their diverse terrain, using it as both a sanctuary and a weapon. Their castle, built high within the caves, overlooks the forest canopy and sprawling deserts, offering an impenetrable vantage point against any threat.

These landscapes are more than barriers—they are the foundation of Leon’s economy and culture, offering rare gems from the caves, unique herbs from the forests, and spices from the desert.

To the northeast, dense forrest and rolling fields mark the lands of Caius.

Presiding over this serene paradise is His Majesty King Seonghwa, whose gentle yet unwavering leadership mirrors the tranquility of his lands.

Caius flourishes as a fertile haven, where crystal-blue seas and shimmering lakes weave through lush forests and vibrant fields. The kingdom’s unique geography provides abundant resources year-round, renowned for its blooming herbs and medicinal flora, which grows in endless cycles, fed by the fertile soils and pristine water resources.

These natural gifts not only sustain its people but have made the kingdom famous across Hala for its healing remedies and restorative traditions.

Southern to this estate lived the Kingdom of Satriya. Famous for their silver-armoured knights known as the most disciplined defender in all of Hala, their fortresses carved into unyielding stone. Every path through Satriya is a calculated defense, its people prepared for any threat.

Presiding over this fortified kingdom is King Yeosang, a ruler whose strict discipline and formidable presence inspire both loyalty and fear. Known as the Demon of the Silver Wings, his piercing gaze and unrelenting expectations command respect. Tales of his terrifying battlefield strategies and unwavering enforcement of order have spread across Hala, deterring enemies and ensuring Satriya remains impenetrable.

Satriya remains as the most private of all kingdoms, its gates closed to anyone who is not born of Satriyan blood. This exclusivity fosters a deep sense of unity and loyalty among its people, but also shrouds the kingdom in mystery to outsiders. Despite his fearsome reputation, his people trust him implicitly, knowing that his rule is the cornerstone of their survival.

Satriya’s eastern border meets Kaizo, while its westernmost cliffs descend into treacherous seas. The kingdom’s trade in sturdy weapons and tools extends its influence far beyond its borders, solidifying its position as an indomitable force in Hala.

Bordering the southern of Kaizo lay a united land of Charadyn and Kian. Despite their distinct identities, the two kingdoms share a deep bond, their rulers united by friendship and a shared appreciation for life’s riches.

Charadyn Kingdom belonged to the prestige Jung Clan. Notorious for their eternal bonfires, Charadyn thrives on the never ending celebration and wealth.

From a young age, King Wooyoung embraced the lively spirit of his kingdom, forging a reputation as a leader who rules not just with authority, but with the joy and vitality that inspire his people. Festivals in Charadyn are legendary, attracting visitors from every corner of Hala, who come to revel in the kingdom’s unending celebrations.

Charadyn’s economy is built on its vibrant cultural exports. Its exotic spices, rare jungle plants, and handcrafted artifacts are sought after across the realm. The kingdom’s thriving tourism, driven by its grand festivals and fiery traditions, further fuels its prosperity. Its northern border touches Kaizo, while its southern coast provides access to maritime trade routes, strengthening its position as a cultural and economic powerhouse.

Not far from the buzzling, lively, vibrant city of Charadyn lies the Kingdom of Heritage, known as the Kingdom of Kian. Ruled by the noble Choi Clan, Kian’s people hold a deep belief that their lineage is blessed by divinity. Adorned in jewels and celestial artifacts, King San governs with pride. The kingdom flourishes through its abundant natural resources and exceptional craftsmanship. As a leading exporter of diamonds, sacred relics, and luxurious textiles, Kian’s wealth is unparalleled. Its fertile plains provide plentiful harvests, sustaining its people and fueling trade with neighboring lands.

Far to the Northeast of Kaizo, high above the clouds, nestled among breezy mountain peaks, lay the Aeros Kingdom, home to the dragon breeders. Composed of multiple floating islands suspended in the skies, Aeros is a breathtaking spectacle of nature and magic. At its heart, perched in the middle of the heavens, stands the grand palace of Aeros, a shining beacon visible from every corner of the kingdom.

King Mingi, with his tundra-like wings, presides over this aerial wonderland, where the roar of dragons harmonizes with the gentle whispers of the mountain winds. The skies are alive with the majestic flight of dragons and their caretakers, whose unbreakable bond with the creatures defines Aeros’s spirit.

The kingdom thrives on the trade of dragons and their rare, coveted scales, used for crafting armor, ornaments, and magical items of extraordinary value. In addition, Aeros exports sky-bred textiles, lightweight yet durable, imbued with the essence of the breezes that carry the kingdom’s legacy across Hala.

Bordered by the icy seas and blanketed in perpetual mist, lies the Reed Kingdom. This land is cradled by the ocean, its shores wrapped in an ethereal veil of fog that rarely lifts. Yet Reed’s true majesty lies above, connected to the lowlands by a towering, frost-covered bridge. High in the frigid mountains stands Reed’s capital, an unyielding fortress of ice and stone nestled among snow-capped peaks. Here, the cold is relentless, and the winds howl like the spirits of the mountains themselves.

King Yunho, with his indigo wings, embodies the kingdom’s cold, unwavering resolve. His strength and endurance mirror the icy resilience of his domain, and his piercing gaze leaves little room for doubt or defiance. Under his steadfast rule, the people of Reed have flourished despite the harshness of their environment, adapting and thriving where others might falter.

Reed’s economy thrives on trading its unique resources to other kingdoms. Rare ice crystals, harvested from the deepest caverns, are prized across Hala for their enchanting properties, beauty, and magical applications. Additionally, frost-forged metals, tempered by the frigid climate, are crafted into tools, weapons, and armor of unparalleled durability, making them essential for kingdoms facing harsh conditions. Reed’s expertise in producing cold-weather goods sustains its prosperity, exchanging its treasures for resources it cannot cultivate within its icy domain.

Reed is a kingdom of stark beauty and unrelenting strength, where the sea meets the mountains in a breathtaking display of nature’s extremes. To venture into its icy wilderness is to face a world that demands respect—and a king who commands it. Outsiders who dare step into Reed often find themselves frozen in more ways than one, humbled by the cold and the unyielding presence of King Yunho.

The royals held immense power over Hala for a reason. The rulers of the eight kingdoms were no ordinary beings; they bore the mark of True Aetherion, a glowing imprint on their foreheads that pulsed with celestial energy. This blue blood, shimmering with the essence of the heavens, set them apart—not just in authority, but in being. It granted them the ability to command the skies, their wings reflecting the power and pride of their Country.

You paused in your step, the vibrant hum of life around you fading as a sudden stillness overtook the air. The faint glow of the Aetherion above pulsed rhythmically, and a powerful gust swept past, bending the trees and rippling the waters in its wake. A dark silhouette descended from the clouds, cutting across the horizon like a falling star, its form too grand, too perfect, to belong to mere mortals.

Your breath caught as the figure moved with otherworldly grace, its wings glinting with hues that mirrored its domain—golden like Leon’s sands or indigo like Reed’s icy peaks. As it passed overhead, you caught a glimpse of the faint glow on their forehead, unmistakable and radiant, the mark of their celestial lineage. It was rare to see a royal so far from the cities, their presence in such remote lands a reminder of the power they carried, bound to the skies.

Though you couldn’t tell which kingdom they hailed from, you knew without a doubt it was one of the eight royals.

Since only they bore the mark of the Aetherion carried from the blue blood of the Primordials, their very existence was tied to the elements that shaped Hala.

They are Hala Core itself.

MasterlistOne

A/n: Hello everyone! i'm very glad to you meet you! I hope you enjoy reading this as much i loved writing it.

Taglist (OPEN):

@caratiny-latte @pinkpearlstar @deltamoon666 @kyra1205 @hecateslittlewitchling @dumplingsyum

[leatherfaceologist]

To Feed the Flame

Remmick x Vampire Wife

Part 1 of 2. 18+ only.

Why does Remmick wear a golden band on his wedding finger? How was Remmick turned, so many ages ago, into the immortal beast he's become? Was he alone in his transformation? Love, memory, blood, and lust coalesce in this swamp-set gothic tale.

Themes & Warnings: vampirism, southern gothic, explicit sexual content, blood drinking, telepathy/hivemind, canon typical violence, love, romance, blood kink, worship kink, trauma, slight angst, brief origin story, singing

words: 4,705

notes: Remmick x OC. I poured a lot of love into this, and I hope some of y'all enjoy it. there's smut in this part, and will be even more in part 2. likes, comments, reblogs + any and all feedback is very appreciated! <3

Irish Words: an tine: meaning 'the fire'. Éirinn: Ireland. sidhe: the term for both a mound and a type of supernatural being. bean sidhe: translates as 'fairy woman'; a death omen; the original spelling of 'banshee'. Seaghdha: what is most likely the original name that was then anglicized into 'Shaylene'.

part 2 coming soon.

Part 1: O Death

“…the reason for living, was to get ready to stay dead a long time.” -Faulkner

Bones - heavy, hollow, and ancient. Weighted down with centuries of memory, coursing like blood through the marrow of a god-like creature. An archaic patchwork of recollection lay knitted there, the mobile grave of countless ages. Though the surrounding muscles rarely felt the ache of human fatigue, another pain was nestled deep within the unyielding bone. 

An tine… 

A longing for the flame, a furnace licking at his heart from beneath. Like a frog in a pot, the heat had been slowly rising up within the undead fragment of Remmick’s soul for near 3 years. The longest stretch without his fire. 

It’s been a while, darlin’… Is tonight the night I’ll see yer smilin’ face?

All around, the swamp was singing its nocturnal lullaby. Cicadas chirped, a blip to the human ear but waves of buzzing pleasure to the amplified senses of the undead. Their nighttime blessing lulled him, soundwaves pulsing like the comfort of a mother’s arms against Remmick’s sweat-tinged skin.   

Here, beneath the lazing cypress, nestled under the twinkling lanterns in the darksome blanket of sky - Remmick could slip into his waking dream. In this place - in their place - the chorus of cricket frogs and Fowler’s toads could lull him back to any era, sinking deep into the pyre of his remembrance. Here, he could burn. 

The whisper of a voice beneath the chorus of the swamp - a quick caress at the base of his skull. Like wind through magnolia trees, perfumed and murmuring above the drone of nocturnal song and subtle mist of voices of his night children. 

What was that, darlin’? Coulda swore ya said somethin’. 

The gentle, buttery teasing of his mind-voice, softly focused upon the secret place at the back of his brain. The night children - his immortal offspring - couldn’t touch that spot. It was the pocket room, reserved only for him and an tine. Like two eager parents, exchanging quiet flirtations as they passed each other in the hallway before putting the babies to bed. A special corner of the cosmos, his own little universe with her.

…sing…

The word was felt more than heard, a sensual brush against the outer realms of his secret galaxy with Shay. It had been so long since she’d answered him - or did it only feel like an aeon to Remmick? Sure, he’d felt her across the miles listening in to his poetry recitations and attempts at luring tunes. At times he swore he could see a flash of her crooked smirk - the snippet of dangerous canines, white and clean and unblooded when he’d send a playful string of sentences her way through their bond. Perhaps it was only his yearning, or the distance between them for the better part of 3 years, that only made it seem her words were few and far between. 

…sing for me, Remmy. 

The immortal’s eyes flew open, crimson lanterns softly burning in the dark. Remmick remained where he was on his back, the impish curl at his mouth moving upward. There was no doubt - she was speaking to him. Ever-coaxing, her desires the eternal siren song of his heart. Whatever he need do to stoke the fire - he would. 

“O Death. 

O Death, won’t ya spare me o’er til another year?

Well what is this, that I can’t see

With ice cold hands takin’ over me…”

Undeniable now, the twin of his own thoughts as he felt her smirk and what could only be the familiar shaking of Shaylene’s head. The sensations were thicker, more tangible - she must be closer than she’d been before. Amusement colored her mind-voice as the thought was carried to Remmick’s head between the song’s mournful verse. 

…morbid man. Always have been. 

Remmick’s gaze remained fixed upon the sky’s twinkling lamp lights, knowing she could see the same stars as he. In all their countless years, through all their shared memories of the world’s different eras - the stars would always stay the same. Just like him and Shay. 

“Well I am Death, none can excel. 

I’ll open the door to heaven or hell 

Woah Death, someone would pray

Could you wait to call me another day?”

Remmick’s voice continued, resonant waves of song brushing up against the other night creatures’ timbre. He sang for her, an tine, the everlasting kindling to her distant passions. The loathsome sky became as a scrying mirror, the veins of Remmick’s memory coursing with both pleasure and pain…

Before Remmick’s eyes swam images of an age near-forgotten, before the Long Death and Eternal Night. A time when life still coursed through his veins, and the veins of his bride. Outside the humble place of dwelling spanned miles of emerald, tucked beneath a sky of softly weeping grey. Éirinn was her own still then - the Isle belonged only to herself, though like any nation its grasses watered with the blood of human conflict. 

The hut overlooked a sidhe - one of the mounds, dwelling place of Those Most Fair. It had always made him uneasy, but Shay’s reassurances that her alliance to the People of the Mound would keep them safe brought an ounce of comfort. And asides - the presence of Na Sidhe or not, it was his father’s land. To tend the mounds was a job of great honor - though thankless still, and his beloved wife’s skills of seership would always garner suspicion. 

Back then, she was still Seaghdha. His wife had been blessed with a gift - and with it, a number of curses. Folk came to her for their troubles, or to beg the gods for succor. Only the brave implored Remmick’s wife to pact with the Good Neighbors on their behalf - the brave or the stupid. All who came to the hut left with hope, and while the gifts of the gods and ungods were not always what they seemed, none could deny that they’d been given exactly what they’d asked for. 

When an tine had shared with Remmick that she was with child, a streak of fear had slit his guts beneath the fires of joy. What if Na Sidhe took their child? It was known - the People of the Mounds loved the little ones. Coveted them, and stole them away. Sometimes a changeling was left behind - an improper exchange of old or sickly fae with the human baby. 

‘They’ll no’ take ‘er, Remmy. I’ve a bargain with the Neighbors. Ye know that.”

At the age of 4 their daughter - who had practically run before she could walk, inheritor of the same flaming locks as her mother - began to tell them of her dreams. Red milk on the mound, smoke from a large fire that covered up the sky. Shaylene had remained stark silent, and despite the way her eyes had glazed over like a mist upon the sidhe - Remmick knew. Even he, devoid of his wife and child’s prophetic night wanderings - could feel something terrible was coming. 

On the eve of invasion, to the sound of distant drumbeats and the haunting horns of war - Remmick and his family had climbed down to the mound together. A fire was lit, tendrils of smoke curling up into the sky, darkened with the balefires of their neighbors’ burning homes. Remmick pulled their child close to him, watching with widened eyes and hammering heart as Shay ran a dagger down the pale, calloused flesh of her palm. The gash blossomed, igniting the flames as blushing liquid dripped into the licking embers. Shay was calling to Them, reciting every name and pleading title that might please Those Most Fair. Remmick knew the dangers of giving the Good Neighbors blood that did not emerge from swine nor steer - but when would a family ever be more desperate, than when certain death was just over yonder hill?

Just when Remmick was about to grasp his wife’s hand and tell her they must flee - that the Good Folk weren’t going to help them - time lurched to a standstill. The sounds of distant violence, clashing of swords and screaming of innocents… was silenced. The blooded flames seemed to be suspended, the air around Remmick and his family thickening. He’d only felt it twice before - the unmistakable presence of Them. Remmick’s hair stood on end, a cold sweat breaking out upon the nape of his neck. The air itself was closing in upon him - heavy and choking in his lungs. 

“What wish ye, mortal?”

The lining of Remmick’s innards felt hollow, the thrumming of his heart sped to what felt like a fatal beat. The cold, sensual, ancient voice that had curled around him and his family chilled him blood to bone. He had never heard one of Them speak. 

Shaylene, her voice strange and faraway in the pocket reality they stood within, was imploring the Otherworldly being for aid. Remmick could only bring himself to glance at the creature - pallid as the dead, with a strange lunar glow that seemed to illuminate from within its humanoid shape. Man or woman? To Remmick’s eyes, it seemed to be a man - the most beautiful, terrifying man he’d ever laid eyes upon. Stark against the creature’s pallor was a gaze as black as night, with no trace of snowy white to distinguish its eyes as human. For despite the deceptions of its general shape, a palatable dread had filled the air - this being was not a child of Adam. 

“I’ve need o’ the strongest o’ magics. Give tae me, O Fair One. In exchange, ye’ll have me service in the next life.”

Remmick had chanced to gaze upon the creature’s face, unable to contain his stare as the luminous monster studied his wife. The being’s body was still as a corpse, its rib cage unmoving. Remmick realized with a shudder: it had no need of breath. 

“Grant us the power tae fight off Éirinn’s enemies… ‘n keep our child safe.”

Remmick had watched, his heart sinking as the Fair One’s pitch-dark gaze had slowly moved from Shaylene… down to their child. Sweaty arms clutched his offspring tighter to him, the chill of terror nearly buckling Remmick’s legs. He didn’t know that his body could take much more of the icy dread spiking his muscles - until the creature’s cruel mouth slowly curled to an insidious smile. Endless rows of pearly, sharpened teeth emerged - the uncanny nightmare froze the very blood in Remmick’s veins. 

“We have an accord.”

What happened next had become a blur in Remmick’s mind. Over myriad years, he’d sat and concentrated with pinpoint precision, straining to remember finer details. After a time, the immortal came to understand that his mind had blackened some specifics in order to protect whatever glimmer of sanity Remmick still grasped. What he did remember was pain, terror… and what felt to him as wading through an endless sea of blood. 

Faster than light, the Pale One was on him. Knocked clean to the hungry ground, it happened so quickly Remmick didn’t have time to grasp for their child. The shrill cry of Shaylene’s voice was ringing in his ear, a bean sidhe’s wailing for what was soon to be a dead husband. The creature’s body, though lithe and wiry in shape, had Remmick pinned to the soil with ease. Rows upon rows of razors were sunk into the carotid artery, hot streams of life force spraying from the wreckage of his throat to splash upon the dirts of Éirinn. Had the creature driven in any further with its lethal bite, Remmick’s head would’ve severed from his neck. 

Time no longer held meaning. Every moment leading up to Remmick’s inevitable death was happening all at once before his eyes, to the dirge of his wife’s screaming and involuntary gurgles that rippled from his opened throat. 

Life was fading swiftly from his body. All control upon his muscles had been given up unto the Pale One - Remmick himself the bloody altar upon the earthen burial shroud of his ancestors. Empty… so hollow. The feeling of his life’s blood draining into the creature’s mouth and dripping to the Isle would remain the queerest sensation Remmick would ever experience. Before the warm and roving black of surrender took him, there was only the round face of innocence staring up as she watched her father die. 

When Remmick woke, his body burned. A disintegrating pain that would soon pass into memory, replaced by flame of power in his blood. The sacrificial fire had been extinguished, but the light still burned his eyes somehow. He slowly moved his aching neck, craning to peer up at the heavens. A canopy of stars, glimpsed through a blanket of smoke, was pulsing fast with stellar light. Hypnotic and dancing, Remmick realized through the fog of his rebirth that the lamplights of the night were hurting his eyes. 

Wincing as he peered back down to the earth, a small cry choked forth from out his throat at the sight of Shaylene’s body sprawled upon the soil. A pool of shining crimson was leaking from her prone form, flaming strands of hair soaked and covering her face. Remmick’s horror was blessedly short lived - as though his cry had stirred her, a shudder ran through Shaylene’s form. Just as he, she began to move - the sickly crunch of bones moving back into their place, emphasized by the groans of pain in transformation. 

Husband and wife had steadied shaking limbs, emerging from the ground to stumble into one another’s arms. Remmick could remember the haunting glow, pinpoints of murderous light peering out at him from Shaylene’s face. Wreathed in blood, the couple embraced - bonded in their newly aching hunger. It was Shay first who glanced beside them - her crimson burning eyes widening at the sight that Remmick dazedly followed. 

The Fair One, stained with the vitality of Remmick and his bride, held their daughter’s hand. The child looked, for all intents and purposes, unscathed - a haunted look in her faraway eyes, wet and shining in the dark. The grip of fear tightened its claws in Remmick’s chest - but the fear was not his own. 

Ye gods…. No!

Remmick startled to hear his wife’s voice within his head, echoing off the walls of his skull with shocking resonance. A shaken glance was stolen to his wife, her newly taloned fingers covering her blood-speckled mouth with horror. Realization dawned, pale and cold as a winter’s sunrise in the fresh immortal’s heart. 

Another faded recollection, Remmick holding Shaylene as she near collapsed into his arms… her frail body wracked with sobs. The Fair One’s voice seemed to sing across the landscape, echoing through timelines both known and not yet unveiled. The being was already turning aside, gently leading their only child into a growing swath of light. 

“Ye requested she be kept safe… and so she shall. Away from earthly sorrows.”

-

“Oh the young, the rich or poor

Hunger like me you know

No wealth, no ruin, no silver no gold

Nothing satisfies me but your soul. 

O Death,

O Death.”

Remmick’s eyes fluttered closed, lips covering fang at the final tremor of his song. He savored the feeling of Shaylene’s attentions, her focus on him in the ether of their bonded thoughts sweet as a lover’s caress. No doubt she’d glimpsed the bitter memories that had threshed across his mind during the song’s recitation. It remained unspoken - they’d recounted their tragedy in every form of lamentation from thought to song too many times to count. Between them it passed now, thick as summer in the Delta - but unspoken like the breeze. 

I miss ya, darlin’.

Remmick shifted restlessly, pressing a new memory into the shared acreage of his universe with Shay. The last time they’d been in each other’s presence - the last time they’d made love. Remmick brushed against the memory, moving it toward his wife as gently as a paper boat upon the Mississippi. The feel of her marbled, tender flesh beneath his calloused fingers - the honeyed scent of her arousal, drawing him in and down to the burning core of her temple. There, he had worshipped… there, he had sinned. 

How bad ya miss me, sugar?

Shay’s drawl was low and liquid, like wine spilling over his cup. The caress of her witchcraft, licking at his mind and soul like the nails of a lover down Remmick’s back. The building tease between them, secret and sensuous beneath the starlit night, was his favorite part about their thought-bond. How he loved to sense the rush of blood within her veins, the heat between her legs building from afar. The stars would soon collide, to sate his need and quench the fire - it was so close, he could taste it. 

Remmick groaned, the echo of Shaylene’s purr in his thoughts and the vision of their lustrous fornication making heat rush to his groin. The immortal reached down to palm his growing erection, squeezing through the cotton slacks as he whispered back to his wife through their cosmic connection. 

My body’s achin’ for ya. ‘n it’s nothin’ to say for the hurt that’s in my heart. 

He could feel her smirk returning - he knew she loved it when he begged. 

Can’t ya feel it? I need ya so bad, darlin’. Been near 3 years now. Feels like forever. 

He could feel her giggle at that - the low, vibrating heat of subtle laughter like music to their shared thoughts. Remmick’s mouth opened in a slight sneer - self satisfied, razored canines flashing in the swampy dark. He squeezed himself tighter, the hardness pressing to his trousers twitching slightly at the laughter of his wife. 

Forever is a real long time.

Remmicked groaned once more, moving his fingers to the button of his trousers - the mind-voice of his wife was louder now, visceral and thick as though she stood beside him. He’d ask her now to talk him through it, plead like a dying beggar if she wanted him to. If he couldn’t touch the fire, at least he could hear its song…

“So… this party by invite only? Cuz I'd sure love to join."

Remmick startled from his reverie, excitement candied and pouring through his muscles like a flood. The scent of blood was in the air - some of it dead, and some still alive - but on from that was the cloying, lurid scent of his beloved wife. Cold violets, burning cloves, and flowering vine. 

In the darkened glade he saw her form - a shadow beneath the cypress, curved against the tree’s thick trunk. A pallid arm moved up, raising the clove to patient lips. The cherry burned, a pinpoint of sunset in the dark as Shay inhaled - framed beneath the burning coals of red in her eyes. 

A vital body’s heart would’ve rushed into a frantic thrum, but Remmick’s lay dead within his chest. Instead the blood began to move more quickly in his deadened veins - and a spark like fire being made passed between him and Shay. The red of blood, of love, of eyes shining in the dark - arose like a wave dashing on the rocks within his soul. 

“Hey there handsome.” The roughage of the clove’s hot smoke passed over Shay’s low voice, a grind that made Remmick’s cock jump in his pants. He’d stood at lightning fast speed, stance poised by instinct for danger - or for the hunt. 

“An tine… ain’t you a site for sore eyes.” Remmick’s clawed digits twitched at his side, excitement buzzing through his form like the flutter of a lightning bug. “Like heaven in a day dress.”

A grey cloud of smoke sheened in the starlight, dissipating as Shay chuckled low beneath her breath. “Charmin’ as ever… I just couldn’t stay away no more.” The redhead swiftly stuck the clove’s burning point out on her palm, the scent of singeing flesh rushing into Remmick’s nose with a hiss. “I just need my lovin’ man… so, so bad.”

Shaylene’s words were thick with honey, and though she dolloped them like cream upon her husband, the sincerity of her longing was like a cool caress within the bondage of their thoughts. He knew she loved to tease… but cushioned beneath their games was an endless font of love. 

Dizzy now with want, Remmick dropped down to his knees with a thud. He leaned forward slowly, palms touching the earthen floor as he moved his body towards her. Shaylene watched, and a flicker of heat passed between them like a flashing bulb. Remmick knew his wife loved to see him like this - and more than that, he loved to please her. To worship at the sacred fount of her cunt, to drink her lips and taste the venomous blood upon his tongue. Shay’s eyes, wet and shimmering in shadow, fixed upon her husband as the pink of her tongue darted out to brush her lip. The sight of Remmick’s sharp, toothy, deviant grin was seen from her eyes as he crawled, stalking as a bobcat in the swamp. 

A short length from the mud-ridden bare feet of his wife, Remmick paused as still as straw when he heard a whimper from behind the Cypress. The smell of pulsing, living blood seemed to hit him full force, his cock getting thicker with the ambrosial scent upon the air. “Ya brought company?”

Shaylene’s crooked grin revealed a double pair of fangs, twinned to Remmick’s and slick with saliva. Her body pushed away from the tree, reaching back and down behind the cypress. “Nah… I brought ya a present.”

Faster than a bullet, the man-shaped meat sack hit the ground just beside Remmick, a pale sliver of moonlight illuminating the injured human shape. Blood spurted out a wound in the man’s leg - the splintered bone of a fractured tibia, temporarily crippling the pitiable creature. Remmick felt the spit build up inside his mouth, swallowing once before his mouth hung open in hunger. “Oh sweetheart… ya shouldn’t have.”

The urge to rush upon the sobbing man and feast upon his fear was high - but Remmick was far too old to forget his manners. Burning gaze tore from the injured man, the vampire’s body slinking back towards his wife once more. Shaylene stood before him, looking down with love and voracity upon her beloved. Reverent fingers left the soil, placed upon Shay’s hips before squeezing the supple flesh beneath her thin cotton dress. The smell of fresh blood and the tender meat of Shaylene’s body beneath his fingers was a frenzy not easy to fend off. Remmick fondled at her thighs, the cotton creasing beneath his dirty hands. Let’s share ‘im. 

The frantic movements of his hands increased the pulse of energy between them, Shaylene’s lips parting to utter a lustful sigh. Remmick’s thought-words caused her head to fall back, taloned fingers carding through his dusky locks. The touch of her hands, sharpened nails raking across his scalp made Remmick loose a moan. A thick stream of drool beaded at the edge of his lips before trailing down and off his chin. 

The neck is yours, handsome. 

Remmick flew from his wife’s doting fingers, latching with a lethal bite to the injured man’s tender throat. Hot, vital, flowing liquid burst into his mouth immediately, leaking out the sides to chase the drool from his jawline. The man’s mournful cries turned to wailing, though the sound was quickly stifled by the gurgle of blood that filled his ravaged throat. A momentary clawing at Remmick was abruptly finished when Shay lunged upon him with a hiss. Her claws made quick work to secure the man’s hands at his sides before sinking her ravenous dentition to the flesh of his shoulder. A seizing twitch shook his body once, before all the fight leaked out with his fluids. 

From out the dizzying mania of his bloodlust, Remmick felt the wire of his bond to Shay undulate. He let his mind touch hers, relishing the savor of blood that rushed into her undead form, coalesced with the sensations of his own feeding. His cock was painfully hard now, and he thrust against the dirt to get some friction. He couldn’t help but moan, a gush of blood erupting out the side of his mouth with the sound. 

Remmick squirmed at the beastial growl let loose from Shaylene’s throat - as the thrust of his pleasure rippled through her mind. Death had nearly claimed their prize, the fluid of his vital force painting the immortals before flowing to the dirt. At the final breath, his wife disengaged with a humid gasp. Remmick swiftly followed, a passel of blood roiling in his mouth. Above the drained man, the dripping mouths of the vampires met, open in a frenzied kiss. The savored blood poured from Remmick’s tongue onto Shay’s, passing the final drops to her in frantic gratitude and love. A moan swept between them, fangs clashing as they devoured one another’s mouths. Three years of waiting, of wanting, of lust for the body and blood of their respective companions poured into each other like sweetest wine. Hands sharp and slick with blood were frantically running over Shay’s body as she clutched the sides of Remmick’s face to draw him closer. 

Sunlight and starshine constellated in their veins, the glowing force of vitality dancing between their bodies & minds. Remmick clambered over the nameless husk, intoxicated with the blood and lusting for his wife. Their lips barely separated, only when Remmick pressed his stained mouth to Shaylene’s throat, her jaw, her grasping fingers. Love ye. Need ye. An tine.

Shay was spread beneath him now, her parted thighs a bewitching invitation. Remmick’s cock engorged with his need, pulsed and straining against his pants with blood. The smell of his wife’s arousal hit his senses, sumptuous and sticky in his throat. Remmick growled, thrusting up against her heated core. 

Remmy, please. Love… Want ya so bad. Please! 

“Ya have me, darlin’. I’m yours. I’m yours.” His guttural affections passed from out his lips, the echoes of Shaylene’s mind-pleadings shooting heat unto his groin. I’ll kiss yer pussy raw. 

A bead of sweat dropped from Remmick’s forehead, landing upon the newly-exposed flesh of Shaylene’s chest. Her husband had ripped the front of her dress open, a single claw tearing cotton down the front with a violent sound. Droplets of red fell to the pink and budded nipple, beading from the drooling point of Remmick’s chin. He set to licking, sucking, and moaning down into her breast - bloodied tongue circling the pebbled rosebud as Shaylene arched her back. The razored tips of Remmick’s claws circled the other breast, wishing not to neglect any mound of tender, willing flesh. A drawn out sigh emerged from out her lips, sweet and sumptuous as any swell of songbird’s tune. 

I love you. I love you. Kiss me, Remmick…

“I got ya, sweet thing.” He was kissing the line of her collarbone, relishing the sweetness of her flesh painted down with liquid life. No better combination, in this world or the next - that much he was sure of. ‘n I ain’t never lettin’ go… 

Remmick pressed his cock against Shay’s thigh, purposely avoiding the spot they both were aching for. To draw things out, to worship at the altar of a woman’s flesh and bones, was to carry her to heaven’s gate. No matter how long it took, he’d wing her to that sacred, flooding ecstasy. 

Panting breaths escaped Shay’s lips, moans becoming more frantic as her husband kissed his way to the curve of silky hips. The hem of her dress was pushed up past the pallid skin of her legs, bunched in haste above her navel. 

Remmick snarled at the sight of her pussy, open and exposed with nothing to cover his wife beneath the slip of a dress. A blood-spattered grin eased across his face as he lay belly-down into the dirt, inching eager lips to Shay’s waiting slit. The tips of needled talons pricked into the silken flesh of his wife’s thighs, the smallest beads of red forming there to trail down her leg, and into the pink folds that were already slick for him. 

“My turn to make ya sing, darlin’.”

In the next installment: earthbound gods collide to shake the earth with their lovemaking + a vampire’s lullaby. 

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Ideas: Castles

part 2

Some Castle Tropes

Big Fancy Castle: Big, elaborate, and visually impressive castles.

Bright Castle: Bright castle that signifies a good place, usually.

Good Castles, Evil Castles: Character Alignment as displayed on castle designs.

Haunted Castle: A derelict castle home to the dead or undead.

Ice Palace: A castle sculpted from ice.

Monster in the Moat: Castles with water monsters living in their moats.

Ominous Floating Castle: A visually imposing, intimidating castle floating in the sky, outer space, or an otherworldly void.

Palatial Sandcastle: A sandcastle you can live in.

Storming the Castle: A climatic assault on a fortified base.

Castles & similar structures in other parts of the world

Central and parts of Eastern Europe. Here castles weren't much different from the Western European ones. The only difference is that the local castle-building tradition was not so old; there are no Early Medieval castles in Eastern Europe, and the oldest were built during the High Middle Ages.

Russia. This country's tradition of fortification is a bit different; the rural castle never caught on here. Urban castles and citadels, called kremlins, on the other hand, were quite widespread. Kremlin is not the name of one specific famous citadel, it's a generic term for a city castle. This country also has some Romantic revival castles; these are likely to be found in rural areas.

Japan. Japanese castles, named shiro, are remarkably different in architecture from European ones, because they were built to protect the local feudal lords from local siege tactics, which differed significantly from classic medieval European sieges. Most notably, firearms found a very slow and lukewarm welcome in feudal Japan's Samurai culture, and their introduction only stimulated castle building rather than put an end to it.

The Near East. Castles were introduced to this area by the crusaders, and, were completely based on European designs. However, citadels had been common for centuries, particularly in the Levant (which had been one of the most fought-over regions in the world basically since people could write); although most surviving Middle Eastern citadels date from the Crusader period or just before, one, the Tower of David in Jerusalem, has been a citadel since the 2nd century BCE (albeit one that kept getting destroyed and rebuilt, like the rest of the city).

India. This country's equivalents of castles are called durga in Sanskrit or qila in Hindi. These words were usually translated as "forts", because they were used as army forts by the British colonial army, but they were originally castles.

Southern Africa. The castles in this region were built by the Dutch and German settlers, and aren't much different from those found in Western Europe. While the castles here aren't very old, they tend to be mimicries of the Medieval style.

Examples of Castles around the World

Neuschwanstein. The archetypical Romantic revival castle, it was built by the eccentric king Ludwig of Bavaria ("Mad King Louie" or the "Moon King") when Bavaria was actually part of the federal German Empire but retained its status as an "independent realm." Everyone might recognize this castle as the one shown in the Disney logo and copied in Disneyland parks as the "Sleeping Beauty Castle". This is not surprising, because Ludwig purposefully designed this castle as the fairy-tale castle of his dreams. It is a very popular tourist spot.

St. Michael's Castle, St. Petersburg. Another revival castle, this one is unique in many ways. First, despite being a revival castle, it had a genuine defensive function: it was built by a Properly Paranoid Russian emperor Paul I to serve as his highly secure residence. Second, it has a unique "four-sided" architecture: the four facades of this quadrangular castle show different architectural styles each, from neo-gothic and pseudo-medieval to generic XVIII century palace. It didn't serve its intended function, its owner was killed by conspirators, the castle's defensive moat was filled with ground and it was repurposed as an engineering school (hence its second name, Engineer's Castle). Currently it houses the Russian Museum of Art and is open for visitors.

Krak des Chevaliers, Syria. The archetypical Crusader castle in the Near East, one of the largest and the most well-preserved (until recently). This large concentric castle belonged to the Order of Knights Hospitaller, a famous order of knights who guarded the safety of pilgrims in the Holy Land and eventually evolved into the Sovereign Order of Malta, which still exists to this day.

Sources: 1 2 ⚜ Parts & Types of Castles ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs ⚜ Part 1

[weirdnotal]

My Accent headcannons for the lu chain (and etc):

Time: was taught hylian by trees???? Almost has no tone/infliction in voice (he's working on it)

Malon: Tennessee accent all the way, with that nice hook at the end too (non southerners imagine dolly parton)

Lullaby: very formal proper hylian, dignitary style

Warriors: British military like he's reading from a manual

Sheik: I don't know much about her but the sheikah definitely take inspiration from Japan

Twilight: Appalachian accent as thick as raw honey (non appalachians have yall ever heard of one looking it up)

Midna: try 'n' convince me she don't have a loud ass Louisiana accent (non southerners go watch princess and the frog) (this is totally not for my Midna is African American agenda)

Dusk: real formal like n all that

Sky: That's a Midwesterner (he genuinely tried to get Wild and Rulie to eat jello salad once)

Sun: completely Midwestern

Groose: spends a lot of time around the other two^ but his parents are Gerudo (Arabic/middle eastern)

Four: the minish have always reminded me of the Icelandic tales of little elves

Dot: same formal accent, maybe more like Four's

Age/Cal(calamity): very formal british accent almost royal but also uses some Korean (Zora) words

Mipha: Korean accent (thicker than Sidon's)

Fauna: royal and tight lipped british

Wild: used to be more British (kinghts!), but now is more southern cause twilight has corrupted him

Flora: much more informal than the other zeldas

Legend: Scottish accent, but he usually hides it really well, so you can't really tell at all unless he's mad or tired

Fable: Scottish asf (non Scottish people imagine Merida)

Ravio: fairly normal, but if provoked, he will speak like an Italian mobster wife until he gets his way

Hyrule: Rulie is Irish or Welsh all the way (especially with half fae/fey Hyrule)

Dawn: pretty similar to Hyrule

Aurora: transatlantic accent!!!!!

Spirit: he's always reminded me of Hugo Cabret, so cockney british accent it is (this grates on War's patience)

Phantom: can be formal if she has to but usually just sticks with cockney as well

Wind: Okay look, I love scottish pirate Wind, but I raise you patois or creole pirate Wind

Tetra: Wind's accent but double the amount and also the volume she says it at

[lunette-png]

Waves of Ithaca

Chapter 4: To Keep Ithaca Afloat

The days on Ithaca bled into one another. Mornings spent in the shadow of the great hall, evenings wrestling with plans and patience. The suitors grew more comfortable with each passing day, their laughter echoing through corridors that once held only the gentle rhythm of family.

(Y/N) had learned to keep her presence sharp and precise, like the edge of a well-honed blade. It was the only way to cut through the sickly, sweet rot that now permeated their home.

But not all her duties lay within the palace.

Today, she stood at the edge of the port, the salty breeze stirring her hair. The fishermen greeted her with nods of respect, their hands roughened by rope and salt. They spoke of their nets, of currents that had shifted unnaturally, of fish that swam too deep or too far.

“The yields are thinner,” one of the older men said, his eyes cast to the water. “We try our luck farther out, but the sea’s been restless.”

“And the trade routes?” she asked, her gaze already drifting to the horizon.

A younger man spoke, his voice tight with worry. “The merchants complain of pirates. Or worse—ships swallowed by storms where the sky was clear a moment before.”

Her fingers traced the edges of a crude map spread across the wooden table. She marked the points where vessels had been lost, her mind running along the lines of potential routes, like tracing the lines of fate itself.

“Shift the southern route.” She tapped the map, her finger tracing along the jagged coastline. “Keep the ships near the coast where the waters are calmer and the storms don’t strike as often. Follow the safer channels until you reach more welcoming ports. There’s better protection from the winds that way.”

She paused, her gaze thoughtful. “And keep watch for merchants from neighboring lands. Ships passing from places like Pylos or Sparta often bring news. We need to listen.”

The fishermen exchanged wary glances but nodded, some murmuring their gratitude before moving off to spread the word.

“You’ve always had a gift for this,” one of them said. “Reading the tides.”

She only nodded. The sea had always been clearer to her than land. Predictable, even in its wildness.

As she prepared to leave, a voice broke through the low hum of conversation.

“Princess.”

She turned to find an unfamiliar man standing a few paces away. His clothes were simple, but his bearing held a quiet authority. A merchant, perhaps.

“I’ve heard tales of your skill.” He inclined his head. “I seek passage to Pylos, but the winds have been against us.”

She considered him, her gaze sharp. “And what makes you think I can change that?”

He offered a thin smile. “Because no other ship sails as swiftly or surely as yours. Even the sailors speak of it.”

Her mouth tightened, suspicion prickling at her thoughts. “I will think on it.”

But even as she spoke, something in the man’s gaze unsettled her. A calculation. A familiarity she couldn’t place.

She pushed the thought aside and made her way back to the palace.

The council chamber was quiet, the air thick with parchment and old stone. Telemachus was already there, his expression clouded as he pored over ledgers of dwindling supplies.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” he muttered as she entered.

“I rest when the suitors are gone,” she replied, her tone light but firm. “What’s the damage?”

“Worse than before.” He gestured to the lines of figures. “We can’t keep this up. If they stay through the next season...”

“They won’t.”

The certainty in her voice made him look up.

“I’ve been speaking with the fishermen. We’ll bolster the trade routes—draw more supplies through safer channels. It won’t solve everything, but it will buy us time.”

Telemachus rubbed a hand over his face. “You make it sound so simple.”

“Because it has to be.” She stepped forward, eyes locked on his. “If we start to doubt ourselves, they’ve already won.”

A long silence stretched between them. Then he nodded.

“Father would be proud of you, you know.” His voice was quiet.

The words settled in her chest, heavy and hollow. “He would be proud of you, too.”

He looked away, his fingers drumming against the table. “Sometimes, I wonder if he would recognize us at all.”

Before she could respond, a servant appeared at the doorway.

“Princess, your mother requests your presence in the gardens.”

She nodded, glancing once more at Telemachus before following the servant.

Penelope stood among the olive trees, her fingers brushing against the leaves.

“I see you have been busy,” she said, her tone neutral.

“I have to be.”

Penelope’s gaze remained fixed on the branches, her voice a murmur. “You chase solutions like your father once chased the wind. Always forward. Always searching.”

“Someone has to,” (Y/N) replied, the words sharper than she intended. “We cannot afford to wait.”

“And yet, you wait.”

(Y/N) frowned. “For what?”

“For him.”

The accusation—if it was one—hung in the air.

“I am not waiting for him to save us,” she said. “I am waiting to see if he remembers the way home.”

Their eyes met, and for a moment, the mask of composure slipped.

“I have faith he does,” Penelope whispered. “But if he does not... you must be ready to stand on your own.”

“I already am.”

The words felt true. And yet, something still gnawed at her, like the tide’s endless pull against the shore.

AN: hi- so sorry for the late update ㅠㅠ enrollment was a hassle and some personal stuff happened

[wolfstarlibrarian]

Cowboy Wolfstar Fic Recs

Cowboys have always been cool, and thankfully the number of cowboy AUs is growing! These are a few that I've found but reshare with links to more if you know them, please!

white snakeroot by @maladaptivewriting, something_about_mothman Storms are not uncommon in Remus’s sleepy rural town, what is unusual is spotting a cowboy riding through the rain and wind as if it didn’t touch them. The sightings of the mysterious cowboy have been plaguing Remus since he was a child, but after a chance encounter in one storm, Remus is suddenly flung into a nightmare that he’s not sure he’ll wake from. His friend, James, is missing and all signs point to a ghost town as James’s possible location. With nothing but the company of an old wive’s tale about dangers lurking in the town, Remus abandons his home to search for his friend. Unsure what he’ll find when he gets there, or if he’ll even make it home.

Drover by @krethes There he stands, leaning against the side of the wagon next to the remuda, their band of spare horses, casually picking dirt out from under his nails with the tip of a knife. He's just… watching him. He's dressed for the cold morning in the same brown coat they all wear this time of year, but it looks natural on him, like he was born in it. A small smile plays at the corner of his scar-slashed mouth, and heat floods Sirius face as memories of last night flood his mind, filtering through his groggy haze. OR: Cowboy Wolfstar. That's it. That's the fic.

The Ransom of Black Beauty by spaceboyharry He was whipping wind, humid summer rains, and the silent roll of heat lightning over Southern skies. He was a teeming school of red-breasted bream, a covey of quail in wild meadow-land, the roll of breath from Hagood’s snort on an early January morning. He was a herd of cattle thundering across a Texas plain, rope tight in my fist and thighs sure against my horse. He was hot, heavy, everything, everywhere, all at once. Remus and James need cash, and fast. A botched kidnapping scheme lands them in hot water, but Remus is willing to stand the flames to keep Sirius Black for his own.

Hell Outta Dodge -orphaned account In which Remus Lupin, Texas cowhand extraordinaire, stops to buy a drink from a saloon ran by a certain intriguing bartender.

stars are brighter in the countryside by @fromthetorturedpoet Most people would call him naive, even stupid, for leaving a place full of opportunities. However, as the days passed, he felt less and less comfortable in the environment he was trained to call home. Before he knew it, Sirius decided to venture into the countryside, diving into new friendships and a sweet relationship with a cowboy, capable of bringing him a sense of peace and tranquility he hadn't experienced in years.

The Road to Sweetwater by @euripidestrousers “Well. They don't call me Mad Sirius Black for nothing”, Black drawls lazily, “Speaking of drinks - you got any whiskey in your pack there or just old biscuits? Caught me talking politics and now my throat's awful dry.” Remus lifts his brow incredulously, disbelief creeping into his voice, “You must think I got a real short memory thinking you're owed a drink after that show back there. You clean forget you're at my mercy, and then go trying to steal my horse-” “Not in the habit of letting a man put me in the dirt without buying me a drink”, Black drawls, his grin turning sly, “Or maybe you got something else that'll make defeat a mite easier to swallow.” Sirius Black is wanted by the law in the state of Wyoming and Remus Lupin, who's still deciding which side of the law a bounty hunter sits on, captures him for the price on his head. It should be simple. But there's something in the air that Fall that sets Remus' compass spinning, and nothing seems simple anymore.

*Honorable Mention: Remus is NOT a cowboy in the following fic (I checked with the author) but he does work on a farm and he rides a horse, so I have to include it anyway:

Beneath a Big Blue Sky by @eyra The four-by-four heaves its way down long, twisting lanes, little more than dirt tracks scuffed into the surrounding fields and hemmed in by serpentine walls of flat, grey stone. They truly are in the middle of nowhere: the countryside rushes past, all rolling green hills and vast, endless skies, and it's odious. Sirius wants to murder James with his bare hands. Sirius and James accidentally find themselves on a Yorkshire farm during lambing season. The farmer’s son thinks that’s a bit annoying, actually.

BOOK REC:

Looking for a book similar to these fics? With characters that was SO FREAKING SIMILAR to Remus + Sirius that you’re looking around fandom for the author? Check out this book with an angel face ranch hand, his hippy mom, and a new dark haired stranger who was BETRAYED, WRONGFULLY IMPRISONED, AND OUT FOR REVENGE. Also they're both magic with animals. Guys Like Him by Aimee Nicole Walker 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️

Several heads swiveled in the blond’s direction as he walked by, but Finley seemed unaware of the attention. It stirred uncharacteristic feelings, making him want to mark and claim a man he didn’t even know.

[idkfitememate]

In Eden’s Garden

૮꒰˶ᵔ ᗜ ᵔ˶꒱ა Pairings : GN! Adam/Eve Reader x Lilith + Obey Me Character

૮꒰ྀི∩´ ᵕ `∩꒱ྀིა W.K. : 6.4k

໒꒰ྀིᵔ ᵕ ᵔ ꒱ྀི১ Tags/CW&TW : fluff to angst, character death, Reader is basically a angsty teen

໒꒰ྀི˶˙Ⱉ˙˶꒱ྀིა Author’s note : Got bored, got too many brainrots and obsessions rn and wrote this “super fast” just to prove a point *AHEM*

(Also you kinda have a “set” look in the beginning, but that’ll change! It’s for stories sake I’m sorry-)

((Also also, I’m so sorry guys… you start off as a Texan I’m so sorry-)) [Fun fact I have a slight southern accent and it’s wild when I hear it-]

Yes this is the Adam/Eve!Reader x Obey Me. It has been rotting my mind for months I’m not sorry-

The Garden of Eden.

Never was it, nor its human counterparts spoken of in a negative light in the Celestial Realm.

Talk of trees that grew above the clouds and lakes so crystalline that you could see every grain of sand under the perfectly glowing sunlight flew out of Angel’s mouths, some even admitting small amounts of jealousy at how finely those mortals were living.

It interested Lilith.

Youngest of seven siblings and one of the Seven Heavenly Virtues - that Virtue being Patience - she was of high status and importance among those lucky enough to live under their Father’s light and guidance.

She wanted to know more than what those baseless rumors and tales could offer her, so one night, beneath the many star like moons of her home, she flew down beneath the clouds but above the stony bridge that would have snatched her away, down into the depths of the Devil’s Realm.

Her wings, as pure as a dove, flapped endlessly to carry her over gorgeous mountain ranges and wide plains of golden grass, over the bluest of oceans, to find this fabled Garden.

And finally? She came upon it.

Landing gracefully on the emerald green grass, she took in the sight. She supposed this Garden truly was what one would get if you took a piece of The Celestial Realm and placed it in the Human Realm.

Colorful birds filled the sky with trees of every type surrounding her. Animals she had never seen before lunged around her. Feeling giddy, she began to run with the multiple groups, eventually taking off.

She flew over a lake, lowering herself right above it to gently grace her fingers over the top, ripples feathering out and creating small waves behind her. Fish kept from the water around her in grand arks, and with a giggle she pushed herself higher with a great flap.

Liliths giggles bubbled into loud laughter, as she soared over tree tops with beautifully colored birds, spinning and diving with no one to tell her no.

She felt free.

That was, until she didn’t manage to catch herself in a dive and crashed through the treetops.

She slammed into the grassy floor of the forest, dragging through the dirt as rocks flung out of her way, eventually being stopped by a tree. It took her a moment to really get her bearings, but when she did she was suddenly all too aware of her surroundings.

It wasn’t nearly as bright here as it was out there.

The shadows of the trees were long and bird song was suddenly silenced. The winds picked up and branches shook harshly, leaves being pulled from their trees.

She could barely make out the sun, clouds blocking its path, and the lack of other creatures was deafening.

Something was watching her. Not unlike the gazes of her elders when she made a small mistake on a document or once again had a day where she stole her closet brothers away to just have fun.

Its gaze was attached to her back, and she curled into herself. She was wrong, this gaze was worse.

It wasn’t scrutinizing her, it was observing her. Watching her movements. Taking her in.

She felt something she couldn’t identify. She hadn’t felt it before. Something crossed of anxiety and that feeling when someone was angry with her.

She was… scared?

That word flew through her mind. She heard it scarcely with fellow Angels. It wasn’t something usually felt in her home, as it’s wasn’t truly necessary. They were supposed to be happy in the Celestial Realm, and fear was not positive, it was a negative, something Demons would usually deal with.

So why was she…

A branch snapped in the background, echoing through the empty forest around her. She jolted upright, grabbing her knees and wrapping her arms around them.

Her breath grew heavy as she began to look around wildly, her wings puffing up as she curled into herself tighter. Her knees to her chest, she instead took her arms from her legs and wrapped them around her head.

“Whoever is there… please…”

Her voice was weak. She shook in the breeze, the delicate flowing fabrics of her gown dancing wildly in the wind with her hair. Her sniffed, trying hard to hold the tears that had suddenly formed in her eyes at bay.

“Please…”

Suddenly, she heard footsteps, fast and steady, rushing towards her. Her head shot up as they grew closer, fight or flight kicking in immediately. She jumped up, arms cradling her chest.

“W-wait!-“

Deciding against talking, she ran.

She hadn’t thought she’d have to fight, so she saw no need in bringing her holy weapon. Her bare feet pounded against the earth. Wildly thrashing through branches, leaves and sticks got stuck in her hair, scratching her face, ichor slipping from the wounds. She pushed through the forest, looking for a space to take off. She heard the footsteps growing closer and faster, nearing her with animosity.

Finally she burst from the forest line and down a hill, tumbling down and landing on her wing awkwardly, causing a dull pain to scream through the joint. White feathers flew as she fell, small screams falling from her throat. She finally rolled to a stop, tears and ichor mixing on the ground. Her shaken sobs making her body shiver on the ground.

She turned and laid eyes on mask, painted with gold and black accents.

Long flowing golden hair trailed behind them as they walked towards the fallen Angel. A tight black top clung to their chest, sleeveless and cut off right below the pecks. A pure white sash wrapped around their shoulder and down onto their waist, a bow on their thigh tying it together. Large, black flowing pants with golden accents ended at their ankles where their feet were wrapped in bandages. Armor clung to their arms - black with golden trimmings - one arm having slimmer armor that ended at the wrist, revealing an archer’s glove, the other arm ending in a gauntlet with sharpened claws for fingers. A small amount of the same armor rested on their waist, held together with a golden chain. A white scarf that flowed behind them covered the bottom part of the white mask with golden inlays that hid their face from Lilith.

What brought it all together were the feathers that attached to one side of their mask. A large golden one, two pure white ones on either side of it, and a small row of black feathers behind them.

A bow rested on their back, large and black in color with golden accents, made of the same metals that made the armors that covered their skin. A long sword rested on their back as well, under the bow. A circular shield rested atop the bow, though from the angle she lay at, Lilith could not see the design on its front. The sheath was beautifully decorated with golds. A quiver rested on their hip, filled to the brim with arrows begging to be used, surrounded in smaller bags and satchels. And finally, in their hand, was a large and imposing spear. Long and thin, yet it looked to be made of a strong metal, one light enough to glide through air if thrown.

They slowly and antagonizingly made their way towards the fallen Angelic girl, who in a last ditch effort shot a weak burst of light from her palm. It was hot, but if not hot enough to injure then it would be bright, to blind. Though unfortunately, the person just smacked it away with their spear.

They made it in front of the still downed Lilith, who was preparing to prey to The Father for safety, before they crouched down and kneeled before her. They both stared - Lilith assumed they were anyway - at each other for a moment. Then, the clawed hand came to their mask, and slowly pulled it above their head.

Lilith’s eyes widened.

“A genuine Angel..? Here..? Well, I do apologize for our horrid meeting. Hadit been in my hands I’d’ve had you land safely into m’ arms, pretty lady. Now, what can this a-humble human do for a graceful lil’ thing such as yourself? Father got any new messages f’ me?”

Soft (e/c) eyes stared back into Lilith’s with a soft smile as well. A hand was offered to her as well, which she took. The spear in hand was safely placed on their back as they pulled her up gently, their un-clawed hand gently wrapped around her waist.

“Oh! Where are my manners! S’cuse me, but I’m The First. Eh, heard from the last Angel that visited that ya’ll might call me Adam? Or Eve? Couldn’t really tell. You can pick though, pretty lady. Speakn’ of, what’s your name dove?”

They gave her a toothy grin as she stared wide-eyed at them. They were… Adam… and Eve? Looking at their body they looked neither feminine nor masculine, a perfect mix of the two. As did their face.

“L-Lilith…” “Well nice to meet you, Lilith! As I said, Adam or Eve I don’t mind neither, course you could come up with somethin’ of yer own!”

Lilith continued to stare at the human-you as you walked her through the forest she just ran through. Taking her through a small yet visible path into a small clearing, sat in the center was a small little hut of wood with a high standing brick chimney.

“Oh! Darn, yer wing! Ah, my apologies Lilith, I assume this happened when ya took that real big tumble down the way? Now, I ain’t ever heal no Angel wing before, but I’d be a fool not to try for you, dove.” Their hand brushed over her wing gently, smoothing down some feathers. Lilith looked at them, taking in their features once more. They looked… young.

“How long have you been here..? Alone..?” The looked at her with widened eyes, before turning back to the hut.

Silent with a thoughtful look on their face, they opened the polished, wooden door and showed Lilith inside first, closing the door behind them. With a flick of their wrist, a flame enveloped their hand, and with another, shot out of their grip, startling the Angel.

It flew to different corners of the house, bouncing off walls and other surfaces until they found their placement in various lamps around the room, bathing the small house in a warm glow.

“How did you… you spoke no words-“ “Yeah, been doin’ things of that sort for as long as I can remember. Didn’t mean to startle you. But to answer your other question… I don’t know, truly. Been left with my thoughts for ‘bout as long as I’ve been alive, not countin’ the few Angels that may come down with a message from The Father anyway.”

They sat her down in a small chair, and she really took in her surroundings.

It was all one room really, only a wall separating what she assumed was the kitchen from the living/bedroom. The kitchen had the bare minimum, a wood fire stove and a couple small chests and cabinets. In the living room was the base of the chimney, a fire having been lit inside it with a large pot rested against it. In front of it were two wooden chairs, each draped with thick woolen blankets. Behind the chairs was a bed that took up a large corner of the home, pressed to the wall next to the door. A small window rested above it, as well as a shelf with small pots containing various flowers of different sizes, shapes and colors. Beside the small kitchen area was a small circular table - where she was sat now - with four chairs surrounding it. It sat in the corner opposite to the bed, with a window beside it as well and a potted flower in the center.

It was small, but cozy. As she looked around, Lilith barely noticed as the human, who had placed their weapons at the foot of the bed and mask on a hook next to it, took a look at her wing, gently flexing it and feeling up the joint to get a better feeling for the injury.

“S’nothin’ too bad. Pulled a muscle, might be a sprain. I’d say stay off it for a bit, maybe ‘bout a… week?” Lilith looked at them incredulously.

“A WEEK!?! I NEED TO BE BACK BY TONIGHT!!! I can’t stay here… I need… I can’t-“ She kept up from the chair, causing it to clatter against the floor. She flinched as it fell but the human simply stared.

“Is there anything you can do?? I need to leave, this was a on a whim trip and no one knows I’m here-“ “No one knows?” They interrupted.

“Well now dove, ain’t that a bit irresponsible of you?” Lilith sighed with a grimace.

“Well… yeah. BUT I WAS CURIOUS!! I couldn’t help myself! I just had to see the Garden of Eden. It sounded to pretty a magical and and… oh isn’t there anything? I’m not the greatest at healing magic, my brothers usually take care of all my cuts and scrapes…” The human smiled at her while gently rubbing her back.

“Now don’tcha worry your pretty lil’ head dove, ya interrupted me ‘fore I could say that’d be if I couldn’t heal it, which I can. So you just sit back down an’ led me work my magic, alright?” They picked back up the chair she had knocked over and sat her back down.

“Plus, a week ain’t that bad compared to what it woulda been f’ me. I’da been outta commission for at least a month. But with y’all’s fancy Angel bodies, healing is all quick like. Notice here? Ya face scratches are all gone dove.” Lilith gently placed a hand on her face, noticing the dull throb of any of the scratches she sustained in the chase were gone.

“I-I guess I never noticed, considering we don’t regularly get hurt in The Celestial Realm…” She mused. The human chuckled.

“Heh, wouldn’t expect y’all too. Anyway, gonna have this wing fixed up faster than double-struck lightning.” The Angel looked that them.

“What?” “Eh?”

They both stared before the human chuckled.

“Don’t mind me, let’s just get this here wing fixed up. I’m gonna count to three, and then you’re gonna hold ya breath, alright?” She was confused, but Lilith nodded.

“Alrighty, one…” She closed her eyes and took a breath.

“Two…” She felt the humans hands wrap around the injury.

“THREE!” A loud *SNAP* sounded through the room, and her eyes shot open. Before she could scream or anything of the sort, a cooling sensation flowed through her wing, the dull pain she felt washing away. She sighed in relief and leaned into the touch of the human. She couldn’t see it, but a sweet smile crossed their face.

“Thank you… so much…” “It’s no problem, dove. My fault you even got hurt in the first place. Again, my apologies f’ that.” Lilith huffed.

“No, it’s my fault for even getting in this situation in the first place, I shouldn’t have left without permission. Maybe I would’ve known where your dwelling was and could have made a safer landing.” That human chuckled and gently pulled her up.

“Now now, don’t go gettin’ your knickers in a twist over this, alright? Here, we both take blame.” “No no, I did more harm in the long run-“

They placed their hands on her shoulders, mindful of the claws on their single gauntlet.

“Nope. Not hearin’ you out ‘bout this. Anyway, you best be getting outta here now dove. Wouldn’t want’cha getting in no kinda trouble just cause you came down and visited this mortal. Come one now, let me show you out.”

A arm wrapped around her waist, gently leading her back to the front and out the house into the small clearing.

“Next time ya come ‘round here, make sure ya got some kinda permission, alright?” They asked. Lilith blushed as she looked back, an embarrassed chuckle following.

“I will. Promise.” The human smiled back.

“Alright then. Now then, it’s time f’ you to swap spit an’ hit the road.” The Angel looked back, aghast.

“It’s time for us to WHAT?!” She screamed, leading the human the lift their hands in surrender and laugh.

“Sorry, I just meant it’s time for you to leave, dove.” Lilith sighed and chuckled with them.

“Alright, thank you again! I will visit, I hope you know that!” They nodded and she smiled.

With a final smile, she leapt into the air, wingbeats echoing through the landscape. As she cut through the sky, she took a glance back and noticed them enthusiastically waving her off with a big silly grin, causing her to grin.

Yeah, she’d be back.

૮꒰づ˶• ༝ •˶꒱づ ˚ʚ ꒰⁐⁐⁐⁐୨🍮🍯🍧୧⁐⁐⁐⁐꒱ ɞ˚

Belphegor had begun to notice Lilith’s absences were increasing.

It wasn’t odd for the youngest of the seven to go missing on one of her little adventures, but for them to be happening so often?

And on top of that, she seemed happier. Now, don’t get him wrong, Belphegor loved seeing his sister so happy, but the thing was he couldn’t tell what exactly was making her so happy.

Also she called him “as pretty a peach”??? Whatever that means??? What even was a peach???

Anyway, he was determined to find out what it was, especially since last night she came home THREE HOURS after dinner all giddy and stuff.

Today was the triplets day off and with Beel out for the moment and her in her room, Belphegor figured this would be the best time for questioning.

Knocking on her door and waiting for the muted ‘come in’, he entered the room and closed the door behind him.

“Yeah, Belphie?” Lilith was sat on her bed on her stomach, legs swinging above her. Her head was resting in her palm as her other hand held a letter.

“I just had a question, nothing serious. May I sit?” Belphegor asked from the door. He pointed beside the laid down girl who giggled.

“Yep! Go right ahead.” She said, rolling over and sitting up. Belphegor sat by her feet and looked at his sister.

“My question is… what’s been making you so happy lately?” A sour look crossed the man’s face as Lilith only stared… Before bursting out into laughter over his expression.

“PFFFT- WHAT KINDA QUESTION IS THAT BELPHIE???” She laughed. Belphegor coughed into his fist to hide his now embarrassed expression, causing Lilith’s laughter to only grow in volume.

“W-Well I only ask because you’ve been so... so… Giddy! Lately! Like your head has been in the clouds!!” Belphegor defended, Lilith’s laughter quieted.

“Well for one, aren’t our head technically always in the clouds?” Belphegor stared at her as she grinned. With a chuckled, she continued.

“Besides, it’s nothing super important. I just maybe… kinda… might think I’m in love?” Belphegor did a double take.

“You might be… what?” “Okay head me out Belphie-“ Belphegor shook his head in shock. His little sister? In love? With who? What were they like? Likes and dislikes? How old? So on and so forth. Questions ran through his mind a mile a minute.

“Before you ask ANY questions, they’re younger than me, super nice and take my wants into consideration, cares for nature, and is just the sweetest person I’ve met. They even cook and clean and can sew and even crochet! Isn’t that just amazing…” Lilith immediately looked away from her brother, clutching the letter she was holding to her chest.

Belphegor figured the letter might be from the person in question, so in a moment of selfishness - to which he knew he would pray about later - , grabbed the letter from her, causing a gasp from his sister.

She immediately complained, pushing at her brother to get it back, but he stood up and held her back with one arm, reading the letter aloud.

“- Don’t worry about the bruise, it isn’t nothing to worry about. Anyway, those Celestial flowers you brought me are doing wonderfully. You were right, all they needed was a bit more sunlight than the regular flower, like a sunflower. Might show you the sunflower field I found the other day if you want. Don’t feel rushed to come back down, however. And please say thank you to Yael for making the trip to and fro. Glory to The Father, may he smile upon us. Goodbye, my dove.

- A.E.”

Belphegor looked at his sister who was flushed in embarrassment. She had given up fighting in the middle of his reading the end of the letter, and was sitting on her heels on her bed.

“A.E.? What kind of name is that? And why are they acting as though they don’t live here? “Those Celestial flowers you brought me are doing wonderfully.”? That’s not something someone who is here would say, Lilith. Just who is this?” Belphegor looked to his sister whose blush had disappeared by then.

She sighed as she looked to her brother, gaze clouded for a moment before huffing again.

“If I tell you… promise to not tell anyone?” Lilith’s voice was uncannily soft compared to her usual loud and outgoing self. A little uneasy with her sudden change in tone, Belphegor nodded.

Lilith hesitated and opened her mouth, then shut it, then thrust her hand into her brother’s chest, pinkie out turned.

“Pinkie promise?” Lilith’s eyes held… worry? Fear? Belphegor couldn’t read it well but whatever it was it immediately sent signals off in his head.

“Yeah… yeah of course.” Belphegor held out his hand with pinky extended, wrapping it around hers.

“I may have… gone to the Garden?.. And talked to a…” she hesitated, “human..?” Belphegor looked to his sister with now widened eyes.

“You went to… the Garden? Like, THE Garden? Of… Eden? Where the… humans live?” Belphegor spoke their name like a taboo, which made Lilith cringe.

He knew why, humans were still relatively new and were more or less a hot topic. Either you never spoke a word or they were all you could talk about. They were something of a passion project, as was rumored. Something that was aloud to have varied results, and more importantly:

To make mistakes.

The was the supposed “beauty” of what would soon be humanity.

Or so Belphegor was told, anyway.

He never got it, as the Virtue of Diligence, it was literally ingrained in his being to always be alert to any mistakes and correct them as quickly as possible, to ensure everything ran smoothly. Sure, sometimes a mistake could prove to be beneficial, but more often than not, that was untrue.

So how an entire race could be conceived from the idea of mistakes propelling them was… Belphegor just couldn’t understand.

So to hear his sister, LITTLE sister mind you, had gone down and… interacted with those things?? He was a little upset but… her eyes.

Lilith’s eyes shined with a wonder he hadn’t seen in them in a while, life finally growing bland after their millions of years of existence. She had something new, and it clearly brought her happiness. Who was he to take that from her.

In the grand scheme of things it didn’t affect her work to much, and Father had never explicitly told them to stay away…

“Does this human seem to have any intentions of hurting you?-“ “NO!”

Lilith raised her eyes and flinched back in indignation at the words, looking offended, a hand landed on her chest.

“They would never! I’m impressed you’d even say such a thing!” Chuckles rung from her as she began to kick her legs slightly, covering her mouth with a hand. Belphegor smiled.

This may not have been his favorite predicament, but she was happy. Perhaps he could give these humans a chance.

…

This would be his first time making a “mistake”.

૮꒰づ˶• ༝ •˶꒱づ ˚ʚ ꒰⁐⁐⁐⁐୨🍡🍬🍩୧⁐⁐⁐⁐꒱ ɞ˚

Years went by and Lilith’s visits to you didn’t stop.

Nearly every weekend was spent with you, sharing stories and otherwise. You’d taught her a few tricks of your trade as well, such as sewing and wood carving.

All was well.

Of course, until it wasn’t.

Yael, the Angel you and Lilith had trusted to take your messages to and from each other, had “crumbled under the pressure” and told a higher up. Who told someone higher than them, who told someone higher than them and well…

You hadn’t seen or heard from Lilith is weeks.

You were getting worried, but you had no way of getting to the Celestial Realm to check on her. So you waited.

And waited…

And… waited…

Lilith, meanwhile, was trying her hardest to convince the others to allow her back down into the Garden.

she had been forbidden, Angels weren’t meant to meddle in the affairs of mortals unless explicitly instructed too, after all. The Realm was still figuring out the logistics of Guardians, so no one Angel - without permission - was allowed down there.

Lilith begged and cried and sobbed, doing everything in her power to convince them that she deserved to go back down. That nothing had truly changed or happened. That’s she hadn’t fully interfered with the mortals.

All it took was an image of your now sullen face staring at the sky awaiting her return for the council to agree that she would never again be allowed to see you again.

She had exposed you too much.

You’d most likely not move on for years.

And she sobbed.

Her brothers had never seen her cry like this.

She fell to her knees and sobbed and pleaded with the council to reconsider, to give her another chance;

To at least allow her to say goodbye.

All requests were denied.

And her brothers were forced to watch her fall into something they had only heard from Demons, a “Depression”.

No longer did she go on spontaneous adventures, nor did she make jokes or try anything new.

It was simply work, eat, sleep, and staring longingly at the gifts you had given her.

Her colors dulled as time went on, and she slowly lost her glow.

Lucifer just couldn’t take it.

He tried to reason with the council. Asking them time and time again.

Always getting denied.

He only got more desperate as days past and she got duller and duller…

And finally he snapped.

Lucifer didn’t know how it happened. Once second he was asking peacefully.

The next he was chocking someone.

He let go after regaining control of his body, breathing heavily and palms shaking. After which a shouting match broke out.

And soon after that meeting, things only got worse.

Chocking turned to punching, punching turned to full on fighting, and fighting turned to the first angelic death by angelic hands in history.

Then the declaration of war.

૮꒰づ˶• ༝ •˶꒱づ ˚ʚ ꒰⁐⁐⁐⁐୨🍪🎂🧁୧⁐⁐⁐⁐꒱ ɞ˚

The days seemed to pass like a blur to you.

From days filled with planing of what new thing you could introduce to Lilith and where you could take her, now filled with the monotony of what like was before.

Farming, hunting, animal watching.

Barely did you touch your loom or carving tools, only when you needed a new utensil or blanket.

You hated it.

You missed her smile, and her laugh.

You sighed as you polished off another deer skull, taking a hammer and smashing it across a rock. Picking up the pieces, you take them to a small plot of land and begin to bury them beneath the tilled dirt.

though your eyes immediately met those of a dove, and you smiled.

“I’ll wait as long as you need, dove.”

It fluttered softly onto your upturned hand, cooing softly at you. Your eyes softened and you ran your free hand through the feathers on its head.

“As long as you need.”

૮꒰づ˶• ༝ •˶꒱づ ˚ʚ ꒰⁐⁐⁐⁐୨🍮🎂🍩୧⁐⁐⁐⁐꒱ ɞ˚

Years passed without much thought.

You remained oblivious to the war raging on above you.

Angels blood was technically on your hands and you couldn’t be the wiser.

Masses fell into their graves, simply because you needed to morn.

And now here you were, staring into the sky in shock as you watched the body of the woman you loved streaked across it, obviously mortally wounded.

You cried, and with a yelp, leapt into action, rushing behind her as she fell.

Your weapons discarded, you ran through rivers, jumped over rocks and basically glided through fields, all to catch her.

You barely noticed when you left The Garden.

Rocks dug into the skin of your feet but that was the least of your worries as you screamed her name, begging the Father to wake you from this awful nightmare.

Your arms raised high to catch her, begging her to please land in your grasp, barely paying attention to the cliff before you-

You fell.

You had never fallen from such a hight before.

Your long hair billowed through the wind with your clothes as you watched through tears as she hit the earth.

Then you hit a cliff.

A *SNAP* rang through the air as you landed on your back, head over the edge, perfectly positioned to see her and her… brother?

Two other men came as your breathing shallowed, a conversation you were too far away to hear taking place before you, before the man with the leathery wings performed some kind of spell, and her body ignited in a flame.

Your vision grew blurry as blood seeped from your mouth, coughs mixed with crimson bubbles escaping your lips as she disappeared. Her brother - who you realized was Lucifer, though his color pallet was much different than what she described - kneeled before the men.

With what little strength you had left, you clasped your hands together.

‘My Father who art above, please heed this prayer. Let be me reborn and find my love once more. Let us continue to be the star crossed lovers we believed ourselves to be. Please Father… and if one must be punished let it be me, for I had forsaken her from your land when my mortal lips met hers. Allow me this repentance and… let me… see… her once… mo…r…’

Your thoughts were silenced as you slipped away.

૮꒰づ˶• ༝ •˶꒱づ ˚ʚ ꒰⁐⁐⁐⁐୨🍪🍯🍫୧⁐⁐⁐⁐꒱ ɞ˚

You hated that prick in the sky.

You had given Him your everything, pledged yourself to Him.

You thought He was merciful, well apparently not.

Hundreds of thousands of fucking years.

You’ve had to watch her descendants live their lives, always finding a way to bump into them.

If this was His idea of a cosmic joke, then you wanted to bash your fucking skull in.

I mean, you’ve tried but he made you immortal on top of everything.

You had been reborn, as you asked, then to find that she’d been reborn as a human too. Great! You even had all your memories so you assumed she had her and…

…

…And then you were getting invited to her wedding as her ‘best friend’.

Never did you ever think you could’ve experienced a pain like that, like your soul shattering and being crumbled into dust but there you were. Watching her get wed off.

And have children.

And die.

You grew numb after a while, because why wouldn’t you. Seeing them grow became a past time, seeing where they ended up and then how many people attended their funerals.

Morbid game but it helped pass the time.

You got to watch as humans evolved and took over the planet, eventually coming to a point where they might destroy it if they aren’t careful.

You’ve watched technology grow and tack over and magic users be forced into hiding.

You’ve watched kingdoms rise and fall, nations grow and shrink, the belief of Angels and Devils become lesser and lesser.

You remember when Solomon, the big bitch of magic users and demon pact collector extraordinaire, was born. That was fun.

You remember when The King of the Devildom went to sleep, that was also neat, though you’re pretty sure that happened just a while before you died… time was a blur.

And naturally, you remembered when the brothers officially became “The Demon Brothers.”

You never forgot.

When out with “friends” - they were more people you surrounded yourself with to numb the pain of life - you just said you had Hyperthymesia, which led to more questions and other shit you couldn’t be bothered with.

The Father only know how many times you’ve gone through Highschool and Collage for the hell of it, there was shit else to do and at this point you were a hidden billionaire with how long you lived, plus it was nice to stay up to date on current affairs.

You had cut and dyed your hair same near every color under the sun at the this point, now at (h/c) for the time being.

One of the shittiest parts, however, was your morals.

The Father must’ve thought he was the funniest fucker in reality because he basically singed the Seven Virtues onto your soul, the on top of that made you the living example of the Seven Sins.

You couldn’t do shit without feeling torn apart.

Couldn’t spend large amount of money on yourself without feeling the need to give it away, but when you did you just wanted more money.

Never got a good nights sleep anymore because part of your brain would want to stay up to make sure nothing bad happened.

Couldn’t gouge yourself on a mountain of food without wanting to hurl halfway through because it “was enough”.

So life was shit in every way.

And then, the fucking cherry on top?

When a friend - who you knew full well was a decadent of her - got a letters from the Devildom about some “exchange program”. They tossed it because they thought it was a scam, which was fair.

You only read it out of curiosity, and when you say your jaw dropped? I mean it fucking dropped.

You knew all about Diavolo’s little “re-connection” thing, had since he announced it really, but to see it actually coming to light was… an experience you weren’t expecting.

Honestly you didn’t want them to go.

This descendent, MC was their name - such a weird fucking name - was one of your favorites. They were a chaotic little shit and you lived for it. Unless you had to pull them from a problem they caused. Then you didn’t.

But soon you got involved with their shit and completely forgot.

And there you were when they got sucked to hell, hand in hand…

… Also handcuffed but we don’t talk about that-

૮꒰づ˶• ༝ •˶꒱づ ˚ʚ ꒰⁐⁐⁐⁐୨🍯🍡🍫୧⁐⁐⁐⁐꒱ ɞ˚

“AW FUCK-“

“SHITTY TITTES AUGH-“

Both you and MC gripped each other, them screaming and you gritting your teeth with arms around them to protect them.

It took a second for them to stop and you to finally look up.

Before you was a judges seat with eight seats, five of which were filled. Though, a man stood beside the tallest standing seat.

Wait…

Orange, blond, strawberry blond, ravenette, red head - literally, and deep blue to teal?

Oh fuck-

The man in the tallest seat began to speak.

“Welcome to the Devildom MC… and friend?”

Diavolo looked down at the two of you, MC looking confused and you well… you looked uncomfortable but not unknowing.

“We can deal with that in a moment but, pardon my abrupt introduction. Feeling a bit shocked, I’m sure? Well that’s understandable, you’ve only just arrived, after all.”

MC looked around at the men confused and obviously scared while you just sighed with a hand pressed to your forehead. MC tried to stand only to trip back when the cuffs holding you both together. You noticed some of the brothers staring at you two, but you looked away. Diavolo seemed to ignore you both, however.

“As a human, it will probably take a little while for you to adjust to things here in the Devildom.”

“What the fuck is a Devildom-“ MC was cut off by a glare from Lucifer.

“Haha! Calm yourself Lucifer they were just asking a question! Now, before we introduce ourselves, who are you?”

You glanced over at the male and glanced at everyone else. Tugging on your shirt and running your hand through your hair, you finally met Diavolo’s eyes again.

૮꒰づ˶• ༝ •˶꒱づ ˚ʚ ꒰⁐⁐⁐⁐୨🍩���🍦୧⁐⁐⁐⁐꒱ ɞ˚

“Now I call you dove, you ain’t got any kinda name f’ me?”

You both were sat on a cliff you had just recently found overlooking your home with a great view of the sky and sun, which was setting at the moment. She was sat beside you, head on your shoulder with you both in the grass. A small wind blew through, making your hair wave like a sea of gold. She ran a hand through your hair, you humming at the feeling.

Your easygoing grin made Lilith’s heart melt, but she focused up back on your question after a moment, humming.

“Well… I want it to mean something.” “Dove means somethin’!” Lilith giggled.

“Oh yeah, and what would that be?” “Well you’re an Angel… n’ doves are connected ta Angels n’ stuff…” you groaned after, shoving your face in your hands, causing the Angels laughter to grow.

“Don’t laugh at me! It was cute how you reacted when I first called ya it!” Lilith continued to laugh, you whining and wrapping an arm around her waist, pulling close and placing her head on your chest. Then, you grabbed her face in a huff. You forced her to stare at you as she bit her tongue with blush on her cheeks.

Finally you both broke out into laughter, her falling onto you. You both fell back into the grass giggling. She laid on top of you and you both breathed and took the moment in.

“… I think I have an idea.”

You glanced at her. Wrapping your arms around her waist, you pulled her up and rested your head on top of her hers. She nuzzled into your neck.

“Idea for what, dove?” “A nickname.”

You smiled and looked down at her, causing her to look up.

“Well then get on with it, I’m excited as a cow to a good wooden post.” “A what… to a what?” “Heh, nothin’ dove.”

She smiled and snuggled into you.

“I think you deserve your own name. Not what they call you up there. Something like…”

૮꒰づ˶• ༝ •˶꒱づ ˚ʚ ꒰⁐⁐⁐⁐୨🎂🍩🍯୧⁐⁐⁐⁐꒱ ɞ˚

You stared Diavolo in the eyes, and smiled somberly.

“…(y/n).”

໒꒰ྀི˶˙Ⱉ˙˶꒱ྀིა Author’s note : WOOO FINALLY I FUCKING FINISHED IT WOOOOOOO-

This has been sitting in my drafts for fucking months :)

Yes this will be getting a part two this is for me I’m the target audience-

My fucking hands man… they hurt-

Please god tell me someone appreciates this-

… is this my longest fic?-

[themotherofhorses]

pairing: aemond targaryen x handmaid!reader, alys rivers x daughter!reader

summary: she arrives back home in the middle of autumn when the foliage around harrenhal is as pretty and colorful as the evening sunset.

it's been well over a year since she last laid eyes on her beloved mother or heard her soothing voice and felt her hugs and kisses, and she desperately wished for the twins to meet their grandmother.

warnings: nothing. soft moments between alys and her daughter, featuring the twins. foreshadowing maybe at the end???

notes: a lil mother's day special for y'all.

his handmaid's tales | main masterlist

She arrives back home in the middle of autumn when the foliage around Harrenhal is as pretty and colorful as the evening sunset. It’s been well over a year since she last laid eyes on her beloved mother or heard her soothing voice and felt her hugs and kisses, and she desperately wished for the twins to meet their grandmother. At her request, Queen Alicent had agreed to send her prince to Oldtown to meet with his brother and, in the meantime, fetch a carriage that would take her home.

She’s beyond happy and excited and grateful.

And to her upmost delight, her mother’s quite taken with the boys. Alys had baked sweetbread and baked apples and sweet cakes, coated in honey, and with a glass of fresh cow’s milk, for the children, and kissed their little noses and chins.

Together they laze in the open meadow, watching as the boys play amidst the tall yellowing grass. The sky overhead is dark and heavy with southern rain, and the sight takes her back to her girlhood, and long grey days spent along the Gods Eye. The godswood too, with its drooping branches and silver mist, and making mud pies for her uncles. She’s missed this all.

“He’s named them Aemion and Aenar, first of their names,” she tells her mother, smiling. “He’s quite proud of them. The queen too.”

Alys hums. “As a father should be with his babes.” But, deep in her pretty green eyes, there is a faint longing that speaks more words than her tongue does. Her mother only ever had one child of her own, and that was herself. “Children are the one true blessing from the gods. Not the crops and rainfall and victories in war. The gods have naught to give but them,” and Alys takes her hand to kiss it, gentle and loving.

“You are my greatest, most beautiful and treasured gift.” Alys shakes her head, chuckling. “I remember when you were just a babe, and the very first time I fed you at my breast. They told me to give you to another wet nurse, so that I might feed another child, bit I couldn’t bear seeing you in the arms of another woman.” Her mother stares at the twins wistfully, two small silver crowns scooping up mud with their fingers. “Oh, look at them, baking mudpies like their mother.”

Her boys look like an early snowfall fell across Harrenhal. Sweet it is, and she hopes this day might last forever.

“They suggested a wet nurse for the twins,” she whispers, and Alys turns her head to her. “My first babes, and they were worried I didn’t have enough milk to feed them. I cried when they told me that. I had labored for the entire morning, to bring them into this world…I supposed I thought they would take them away, or perhaps their father would prefer seeing them in the arms of another woman…” her voice trails off.

That night, after their birth, she wept her eyes dry within her prince’s arms, and begged him not to let them take her babies away. He promised before rocking her to sleep, and her silly fears disappeared by the next morning when she awoke to Aemond alongside her, with their sons swathed in his arms.

Aemion and Aenar laugh from where they sit, and she spies bits of mud, brown and slick, caked in their hair. They now resemble her family more than their father’s. Strong boys, Aemond would call them if he was here with her.

“Does he love you?” Alys asks.

Her lips press together as she considers the question. “I think so. I know a man doesn’t have to love a woman to give her his seed, but he treats me well, and he loves our sons dearly, that is known.” She doesn’t tell her mother how he’s already anxious for the next child, wanting to see her belly swollen with his babe again.

Alys clicks her tongue. She smooths down the slight wrinkles across her green gown before folding them over her lap, and her nose scrunches up with her next words. “I cried day and night when they took you away, but tears couldn’t bring you back, and I started praying for your safety and goodwill. Ah, but I never could’ve imagined the gods would heed my prayers like this.”

“I don’t think any of us foresaw this, mother.”

“You’ve made beautiful sons, my love,” and Alys slides two fingers in her mouth to whistle. At that, the boys run up to her, a mess of flushed cheeks and toothy grins and smelling like the rich land. In their little hands they hold a big mudpie, wet and prettied with rocks and a few sticks and a daffodil. Their grandmother wipes away a chunk of dried mud along Aemion’s upper arm before taking the mudpie with a smile. “How delicious this looks! Well done, boys.”

Aenar plops himself in his mother’s lap, nestling against her chest. “You’re going to need a bath,” she tells him, kissing his forehead. His smile was exactly that of his father’s, handsome and beautiful and gallant as any prince in those court songs.

“We can always bathe them in the Gods Eye,” Alys suggests, twirling a strand of Aemion’s silver-pale hair around her finger. “I used to bathe you in it a lot. Your grandfather would say the waters strengthen the blood, keeps our own strong and mighty.”

Later, she stands before the Gods Eye, the biggest lake in all the realm, with no hint of a far shoreline to be seen in her eyes. The storm clouds had darkened it- its waters glistening like a dark metal- but it is all the same as the one from her girlhood.

And now I bathe my own sons here, she thinks quite happily, feeling her joy bubbling inside her chest. A large crack of thunder booms overhead, and it pulls her out of her thoughts.

“Aye, two little silver-haired Targaryens in its waters, would you look at that!” Alys laughs, knee-deep in the lake as well. Her long, dark hair beats about her face as she stands near the boys, cupping her hands to wash away the mud from their hair. “When might this happen next?”

And as the handmaid flattens her hand against her lower belly, ever so tenderly, she smiles, and giggles, and rushes to join her mother and children in the water.

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[brodygold]

The Golden Opportunity

A 200 follower special

The sun hung high in the sky, casting its warm, golden glow over the vast expanse of the rolling plains. The dry, rustling grass swayed gently in the breeze as William sat atop his stallion, surveying his ranch. He’d worked the land for years, pouring his blood, sweat, and tears into it, and it had become a part of him. The rhythms of ranch life were second nature to him now—waking before dawn, tending to the cattle, and spending long, solitary hours out in the open. It was a life he enjoyed, even if it was a bit lonely.

Despite his contentment, though, something had been gnawing at the back of William’s mind lately. Strange stories had begun circulating in nearby towns, passed along by ranch hands and traders at the market. Tales of a mysterious group known only as the Golden Army. They were said to travel from place to place, recruiting the best of the best—men who were not only strong and skilled but also held an untapped potential for greatness.

Most people dismissed these stories as mere myths, gossip meant to entertain and provoke curiosity. William, pragmatic as he was, tried not to give them much thought. After all, he had a ranch to run, and he’d always prided himself on staying focused on what was in front of him.

Still, the stories lingered in his mind, especially on those long, quiet nights when all he could hear was the distant howl of coyotes and the rustling of the wind through the trees. He would find himself with a cigar in hand, thinking about what it would be like to join a group like the Golden Army, to leave behind the life he had built in exchange for something unknown, perhaps even extraordinary.

One afternoon, as William rode his horse along the southern edge of his property, he spotted something unusual in the distance. A group of riders, their figures shimmering against the horizon, were making their way toward him. There was something striking about them, even from afar. They rode with purpose, their horses in perfect formation, each rider sitting tall and proud in the saddle.

As they drew nearer, William’s curiosity deepened. Their golden jerseys, vibrant and gleaming, caught the sunlight, reflecting it like molten metal. The leader of the group was a tall, imposing figure who seemed to radiate authority. His golden jersey was trimmed with white, and his horse—larger and more powerful than the others—was adorned with matching gold and white tack. The group approached William’s position at a steady pace, their horses’ hooves kicking up small clouds of dust as they came to a halt a few feet in front of him.

The leader dismounted gracefully, his sharp eyes locking onto William. “You must be William,” he said, his voice deep and confident. “We’ve been watching you for some time now.”

William, still sitting atop his horse, frowned. “Watching me? Who are you?”

The man smiled, but there was something unreadable in his expression. “I am Richard, Captain of the Golden Army. And this,” he gestured to the riders behind him, “is my team.”

William’s pulse quickened at the mention of the Golden Army. He had heard the stories, of course, but seeing them in person was different. There was an aura of power about them, something magnetic and undeniable. Still, he was cautious.

“I’m just a rancher,” William said, his tone guarded. “What do you want with me?”

Richard took a step closer, his boots crunching in the dry grass. “We don’t want you to be ‘just’ anything. We see your potential, William. You’ve got the skills we need, and I believe you’re destined for more than this.” He gestured to the vast expanse of land behind William. “We want you to join the Golden Army.”

William’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Join you? But I’ve never been part of anything like that. I’m no soldier, no competitor. I’m just a rancher.”

Richard shook his head, his gaze steady. “You underestimate yourself. You’ve spent years honing your abilities out here—working the land, riding, leading. These are the very qualities we look for in our recruits. You have the strength, the discipline, and the determination to ride with us.”

William opened his mouth to protest, but before he could speak, Richard pulled something from his pocket. It was a medallion—a round disc made of pure gold, engraved with intricate patterns that seemed to shimmer and shift as the light hit them. He held it up before William’s eyes, letting the light glisten off of it.

“Look at this, William,” Richard said softly. “Focus on it.”

William’s gaze was drawn to the medallion almost against his will. The way it glinted in the sunlight was mesmerizing, the swirling patterns pulling him in deeper. He blinked, trying to shake the feeling, but the longer he stared, the harder it became to look away.

“You’re tired of the same old routine,” Richard’s voice was low and hypnotic now, barely more than a whisper. “You’ve worked hard, but there’s a part of you that craves something more. Something greater.”

William’s thoughts were slowing, the world around him beginning to blur. The medallion swung gently back and forth, each movement sending a ripple through his mind. He tried to speak, to protest, but the words wouldn’t come. His body felt heavy, as though the very air around him had thickened, pressing down on him.

“Relax,” Richard continued, his voice soothing, almost kind. “You don’t need to fight it. You don’t need to think. Just listen to my voice, and let the medallion guide you.”

The golden disc seemed to pulse in time with William’s heartbeat, drawing him deeper into a trance. His eyelids grew heavy, and his grip on the reins loosened as his body swayed slightly in the saddle. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that something was happening to him—something profound, something irreversible—but he was powerless to resist.

“You’re no longer William,” Richard’s voice was everywhere now, filling his mind completely. “That name no longer belongs to you. You are Clayton now, a rancher in service of the Golden Army. You are one of us.”

*Clayton.* The name echoed in his mind, at first foreign, but then... familiar. As Richard repeated it, the name seemed to take root, growing stronger with each repetition. The memories of his former life as William—the years he’d spent working the ranch, the countless hours he’d poured into building his life—began to fade, dissolving like mist in the morning sun. New memories took their place, memories of riding with the Golden Army, competing in equestrian events, and earning glory for his team.

"You are Clayton," Richard said one final time, his voice firm and commanding. "And you belong to us."

Clayton blinked slowly, his eyes glazed and unfocused as the trance began to lift. When he finally looked up, the world seemed different—brighter, sharper, more vivid. He felt a strange sense of calm and certainty, as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. The ranch, his old life, felt distant, like something from a dream he could no longer fully remember.

Richard smiled, satisfied. “Welcome to the Golden Army, Clayton. We’ve been waiting for you.”

---

From that day forward, Clayton’s life changed entirely. His ranch was left behind, forgotten like a chapter in a book he had closed. His world now revolved around the Golden Army, and under their guidance, he flourished. The Golden Army was more than just a group of riders—they were a brotherhood, bound together by their shared commitment to excellence in equestrian sports and a life of discipline and camaraderie.

Clayton quickly adapted to his new role. His horse, now fitted with golden tack, responded to his every command with perfect precision. The Golden Army’s training regimen was rigorous, but Clayton found that he relished the challenge. He spent his days practicing dressage, show jumping, and cross-country racing, honing his skills under the watchful eyes of Richard and Jackson, the co-captain. Each day, he grew stronger, faster, more attuned to his horse.

The Golden Army was known throughout the country for their dominance in equestrian competitions. They weren’t just riders—they were legends, revered by fans and feared by rivals. Clayton quickly became a key member of the team, his natural abilities and ranching experience giving him an edge over the competition.

But the true test of his loyalty and skill was the Grand Equestrian Challenge, the most prestigious event in the sport. The Golden Army had won the Challenge for years, but each victory was hard-earned, and the competition was fierce. This year’s event was particularly important, as they would be facing off against The Titans, a rival team known for their sheer physical prowess and aggressive tactics.

The days leading up to the Challenge were intense. The Golden Army’s training sessions became longer and more grueling, with every rider pushed to their limits. Clayton, though new to the team, was determined to prove himself. He worked tirelessly, his body aching from the long hours in the saddle, but the sense of purpose he felt was unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. He wasn’t just competing for himself—he was part of something larger, something greater.

On the morning of the Grand Equestrian Challenge, Clayton stood in the stables, adjusting the golden tack on his horse. The sound of the crowd outside the arena was already deafening, a steady roar of anticipation. His golden suit gleamed in the early sunlight, and the emblem of the Golden Army on his chest seemed to pulse with life, filling him with pride.

Richard and Jackson approached him, their faces calm but serious. “Today’s the day, Clayton,” Richard said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve trained hard for this, and you’re ready.”

Jackson nodded. “We ride as one. Trust in yourself and in your team.”

Clayton felt a surge of confidence as he mounted his horse, the weight of the moment settling over him. This was what he had been preparing for, what the Golden Army had shaped him into. He was ready.

The competition was fierce, but the Golden Army was a force to be reckoned with. Each event was more difficult than the last—dressage required perfect control and poise, while show jumping demanded precise timing and coordination. Clayton’s horse responded to his every movement with grace and power, and together they executed each maneuver flawlessly.

As the final event—the cross-country race—began, Clayton found himself neck-and-neck with The Titans’ best rider. The course was treacherous, with sharp turns and steep hills, but Clayton’s instincts, honed from years of working the ranch, kicked in. He guided his horse with expert precision, gaining ground with each stride.

The roar of the crowd reached a fever pitch as Clayton and his rival approached the finish line. In the last few moments, Clayton urged his horse forward with a burst of speed, crossing the line just ahead of The Titans’ rider.

The Golden Army had won.

As the crowd erupted in cheers, Clayton was surrounded by his teammates, their faces beaming with pride. Richard approached him, his expression one of deep satisfaction.

“You’ve done it, Clayton,” he said, his voice filled with respect. “You’ve proven yourself, and you’ve earned your place among us.”

Clayton smiled, the name now feeling as natural as breathing. He had found his true calling, his true purpose. No longer was he just a solitary rancher. He was Clayton, a rider of the Golden Army, and he knew that this was where he belonged.

Together, the Golden Army rode back into the sunset, victorious and united, ready for whatever challenges lay ahead.

[novaursa]

Hello! So grateful you have opened up your requests 🥰

Could I get one of cregan showing his wife, targ!reader, the wall for the first time?

The Wall

- Summary: Cregan takes you to see the Wall, and Silverwing comes with you.

- Pairing: (wife) targ!reader/Cregan Stark

- Note: The reader is bonded with Silverwing.

- Rating: Mild 13+

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

You feel the northern chill in your bones the moment you step foot beyond Winterfell. The air grows heavier, colder, as if the very breath of the Old Gods wraps around you, sinking its icy tendrils into your flesh. It is a different kind of cold—more relentless, more biting than you have ever known in the southern lands of your birth. But then again, you expected nothing less when you agreed to accompany Cregan Stark to the Wall.

Your husband rides at your side, his fur cloak draped over broad shoulders, a sight that fills you with warmth. His face is set with the solemnity that marks his heritage, but there’s a softness there for you—a softening of his eyes whenever they meet yours, a gentle squeeze of his hand on your arm when the wind howls too sharply. His presence beside you feels like a shelter, a warmth against the harshness of the North.

“I’ve waited long to show you this,” Cregan murmurs, his voice low but carrying over the wind. There’s a rare lightness to his words, a pride that makes you smile, despite the cold biting at your cheeks.

“You speak of it as if it’s something magical,” you reply, teasing him gently, though you feel a hint of excitement bubbling beneath your words. The Wall is something that has lingered in stories and songs, a place you’ve only heard about. Yet now, you are about to see it with your own eyes.

“Some might say it is.” He chuckles, the sound deep and rich, sending warmth down your spine. “It’s a sight unlike any other. Even your dragons have their limits when it comes to the Wall.”

Your heart gives a little tug at his words, reminding you of Silverwing, the great she-dragon bonded to you since your youth. You’ve heard the stories too—of how Silverwing, despite her strength and size, refused to cross the Wall during the reign of Queen Alysanne. The tales had puzzled you, and a part of you wondered whether the creature you shared a bond with would behave the same when you reached the ancient barrier.

As the hours stretch on and you grow closer to your destination, the Wall finally emerges on the horizon—a towering monument of ice and stone, glowing eerily under the weak northern sun. The sheer size of it takes your breath away. You pull your cloak tighter around yourself, as though it will shield you from the awe that grips your chest.

“There it is,” Cregan says softly, his hand brushing against yours. His voice holds a note of reverence, as if the Wall itself is something holy. “The edge of the world.”

You stare up at it, the enormity of it humbling you in a way nothing ever has. The Wall stretches impossibly high, a barrier that seems to separate not only land but realms themselves—the living and the dead, the known and the unknown.

But what captures your attention more is the sound of wings cutting through the cold air. You turn your gaze upward just in time to see the massive shadow of Silverwing circling above. Her pale, silvery scales shimmer in the dull light, a contrast against the grim, grey sky. Yet, even as she soars closer to the Wall, you see the familiar hesitation in her flight. She slows, wings beating in slower arcs, her great head turning toward the ice as if sensing some invisible barrier.

“She remembers,” you whisper, half to yourself, half to Cregan.

“Aye,” he agrees, watching with you. “The Wall holds a power older than all of us.”

You urge Silverwing with a thought, your connection with her as strong as ever. She flaps her wings harder, drawing closer to the Wall’s towering height, but just as before—just as the tales told—she stops short. Her massive body hovers in the air for a few moments, and despite your urging, she will not go any farther. The invisible force seems to push back, a resistance neither of you can break.

A quiet frustration stirs within you. “She won’t cross it,” you murmur, though you already knew this might happen. You watch her large, majestic form retreat just enough to hover out of reach.

Cregan, who has been observing quietly, steps closer to you. He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you into his warmth. “Perhaps she knows something we don’t,” he says softly, his breath warm against your ear. “The dragons have their wisdom, even if we don’t understand it.”

You nod, leaning into him. His presence calms you, as it always does, and you relax into his embrace. But then, something shifts.

A low, rumbling growl echoes through the air, and you turn your attention back to Silverwing. The dragon’s wings beat harder, her growl growing into a roar that vibrates through your chest. She lowers her body, as if preparing to charge, and you feel her agitation through your bond—a new determination, a will that wasn’t there before.

“What is she—” Cregan begins, but you hold up a hand, silencing him.

Silverwing surges forward, her massive wings flaring as she approaches the Wall once more. This time, there is no hesitation. The invisible force that once stopped her seems to buckle under her will, and you watch in astonishment as Silverwing pushes through the barrier. The cold air whips around you, stinging your face, as her great form crosses over the Wall, her wings carrying her higher into the northern sky.

“She did it,” you breathe, hardly able to believe what you’re seeing. You can feel her triumph, her exhilaration, as she soars over the frozen wasteland beyond. It is as if the Wall’s ancient magic has finally yielded to her strength—or perhaps to something deeper, something connected to you.

Cregan’s hand tightens on your waist, and when you look up at him, you see the awe in his eyes. “You’re the first Targaryen to make it past the Wall,” he says, a smile tugging at his lips. “Silverwing wouldn’t have done that for anyone else.”

Your heart swells at his words, at the pride you feel through your bond with Silverwing and the warmth of Cregan’s affection. You turn in his arms, your fingers brushing against his cold cheek before you kiss him. His lips are warm, soft, a contrast to the sharp cold around you.

“Perhaps she knew it was time,” you whisper against his lips.

“Or perhaps she follows her rider,” Cregan replies, his voice low and tender as he pulls you closer.

You stay like that for a long moment, wrapped in his embrace, as the Wall looms behind you. Silverwing’s triumphant roars echo in the distance, and for the first time, you feel as though the North has truly welcomed you.

[rise-my-angel]

Heart of the Great Wolf

25 - Sailing Through the Glow

Pairing: Jon Snow x F!Baratheon!Reader, Robb Stark x F!Baratheon Reader (Past)

Length: 18.1k

Warnings: angst/hurt comfort, discussions of warfare, strained parental dynamics, insecurity and trauma, smut, graphic sexual descriptions oral (m and f receiving), possessive tendencies

Notes: Just a normal chapter where nothing wacky happens at all. Previous Chapter Here, Series Masterlist Here

You had thought you arrived before him, the sun still low in the morning sky with the winds picking up more, as you and Theon rode into White Harbour. Countless times you had passed through the port city but it was the second time you would be here on account of war. 

Only the pair of you, it hadn’t taken any time at all to reach there. Your mind occupied most of the ride with much thought of your father and what was to come. “We’re not fighting against the Lannisters. We lose this one, and we might not get any other chance. It’s the only thing we have and if we lose this, we lose the rest to come.” Perhaps it was the dreams and visions which left you feeling more haunted by the prospect, but you knew Theon was watching an intensity in you that grew increasingly agitated. 

“How many times have the Golden Company tried to take our lands, and how many times have they failed?” Your jaw clenched, but he continued. “They’re sell swords not an army. The second the money stops coming, they’ll leave. With your father, we’ll have two armies against one of theirs-”

Your voice was tight as your eyes were trained on the approaching city. “More armies doesn’t mean you have a better chance. Only means you have two armies fighting for different reasons.” 

Ignoring the curious gaze Theon was giving you, but he was quick on the draw. “If your fathers smart, he’ll wait until we get through the winter before caring about taking the Iron Throne.” 

“If we get through it.” 

He didn’t respond to that one. Only noticed the same distant look of something akin to a horror of unknowns deep in your eyes trying to pass off as indifference. It was the same one in Jons when he spoke of it, of the free folk who had seen what waited beyond the wall. 

The Long Night was eight thousand years ago. To most Southerners, it was nothing more then a myth. Tales of cold and monsters that were dreamed up in a winter that never ended to amuse minds with little else to hold onto but their imaginations. The Northerners though, it was never quite only a story told to scare children. They had believed the cause without evidence, beacuse they knew it was real. 

But Theon and many others still had no clue what was to come. They hadn’t seen it, in one manner or another they had no idea what waited for them. And no idea what would happen once they found way passed the wall. You had been reliving those dreams more and more at night, only seeing blue and the dead and cold. Every time you woke up you felt a chill flow through your blood knowing that what was to come was worse then any story. 

But here you were, riding into the city knowing that if the North wasn’t ready to stop it, none of the kingdoms would survive. Someone had to be prepared for the storm, because the only other choice was death. None knew if the winter had lasted a generation because it was meant to, or if somehow the winter was brought to the lands with the Others. And only left once they did too. And none, knew how that happened either. 

Some spoke of it as a great battle. A night full of darkness and death with one coming out as triumphant and ended it, but it made less sense the more you understood what you were to be up against. It wasn’t going to be that easy, it wasn’t going to be that simple. These weren’t dead, mindless monsters, these were living creatures. Creatures who wanted something you couldn’t comprehend. 

Greeted into the city, they brought you and Theon to the main docks where you were to meet with Lord Wyman Manderly. Climbing down, and handing your reigns to one of the guards your eyes were kept to where the waters couldn’t be seen from that point. Too many buildings in the way from the outside as you were led in. Lord Wyman was in good spirits as he could be, turning from one of his men with a grin. 

“Always a great pleasure to see you here, your grace.” 

Raising an eyebrow, you nodded back to him. “It’s nicer to be here then you think, my Lord.” Shaking his outstretched hand firmly, “This was always my first stop coming from King’s Landing. I’d get here and know I could at the least breathe a little easier.” 

There was a gratefulness in his eyes that softened a little. “Hopefully it’ll be just as nice when you come back this time.” Turning his attention to Theon, it still seemed to surprise him a little whenever the Northerners greeted him like normal. “Greyjoy.” No ire in his voice or tone it seemed. 

You couldn’t help but wonder, if the understanding that he hadn’t killed the boys had eased the hate in their hearts towards him. If what he did, had finally been seen as a lesser evil then what many after him had done. “My lord.” 

Turning to you once more, Lord Wyman beckoned you both into the building more. Mostly empty at this early of an hour, but that was also when you typically had been in there. “I’d offer you something to eat, your grace but I suspect you’d prefer to see exactly what we have before anything else.” 

Nodding once, he led you through the main building and out to the main docks. You had seen this many ships before, but never were they yours to use in terms of war. Far more then sixty had sat in the waters as you stepped out onto the wooden platforms circling many of the main ships at command. “This looks to be a far more few then sixty, my lord.” 

A glint in his eye, “Aye, it is your grace. Stannis Baratheon’s army arrived little over a day before yourself. Unpleasant man, your father. But he knows his way around a fleet.” 

You swallowed harshly, keeping a stilled expression despite the pick up in speed of your heart, and the nerves which begun to flow once more. Your voice was tight and controlled as you walked beside the man. “I’d expect so, both of us were once in charge of the royal fleet at some point or another.” 

“And trade,” That at least, got a small smirk out of you. Taking over his job had meant you learned the strange imports and exports that were not standard for the kingdom. Usually requests for certain highborns that were not accessible in King’s Landing, and typically the oddest ones always seemed to first ship in through White Harbour. “Was a game between me and my boys, guessing what was going to who. Never could quite figure out what was going to yourself.” 

“Nor will you.” 

He hadn’t been kidding about building these up in secret. Many looked like mere trade ships at first glance but you could see they had been built more study, something to hold and withstand feats more imposing then the tides. He clearly had been doing this for some time. Walking up and down the docks, you three went between the other with questions and suggestions. It was clear that Lord Wyman appreciated speaking to two people who understood the waters as he.

It was also nice to see Theon speak with something he had easy confidence with. 

By the time you came across him, it had reached the better part of the afternoon. Those around noting how similar both looked to the other. In looks and demeanour, with the ways you worked around the fleet in the exact same kind of manner as the other. There was no escaping the comparisons many always made of your similarity to your father. 

You had been the one to approach him. High up on one of his own ships, you stood down on the docks below. Looking up with a squint in the sun before your voice finally found the strength to speak out, louder then normal to catch his attention. “The last time I saw you like this, you were leaving for war then as well.” 

Stannis’s eyes narrowed as they looked down to you, gesturing to some of the men around him to take over. You stood still and quiet as he came down to your level. No doubt he could see despite the cleverness in your tone, the rigid stature in your frame as you watched him and didn’t approach further. 

Standing a good few feet apart, he only nodded once with your name coming from his mouth. “Good to see you came through the fight with the Boltons in one piece.” 

“With no thanks to any help of yours.” He tried saying your name in warning but you cut him off. A step forward as your eyes narrowed more to a glare that few could give to the man so blatantly. “Do you really think so little of my intelligence, that I thought you were only extending a truce for this occasion, and not expect anything in return?” 

It was your fathers turn to step forward with a narrowed look in his eye. “Tell me, what is it you think I want from you?” 

Those around you, had scattered to the wind with only your guard and his to stand by. It was common it seemed, to abandon all hope and flee once you and your father now came anywhere near the other. Like something was ready to implode by the weight of past hurt and contempt. You didn’t shift your expression once as your arms sat crossed over your torso. “He’s not your subject to command, father. Or do you want to tell me, how well it went last time you demanded the King in the North to bend the knee?” 

You hated that it was your father’s turn to have his eyes shift down to where your scar was well covered up. Was there a single person who would look at you anymore and not peer down to something you couldn’t stand to even look at? Your father’s voice was as controlled and even, “If I was going to demand him to kneel before me, I would’ve gone to Winterfell myself instead of sending Ser Davos. But I apologize. I wasn’t quite ready to throw my men for another King’s cause right away-’

You didn’t yell, but it echoed in Stannis's head all the same. “So you show that mercy for Jon, but not Robb? Or Renly?” The quiet between you both was so thick you could feel it seep into your skin. First you spend years with a broken relationship with your mother, and now that you and her were attempting to find ways to mend that bridge? The cracks formed deep into the ones left of you and your father.  

His jaw twitched a bit at the mention of his own brother, and you felt something unsettled grow. The memory of how drained of life he looked when you met with him that day at Robb’s side and how soon it was after Renly wound up dead. You never asked a soul about your fathers involvement anymore, but you never stopped thinking about it. 

A shadow in the shape of a man that came in the appearance of Stannis Baratheon. What had you let that woman convince you of doing, father? How many more in your family were lost to darkness and flames at her insistence? 

There were too many around, too out in the open for it. So he switched tactics to try and put you at more of an ease, in only a way he could manage. Speaking as dry and almost sarcastically condescending as possible. “Did I come all this way to argue with you like a child or did we come here to consolidate our armies?” 

Your eyes flickered to the side somewhat, jaw clenched before relenting. Shoulders dropping a small tinge as you closed the gap properly. Stannis turning in place to walk beside you along the docks of his own fleet. 

Relaying the plans made in Winterfell as your father listened quiet and intently. Knowing at the least, he could see the trails and maps in his own eyes as you spoke without needing to elaborate on the details. “Without anywhere to go on either side, we’ll have them trapped between us and then it is only a matter of surrender by then.” Glancing up to him at the side before looking forward once more. “Jon wanted me to make this clear, we aren’t going to crush their cause. If they were anywhere but Dragonstone we wouldn’t have even cared what they were doing.” 

Smart enough to keep it to himself, you heard not a thought of his opinion on another fighting claim to the Iron Throne. If you searched deep enough within the caverns of your heart, it did find enough left to care about the weight he still had. 

Stannis Baratheon was the one man with the only true claim to the Iron Throne, and not a soul in that fight but his own people, cared to help him get there. 

Nodding, “I’ve known for a while we would be needing it for one reason or another, and I didn’t reach out to him beacuse I wanted another fight. Snow knows even better than we do what we will be up against. And right now, that’s all I care about.” 

You hoped that was true. You really did. Fighting your father was proving to only weigh on your mind harsher and harsher as time went by. 

His men were easy to work alongside, which made sense. You knew a good plenty of them. They listened, were well receiving to your command with respect, and some knew Dragonstone well enough on their own to vocalize their agreement of the plans brought to Stannis from the King in the North. It was also clear, your father himself was impressed with the details brought by you from Jon. He had thought this all through in great detail for someone who didn't know even a scrap of the complexity of the land he was sailing to. 

One of his men speaking up, as he ran his hand across their own map. “If we come through here, we’re hidden by the hills until the treeline, come around closer to your men at this side that way and only the gates will cut us off.” 

All gathered around a large table was a mixture of the Northern bannermen of White Harbour, and your father’s men, and yet not much of any issue had come up. Mostly working together easily, not quite realizing that perhaps the ease in which you and your father discussed things helped that obstacle. Your palms braced on the edge as you eyed the map once more with a sharp gaze as your father spoke.

“If it is Lord Jon Connington whose had him this whole time, then Snow is right. We get you to Aegon, and he will surrender no matter if we are winning or losing on the other side.” Theon seemed to catch his eyes with something of both confusion and curiosity. “Lord Connington knew Rhaegar Targaryean much of his life, and all but worshipped him right up until his exile. Man such as himself would do almost anything to keep the prince's only living son safe.” 

Nodding mindlessly, you scanned over everything once more as another man around you finally broached the topic. “And what about getting on land in the first place?” 

The table was quiet, and yet you found yourself raising your neck up to find your father’s gaze. Something deep and almost hesitant in them, and his voice turned more quiet as yours would some days. “I think there is something you should see.” 

He should have sent Ghost with you. He hated walking these halls and having no idea where you were or what you were doing, if you were safe. There was nothing to suggest a hint of danger only going to White Harbour, but it still had put Jon increasingly on edge being apart from you. 

If he thought about it truly, perhaps it was beacuse the last time you rode off in a direction opposite of him, was on the Kingsroad and you would not reunite until after a nightmare of blood, loss and far too much death. Jon had to tell himself that he could trust in the men you were around in the port city, but still what he wouldn’t give to be able to peer through Ghosts eyes and ensure you were still breathing. Instead his direwolf had spent much time out in the wolfswood, Jon’s tense energy having rubbed off onto him and Ghost too needed something to expel that onto. 

Thankful at least, that being around a tense and agitated King was not an unfamiliar process for Ser Davos. He had stayed behind knowing helping Jon prepare for the war on lands was of more use then standing by two Baratheons. Both whom used to serve on the small council for the same job of the sea. 

He didn’t hold back, but it was never in judgment or pretentiousness. Ser Davos brought a very plain truth to the world around Jon and each time he was around the man, the more comfort such things brought to him. Especially in a title that still was marred in an insecurity of worth and capability. 

“I spent over four years apart from her, you’d think I would be used to this by now.” He was frustrated with himself. As the Northerners prepared their way for war and sea, Jon had found himself spending much time using the hard labour as an excuse to get out those frustrations. 

Likely it didn’t help that he had no idea what was said between you and Maester Wolkan. The man had kept quiet as he said you had requested, and you had done an excellent job at portraying absolutely nothing. Whatever the truth was, it seemed you did not want it to weigh on Jon as much as he didn't want it hurting you. 

Ser Davos on the other hand was as collected as ever, if not a bit on the side of amused. “And the last time you separated from her you both wound up dead.” Jon’s eyes turned to him sharp and glaring with a warning he was not in the mood for it. “I’m not saying that’s going to happen again, just that it’s why you feel so worked up over it. It’s normal to fear for the ones you love, especially with what you two have been through.” 

Dropping his head down with more of a sigh, as he closed his eyes for a moment to collect him anger back inside. “What about you?” Davos raising an eyebrow as Jon elaborated, “You’ve been apart from your wife just as long, I can’t imagine she’s not worried sick over it.” 

All he did though, was chuckle. A loving, fond smile coming over him in an instant. “We’ve been apart this long beacuse she knows the moment I step foot in our home again, I’m not coming back out for Stannis, nor any King. Don’t think I’ve ever known Marya to be as excited when I got her first raven back, sent her one before she found out I learned how to read. The boys too.” 

The look in his eyes was sweet, the ease in which just thinking of his wife brought Davos comfort made him envious, when thinking of you anymore always brought Jon more fear. You had never had a chance to be together before, he didn’t know how to be with you now, without obsessing over your safety. “What’s their names? Your boys?”

Something however, flashed over his eyes that in a way reminded him of his own father. Something of deep pain that got pushed right back down as quickly as it arose. Jon moving to stand up and lean against the pillar, running a gloved hand rough through his hair to shove the loose curls that fell into his face. 

“Two youngest are with her, Devan and Steffon. Devan wasn’t happy about going home, came with me to serve as Stannis’s squire once my oldest grew out of the position, but I sent him home when we were sailing for Eastwatch by the Sea. Oldest is Allard, used to say he was trying to become a Knight, but instead he chose to serve as Stannis's household guard.” Your name coming easy from his mouth with a memory of fondness, “Ended up serving as her personal guard once she was in Kings Landing.”

Jon could think back to some of the times when you were younger, arriving in Winterfell always accompanied by the same guards of your House. Would have no way of knowing then, but looking to his memory now he might be able to pick which one was Allard Seaworth in comparison to his father standing before him now. “What is he doing now?” 

Moving to lean against the opposite pillar himself he smiled once more. “He's in Storms End. Selyse's older brother, Lord Alester was chosen by Stannis to serve as acting Lord and Allard and a good number of others went with him.” His mind travelling away, a dark glint flashing quick enough that he swallowed it back down. He had only brought it up in small doses, but he knew thinking of Allard was painful, as how close in age he was to Matthos compared to his two youngest sons. Perhaps if his last memory of Matthos wasn't what it was, he might be more able to stand in the same room as his other son who reminded him of the one he lost without issue. 

But his mind switched the subject as quick as the pain rose and shoved it back down as he looked back to Jon. “Used to think that once Stannis had the Iron Throne, I might just give up being his hand, take the boys, Marya too, and go travel. Show them the world like I never thought I would as a boy. Now I’m here hoping Cape Wrath is far enough South, winter won’t reach them.” 

Crossing his arms, with a softer look in his grey eyes his voice was also low. “How do you handle it? Being away from them?” 

Truth be told, both men knew it was a little different. Davos hadn’t died and come back, neither had his wife or his boys. Something brought you back, and you brought Jon back. There was a bond there, some strange attachment Davos did not understand, nor did he want too. But he knew it left Jon feeling more protective then most men would ever feel. Jon certainly knew it as well. 

“You just do. Can’t change that she’s not with me, can only think of them and pray that they’ll be alright when I finally do see them again. And if I can be honest, your grace?” Jon’s eyes shot up to his, not realizing how far in his own mind he had drifted. “You’ll be back with her in no time, White Harbour isn’t going anywhere.” 

Jon was quiet for a moment, before a more far away lightness returned. “I’ve never been outside the North.” Both men now finally moving to walk through the courtyards of Winterfell, “I’ve only ever gone up, never down.” 

It still was odd to Jon to have people he’s known his entire life show him the respect of a King as he would pass by. How long did it take for Robb to get used to it? Did he ever, he wondered. Ser Davos walking tall beside him with a casual air of him in almost amusement, “I apologize the first place you’ll see is Dragonstone.” 

Jon’s brows narrowed, your name on his lips. “The way she always described it, when I was a boy I thought she was making it up.” 

Davos was a bit more amused this time. “I’m afraid it’s no joke. Dark, depressing, not a place you’d want your child to grow up in. First time I ever laid eyes on it, thought I had been at sea too long, just seeing nightmare’s in the distance. But that’s just what it looks like.” Jon still couldn’t imagine it properly, it never sounded pleasant. He hated as a child, the idea of his best friend going back to somewhere like that, when you fit in perfectly in Winterfell already. 

“What about King’s Landing?” 

Shaking his head, Davos had to search a little further in his mind for that. “We didn’t exactly come from the same circles, me and her. She and Stannis both lived in the Red Keep, and I was from the poorest of the poorest streets in Flea Bottom. Used to envy the other children who lived in nicer poor areas then I did, even.” 

Yet here he was, Jon thought. The man had done better for himself then many men could be capable of in multiple lives. Then he thought of his brothers, the ones that didn’t make it. Grenn and Pyp didn’t come from the life Jon did, but they ended up in the same place, fighting for the same causes at each others sides and he wished they were still here. Given the same chance like the man beside him. 

“Think Edd came from something similar. Could never quite figure it out, though I think he wanted it that way. But he had next to nothing sometimes, and now he’s the one running Castle Black.” Tilting his head slightly in his own wincing amusement. “Can’t tell if he hates me for giving him that one or not, though.” 

Both men chuckled that time. “I think all of us hate our duty just a bit, your grace. It’s what makes us want to do better, be good enough at it that it doesn’t feel like a duty anymore.” Gesturing lightly with his chin around them. “Not that I need to tell you that. You’re King in the North now, and you still are spending your days in the muck with the rest of us.” 

Those final days in Winterfell weren’t ones he liked to look back on. Goodbyes that would now be forever, and the memories of cold and loss that Jon still struggled with. “Maybe a good King shouldn’t enjoy being one.” He could still see the man, and the strange thought of how little he looked like how he thought he would. “When King Robert came to Winterfell, all he did was drink, eat, and flirt with any woman but his own wife. If that’s what being a King who enjoys his title looks like, I think I’m better off not.” 

“I never knew the man much personally, had no reason to but I know I heard enough from Stannis that he always was that way. Just now as a King, no one could say a word of it anymore. Though, he also said the same about Renly before..” You had talked more of him then you did Robert. Closer in age and matching better in a distinct Baratheon kind of charm they all seemed to keep somewhere in them, Robert met his end of his own doing. 

Renly was a story he to this day, didn’t like to think about. When he did, Davos would have to think about that day in the cave and the horror he saw that shook him to a core that never went away. Davos seemed to sense the question on Jon’s mind, and his tone was low and gruff with something pushed back in his mind. “I don’t know exactly how it happened. I- all I know is what I saw..and then the next day Renly was dead. But I don’t know how or why, just that it...”

“Sounds as impossible as being stabbed in the heart and living?” Jon had him there. The longer into these wars the man got, the more his views of the world were tested in the strangest of manners. Both of them in truth. 

The details were fuzzy, the sudden urgent secrecy of the request, the uncomfortable manner which the red woman spoke to him as if she was in his head when the truth was far from, the fire burning bright on it’s own, and the shadow which came from her. That was all he had seen, but the next day, Renly Baratheon was dead and no one could quite get the story straight on who had done it. 

Jon was silent the entire time, but not once did he feel an ounce of skeptical. Brows narrowed as he listened and felt a conflict in his mind at the connecting answers being made in his mind. He suspected he was coming to the same one you had. “Starting to feel as if I don’t know anything about Stannis.” 

Davos looked with sympathy. “I believe I once told you he is a complicated man.” Jon nodded. “I didn’t agree with a lot of what he did, of what he let that woman do in his name. I tried putting a knife in her myself, and I went against the King’s own orders and helped his nephew escape beacuse I couldn’t stand by and watch him let that woman sacrifice more of his own blood for her means.” 

Jon didn’t quite catch it at first, but he later would realize, he had no idea who the nephew Davos had spoken of could have been. As far as he had been aware, the only family left to you were the ones Jon already knew of.

“But he also didn’t argue when learning finally his daughter had sent the red woman away. Didn’t try to seek her out again, beacuse he’s seeing the bigger picture. He’s stubborn, but he’s doing what’s right, even if we don’t like how long it takes for him to figure out what that right meant. And I think losing his daughters were a something of a painful wake up for him.” The words sat heavily in Davos’s mouth just as it felt in Jon’s heart. 

Jon had no strong concept of memory in that point in the night, when it happened to Shireen.

There had been no words to explain what finding his mind after death in Ghost had felt like. He had fleeting memories, but none that made any sense until he had found his way with down to the ice cells with his brothers and free folk finding his body. It certainly had hit him then what truly happened and took hours for him to feel any control at all. 

Then you and Theon had come through the gate, and every second Jon wasn’t at your side, felt like he’d lose more of himself to wolf then man. Then the pull, the call to his body that he didn’t understand but listened to as if in a trance and then as his eyes opened, it was in his own body. He was in his own body and mind once more and he could recall Ghost coming to him, both almost burying their faces in the other as Ghost seemed to so strongly react to what happened between them as Jon felt it. 

He had done it by accident before, mostly in his sleep and he always tried to tell himself it was only dreams. 

But he knew better, and he had seen the truth once before of what happens to a warg upon their death. Jon once had gotten in Orell’s face. Confronting him condescendingly about what happens when, after the man had pushed Jon another step into anger. 

“What happens to your eagle after I kill you? Does he drift away like a kite with his strings cut, or does he just flop dead to the ground?” 

Then he finally did kill him, and that same eagle flew in almost in an instant and attacked him, leaving scars that one of which, still sat pale but visible down across his eye all the same.

Because it was Orell now in that eagle. Still out there somewhere flying beyond the wall, Jon hoped he was miserable and alone. Just as he did the red woman for what she had done. Left to wallow in their sins with no purpose to comfort them. 

It might have been a heartless thought he knew, but Jon had no time to spare anymore for people that would only ever harm in this world. He had enough of that, and the realm wouldn't stand a chance if everyone saw the world as people like that did. 

They didn’t care the cost of life to survive, but it weighed on Jon a lot, too much. The constant ask of, if what he has to do makes him a good man, or just throws him down in the waste with the rest of them, and how much does the pain of those lives cost in his heart make up for it? 

Would his father see the man he has become and be proud, or was Jon someone he would not recognize? Would Robb feel the same? Who was he to them anymore, he wondered. But he had to focus, look at what was in front of him first and deal with it. There would be a time to wonder later, but it wasn’t right now. The longer it took them to prepare for battle, the longer it would take to get to White Harbour and Jon just didn’t have the patience to feel this sort of conflict alone now. 

He didn’t even sleep much since you had left. He probably could only count on two hands how many nights you’ve slept in his arms in his bed together since being in Winterfell again, but it felt cold and too alone without you there now. Many nights finding himself in the godswood with Ghost, wondering if the old gods had any answers to the life you breathed into him and why they gave it back to you in the first place. 

Then he would ask if they had even a hint of your answer. Was not telling him what Wolkan said a good sign or a bad one, he could handle either, but it ate him up not knowing. Not wanting to let his dreams mock you if they would never be true, that was a truly sickening worry. 

But then the next day would come, and the cycle started all over again. Once more Jon would think, he was grateful Ser Davos was used to quiet and sullen King’s at his side to not take offence. 

You had to do it no matter how monstrous it made you feel. “If Connington wanted this for King’s Landing-” 

Your father finished for you, the quiet in the room something neither of you had in a long time. The small inn nearby serving as housing for some, and in the smaller dining hall only the pair of you sat in the quiet. Space for a King and Northern Queen to plan. “Of course he wanted it. He was a Targaryean loyalist if I had ever seen one. Spent a year as hand of the King during the rebellion, knew Prince Rhaegar most of their lives and never once apparently saw anything wrong with that.” 

You both had not sat with a meal in front of you since your own days in King’s Landing. Still in his quarters, training to do his job as the nights were mostly spent in quiet as you both worked too long and too hard in between the dullness of the daylight. Now though, was war outside. And you took a good moment to chew on your own before finding the right words. “If we do this, truly, that is going to be a lot of lives on my hands.” 

Narrowing his gaze slightly, “Does that bother you?” 

Yours wasn’t quite a slight narrow, more of a rolling glare. “Some of us have not quite gotten used to slaughtering people, your grace.” He chose to ignore the mocking tone. You hadn’t quite had the freedom to give him attitude in many years, and he knew now claiming to speak to a King like that would not be a proper excuse. 

Not that he blamed you either. He and Selyse didn’t exactly make you feel welcome in your own family for a long time. So much to the point it seemed you only dared finding home in the Starks anymore, or what was left of them at least. “You know as well as I, you either do this, or let the same number die, only you lose over half of yours, instead of all the causalities being on their side.” Your elbow rested on the table, hand coming up to rest partially against your forehead. 

“I know, it just...” Your hand thumped back down onto the table as your eyes drifted to the dark skies out the window. “It never gets any easier.”

It was quiet for a while, and yet just like with your mother, you desperately wished your father just let that silence sit between you instead of finding something to bring up. At least his did not have tone in disapproval or judgment. Just stating facts as he saw them. “They still call you Queen.” Glancing up at him with a warning cutting through your eyes he paid no mind too. “Does that mean you two have married?”

You looked away with wide, but irritated eyes. “Father-” Trying to cut in saying he was only asking out of curiosity. “Since when do you ever just ask me about my life beacuse you wanted to chat about it? And no, we’re not married.” 

Not reacting much, he leaned back in his seat. “Betrothed then?” You only sighed as you continued to not look at him. “Strange to attach yourself to a King, and rule beside him as a Queen unmarried. Not what I raised you to-”

Turning back to him with a stern rigidness, “You never raised me to be a Queen, nor be in love so I don’t quite think your expertise on the matter is applicable.” 

He raised one eyebrow, and you narrowed yours. “You’re not married, but you love him.” You waited for him to try and come to a point, only to regret it almost right away. Much less tact then your mother, and yet, at least, far less embarrassing. “I assume he's bedded you already.” 

Oh how much less humiliating and somehow more awkward your father had made this. “We’ve slept in the same bed if that’s what you are asking.” Looking down to a mindless spot on the table, “Why are we even discussing this?” 

The look he gave you almost bordered on amusement, and there was little patience within you for entertaining that. Acting almost casually which seemed unbefitting of him, he barley moved, directing his attention back to the meal you had all but forgotten by now. “You are my daughter, and people will talk. I am only looking out for your best interest.” 

Head shaking slightly, you rested an elbow on the table as your hand came up to dig your nails slightly into your lips. Willing your foot to not start tapping against the ground in nerves, why was spending time with either your mother or father feel like such a test of your own emotional endurance? Thankfully, he let you change the topic with no issue. “Do you think it’s true? Aegon?” 

His eyes narrowed in thought for a moment, “I don’t deal in rumours, you know that.” 

Your father undoubtedly caught you almost rolling your eyes. “Alright, that’s your answer as a King, now tell me what you truly believe. You knew these people, you must have some idea if they’d be lying or not.” 

He seemed to think long and hard about it, going through what the options could have been in multiple ways before answering more quietly. “I believe Lord Connington think’s it true, but I would be hard pressed to think that any could hide Rhaegar Targaryeans own son, and keep him a secret this long, without anyone knowing. And I also don’t think Aegon’s face being smashed in was part of any plan.” 

You almost felt woozy trying to not think of what happened in that room. 

Clearing something painful from your throat, you reached for something to wash those unsettled thoughts right back down. “It would be a rather lucky coincidence that the one child who was swapped out, was the same who Clegane left unrecognizable.”

Leaning forward a small bit, he spoke quiet but with a bit more confidence that he rarely had. “A sure truth however, Connington will be afraid. Robert Baratheon’s niece, and Lyanna Stark’s nephew sailing together for a battle with him? Not sure he could think of a more terrifying duo to come knocking at his doors.” 

You could. You knew exactly what would be worse. 

Neither you nor Jon were heading there with intentions of a slaughter, but were it another? Aegon would be powerless to flee from Robert Baratheon and his blood thirst. As far as he knew to be true, an infant boy and a little girl were butchered like animals and all he could think of them, were they were Rhaegar’s children, just dragonspawn. Their deaths were all that mattered, beacuse they had a single essence of the man in their blood and it was enough to condemn them as evil.  

Losing Robb hadn’t made you look at Walda, and wish she was dead for her grandfather’s crimes. Moreso, you had spent much effort in those first few days back in Winterfell trying to not consider what would’ve been done to her. To her own unborn son, that no trace was left behind. She was not you, and Ramsay was not Roose Bolton. It was unlikely the gods saw fit to return her to life, and even less so that Ramsay would have kept her alive had that been the case. 

Walder Frey's actions were not her fault, and even though you had not been kind to her, she deserved a life with her son as much as Robb deserved a life with his. 

In the quiet as you and your father sat there, the scar in your stomach felt like it burned. 

Theon had told you on the ship when sailing for Bear Island that he had not seen you that at ease in a long time. The relaxed state of your muscles as you were perched on the edge of the ship, the calm in your eyes that had not been there since before the very start of war. It was hard to take the love of the water out of those having grown up on islands and ships. 

During the long summer, the moat in between the bordering walls of Winterfell was quite warm. The hot springs which the castle sat atop of kept the water from being freezing in winters, but made it extraordinarily nice in the summer. Many occasions the older Theon and you had gotten, you both would find increasingly competitive things to challenge the other at. 

Trying to see who was the better swimmer, and both barley recognizing who had won. It had ended with both of you laid out on the wooden platform both heaving and laughing about how at least you both knew if you shoved the other overboard, you both would likely manage just fine for long enough to reach some kind of land. 

Bran and Arya had found you both at that point, and after teasing you both for being “old” and “out of shape”, each Stark had been snatched by you two and held just over the water threatening to drop them in, day clothes and all. As their feet touched solid ground once more, both had then begun to debate which of them was the better swimmer themselves. 

Now, there was a little less on the side of competition, but just as much confidence and ease in both of you. Walking the docks himself, as you were perched high up on one of the ships, having dived right into the same work you had your men doing simply beacuse you knew too well how to do it, and Theon was confident in watching the rest of the lot from a command. 

He knew you were tying to keep yourself busy to ignore something, but you enjoyed working with this new Northern fleet and so that was what mattered. He too, were he honest. Both of you kept most of your days out on the docks putting every inch of preparation and plans in place and hardly noticed much else in the rest of White Harbour outside of your world’s right by the water. 

The North had finally caught up, and it wasn’t until the greetings of “King in the North,” begun to hit his ears did Theon realize it. Coming up to the docks, Lord Wyman walked beside Jon who’s own eyes were narrowed taking in the bright sights of the amount of ships all around. The small group accompanying them all followed as the King in the North was given a catch up of details. 

Gesturing over to where Theon himself stood, he made his way over finally. The dynamic with Jon wasn’t as sure or confident as he knew his dynamic with you was now. But, the two men were working on it. Just as Robb before though, hearing such a natural “Your Grace” from the Greyjoy was not something Jon was clearly used too as they shook sturdy hands. “Good timing, most everything’s near ready by now. Just a few details to iron out.” 

Glancing around, Theon could sense he was looking for one Baratheon, and not the one in question which came from his mouth. “And Stannis?” Theon gestured to a squire, beckoning him to go find the Southern King for them before turning back.

Once upon a war, his own command tended to have a tint of attitude or snark within it’s words, but now it was as respectful as any had seen him. In some ways, Theon was far worse off then any man could conceive, but in other ways, who he was on the inside, was making a little bit more sense then the boy he used to be. “Your plan is all in place, King Stannis has agreed to the terms.”

Both men noted that another present here at ease in this scenario, was Stannis himself. With what was a tense greeting between father and daughter, both Kings now greeted with nothing but calm respect between them. Perhaps it was just not to discuss in public, or that you had been the one to make it clear there would be no fighting over crowns here between the two of them, and it was never brought up. 

The group begun discussing certain aspects of what had been planned since, and Jon knew the men here had yet to broach the obvious. “And how we’re getting through the breach onto land?”

This time, it was Theon and Stannis who shared the look. It would be both easier, and perhaps smarter to show him before trying to explain it all right here and now. The later man gesturing for Jon to follow, “An opportunity presented itself that may serve to be the most efficient coarse of action, but we have taken great discretion with putting it into place.” Your name coming from Stannis’s mouth with little to hint at it’s grander meaning. “I left it as her call to make, but she has held off on any decision until could see it yourself, for approval.”  

In the simple days of Winterfell, there had been times Theon assumed Jon was giving him a certain kind of look, because it was a brotherly instinct to keep his best friend separate from Theon’s sharp tongue and wondering eye, no matter how little it was real. You and him always joked and teased over his flirtatious nature back then knowing it meant nothing between the both of you, and mostly was used as a jumping off point for a back and forth sparring of increasingly sarcastic insults. 

Theon back then had no idea it was, in fact, a look of jealousy Jon had been giving him in those days. 

Now though, Theon knew for sure the look his own eyes were flashing towards Jon, was genuinely that like a brother. Coming up to what was to be your own ship, Jon looked up to see you at ease and even with a smirking laugh as you were perched on the higher deck speaking to the crew.

Perhaps it was the time the pair of you spent trapped in a hell of Ramsay Bolton’s making, that made Theon grow more protective of you against men with hints of a lustful gaze towards your way. Theon had seen you suffer horrendously and more then ever he felt the call of what a brother wanting to keep his sister safe really was like. 

Jon was no way of a threat, but just briefly, Theon’s eyes almost narrowed sharply at the need in the grey ones looking up at you. 

Up high on the deck, you had been sorting who was to be in charge of what during the longer days along the waters before reaching Dragonstone. Knowing that the Northerners were less used to such seafaring manner of travel and giving some of the less appealing jobs to those with heartier stomachs. 

Leaning against the base of where the wheel of the ship stood, you had one foot perched on a small wooden platform behind it with the hand on the same side reached up to grasp loosely at portion of rope by your head. Your tone was jesting, not entirely loud but it didn’t need to be as you spoke to those on deck. Half a smirk on one side of your face, you felt more at ease then you had been in a very long time now. The sea was easy, commanding a ship on the waters was easier. It was all the rest which was the problem. “Which means one of you will be in charge of cleaning up after that lot. Make sure they all throw up anywhere but on my clean deck-” 

Such a facade however was broken easily as your attention was drawn by a squire, saying that your presence was requested by the Kings. You nodded before a pause, not realizing immediately the plural only to catch on and knowing it meant it was almost time. Gesturing for one of your other crew members to take over for you, you climbed up onto the edge of the ship by the platform still laid out to reach the wood of the outside. 

The amount of time in which you saw Jon even was next to nothing, as it was the nodding of your father in a specific direction that was what he clearly needed you for. Swallowing heavily you nodded, and before any could say a word to you, you had turned and moved back out view on the ship. Slipping into what would be your small quarters just below, you rummaged through the scattering of things inside an already locked chest, to find the item in question, and slipped it to sit safely along your waist, the wrapping, thinner cloak around you doing enough to hide it once you returned out to the windy sea. 

Nodding to some of the men as you passed, they were no longer waiting as you made your way down to the shoreline. Multiple guards stood outside the platform leading up to it and as you stepped on the ships deck you glanced to the preparations already behind made. You had every faith in Jon, but he needed to have faith in you to get to the island shore in the first place, and this was the only way to do it without losing more men then you should have to, then you already have. 

Your numbers would not soon mean anything if they were forced to dwindle in battles that did not need to sacrifice it. 

The steps down were quiet, your footsteps not heard as in one hand you had begun to pull out an old set of keys, separated from the rest where they came. You could hear the voices speaking, and walking through the same things you had heard upon first seeing it for yourself as the muffled voices grew clearer with each step. 

“...burn so fiercely until it is no more, and not a second sooner.” 

There seemed to be a long pause before you once more could hear a disbelief and uncertainty in Jon’s voice as he asked, “If it’s this dangerous, why carry it over the Narrow Seas instead of making more of it when they land?” 

The man was almost excited to tell him, and it made you move a few steps slower as your eyes narrowed sharply. “Wisdom Hallyne has been concocting much of it under the orders of Cersei Lannister, but it is far from given form. It’s potency grows with time and is more able to be controlled this way.” 

Almost on the edge of a rougher frustration, Jon asked, “How would he even know where to find any of this?” 

Your father had the answer to that, “After the war, what remained had been sold and shipped off to get it out of Westeros, but now Connington has Lord Varys at his side. There is very little the spider doesn’t know about.” 

There was a shortness to Ser Davos that you suspected hated every second of this conversation, and you had no inclination if you wished to know why. He was not a man easily set off. “This is the plan? Use this but it’s alright because it’s on their side of the shores this time? This is a bad idea, your grace.” 

Once more there was quiet, before Jon spoke with a weighted low tone. “Either we use it here, send it off to gods know where across the narrow sea where anyone could get their hands on it. Or, we let it sail right up to Kings Landing to get smuggled into a city with a population of what?” 

Davos was quiet, but a controlled tone with out any attitude on the matter. “A good million by this point.”

A pause sat as you knew the number had somewhat taken Jon back. His voice a low rasp that sounded as exhausted over the issue as you had felt looking at it with your own eyes for the first time. “More people are crammed into one city then the entire population of the North. Why would anyone want to live that way?” 

Davos answered with a conclusive ease. “It's where all the works is.” 

Deep in thought for a moment, you could hear the difficult weight debating in Jon. “We use it here and we know what the causalities are. What will they do with it, if I let them leave? Either they bring it to Kings Landing anyways, or someone else finds this and sell it to the highest bidder. How many innocent people will it hurt then?” Jon was quiet, but the room was quieter as they listened. His voice low and yet a determination with a smart confidence in trying to pick the lesser of only evils. 

You hadn’t even noticed, you had just stopped to listen to them speak. Did you not want to interrupt, or perhaps was it the fear of coming to Jon with such a tactic in the first place which scared you. Your father spoke up next, “We can use it all, get the wretched substance off any of their hands out there.” 

The man sputtered an offended rebuttal when none cared for it. “It is not wretched, it flows through my veins. And the hearts of every one of us who create it, we respect it’s power. My work would not be dared questioned while Aerys Targaryean lived.” 

It was then, when you walked in. Having enough of it and losing the patience to let him go on about what you felt sick on the inside, for even allowing anywhere near the North in general. The keys in your hands loud as they clanked together while you turned to slink in between the man and Jon. “Well, he isn’t living anymore.” Turning partially to your father who seemed to sense on his own to toss you the other set kept on him as you knelt down to the double set of locks on the door. “And a lot of good all this did to help him survive a sword in the back.” 

The room almost was tense just as you winced to shove the heavy doors open, before Jon came up to much more easily yank the other side for you. Neither but only you two walked in, he had to say yes to this plan or you needed to figure something else out. It didn’t matter how much Davos hated it, how sickening it made you feel.

Standing beside you, there was as much of a fearful awe as their was a terror as you felt but shining in his grey eyes. You were both quiet for a good while as your heart raced more and more out of your chest that he would turn to you and yell about how you have lost your mind. Maybe you would prefer if he did. 

Instead, he was quiet as he always was speaking with you. “If we do this, I’m not letting it only be on your hands. We do this together, remember?” You didn’t answer as you stared at it all, until he gently murmured your name. Turning to find his eyes, leaning much closer to you this time trying to reassure you with almost a leading question. “Is there any other way?” 

You swallowed, turning away again and shaking your head no. “No way that gets our people onto those shores alive. I know what I’m asking of you..what happened to your Uncle and Grandfather..and now I’m asking you to do the exact same thing-”

But Jon was sure in his whispering, no doubts or breaks to linger. “We don’t do this sort of thing in battle beacuse we like it, we do it because we have too. I don’t like it either, but you came to me with this idea, and I trust you.” Were the others not behind somewhat, likely with their eyes on you, he would’ve ran a hand down your hair comfortingly, been a little softer with you. 

Jon hated the unsure in your eyes over using this, but that was how he felt knowing you were going into a battle on the other side of a castle and Jon couldn’t protect you. This fight wasn’t for a home or an island, or power. It was for the one thing Jon knew would keep the North just a small bit safer then none at all. 

It was only in the few quiet seconds as the others stepped down from the ship before you, that you gently reached for Jon’s arm. Turning to you with much brighter eyes then before, but still, you were aware of how many people could see you both and you wished it were far darker to get away with it. 

He looked so handsome and you hated how easy he made it. Hair once more pulled all back, something it seemed was a sign of war now on him. Longclaw sat proud on his person with the white wolf pommel finding new meaning once more. Carved to look like the pure white of Ghost, but also now was the symbol as well as the King they called the White Wolf. A Stark in blood, but a Snow in name.

There was something new though, something that only solidified such a thought. His attire was well made, fit him perfectly. Against the long, dark armoured leather on his tunic was more plated around his chest to be more more sturdy metal. But right in the middle, was something you hadn’t seen on a Stark in a long time. Carved were two Direwolves both facing the other. 

He was gentle in watching your eyes trying to focus, finding the details on him that you hadn’t been there to see made. Jon also however, decided not to tell you he made a few things, and requested a few others, for you back in Winterfell. You didn’t like when he went out of his way to get you things, make you things, or fuss over you, you hated it with everyone. 

Robb had once speculated it was a result of being forced to have handmaidens attending to you while in King’s Landing. When they had learned the royal company was coming to Winterfell, the two of them had discussed how you hated having people and servants doting on you. How despite her own daughter verging on ten at that time, the Queen would still find time to pester you about dolling up like a proper lady. 

The day you rode into Winterfell with them all, clearly you had done your own hair, never once looking a single thing like the other styles the Southern women who came wore them in. But they had much more done to paint your face to look elegant. He remembered seeing that beautiful yellow dress that framed you like some kind of bright siren, and the thin but elaborately designed shawl around your arms drenched in a rich brown with ornate stags stitched into it. 

Jon could remember thinking, he thought you were as beautiful as he had ever seen you. And he also remembered hating it, beacuse he knew it was the Queen’s doing to try and assist you in impressing your husband to be. To impress Robb. Which it did. 

Before he could spiral, looking down at you with a darker armour that seemed to be specially designed to move easier. Not great in protecting you from a harsh swing of a sword but he had taught you to be fast, not strong. A black cloak hung around your shoulders, itself was stitched once more with stags hard to see unless as close to you as Jon was. 

He knew it was hypocritical, but Jon couldn’t stop the thought of he wanted these wars to be over already so he never had to see you in armour ever again. He still didn’t understand how Robb handled this. How he let you fight like this, and it didn’t tear him apart. If they got through this, got through winter, Jon would have a new pretty dress made for you every single day if it meant you never wore anything to set into battle for ever again. 

Just the long, flowing dresses you looked beautiful in, and his own white fur draped over your shoulders to keep you warm. He too was thankful it was not presumed the Queen in the North wanted anything near a handmaiden, beacuse at the very least, he in the mornings now, got to be the one to gently run his hands along your skin doing the laces or clasps of your dress up, or selfishly take over to do your hair for you. Beacuse as much as you recognized keeping his own curls up and out of his face was something he did during times of war now, he knew the same for you. As long as you kept it tied very simple against your back he knew you were keeping it out of the way for a fight, instead of having the time to let him handle it in whatever style he thought you looked the most beautiful with.

Maybe he could undo the lace keeping your hair up together just before you landed on shore and it would keep you busy enough redoing it that he could get Tormund to drag you back onto the ship until it was over. 

So much swimming in your heads looking at the other, but you opened and closed your mouth a few times to find the right way to express it, before swallowing and letting out a breathily quiet settled, “I missed you.” 

Jon let a gloved hand reach up, gently cupping your cheek as his thumb ran slightly over the skin while he stepped closer to let the other drift innocently along your waist as yours gently rested on his. Eyes speaking such voluminous truths of light and relief that made you feel like the waters around would melt you should they interrupt this moment. It had only been a little less then a fortnight, but you still felt like something heavy returned and you didn’t know how much all you had focused on was this until you could breathe in front of him. 

Leaning down so your eyes were level to his with a hint of a smile behind the grey. “I always miss you.” 

Too many people, and even though you were weak to let him, Jon wouldn’t kiss you here. He preferred to keep your softest to himself in private, and not let others see what he wanted only for him. Even if just the gentle touch of your hands running up his chest with a gentle peck to your lips. He kept it all to himself.

His eyes narrowed the slightest as he asked, “When do we sail out?” Answering a day or two he pulled away from you, respectfully moving you to walk first with a hand on the small of your back. “Good. I think I need a night with you all to myself for once. I don’t like being away from you this long.” 

Neither did you, but it was only known between the hearts of you both how strong that felt now. 

It truly was Jon’s fault. He was the one who taught you the importance of being the quickest one in the room. Of course he meant holding a weapon, but then again your soft hands running through his hair may as well be their own weapon. You both had made your leave to the room you were staying at in a nearby Inn, and as soon as the door closed you took the quick liberty of turning to Jon and taking things off for him. 

Armours, blades, leathers, leave him only in the basest of his clothes, grabbing his hands to pull his gloves off and neatly putting them aside one hand at a time, before running your hand along his shoulder to move around him, and reaching up to let his hair out. Letting your fingers give it’s shape back while your nails scratched lightly at his scalp. He had followed you in here with the intention of being the one to take care of you, but you wasted no time to do it all for him instead. 

Turning to put his weapons gently away with the intentions of making sure they were clean and sharpened for him later, you almost instinctively moved to do something else as Jon finally stepped up behind you. Rasping your name out low twice in a row, before he caught your attention only as he let both his hands move to your hips, pressing his chest against your back and leaving slightly over you where you could feel his breathe dance across your ear with a chuckle. “Can you stand still for me just this once?” 

Your head turned slightly enough to the side where you could see his curls drape along the side of your vision as your lips parted slightly in a high breathe, “I’m sorry-” 

His chuckle was deeper that time, and vibrated against your back before he turned his head to press a kiss to the side of your head, partially resting his forehead in the same spot. “I don’t want you to be sorry, I want you to let me do things for you sometimes. You’re always rushing to take care of everything for me, and then rush out the door before I can do the same for you.” 

One hand on your hip slid across your stomach, pulling you just a tad closer so most of his front pressed to your back like a perfect fit. You leaned into his touch with an ease that both had your heart want to race and skip at the same instance, leaving you a bit more out of breathe. Your hands gently wrapping around the arm at your front, slightly pushing the sleeve up just to run your fingertips across his skin. 

“I know, I- I’m just used to being the one to do these things.” 

You knew he didn’t mean it to come out sounding the way it did, but you also couldn’t blame him for not knowing that dynamic the way you recalled so naturally. “Robb didn’t take care of you?” 

Your brows furrowed as your head dropped a little, the memories right behind your eyes as real as the small fire in front of you. The ease which Robb would give you that all encompassing boyish grin, scolding you playfully for never giving him the time to do so either. 

“No, he did, but it was..we were different. Robb and I. We were at war, and some nights if I didn’t try and guide him to bed myself he would just stay up working until the sun rose and I’d have to try again the next night.” Your nails scratched a bit into Jon’s arm as you felt something of an insecurity rising, your voice no longer as confident. “I’m not explaining it well..we never had a lot of time to ourselves, and usually I think it was easier for me to do things for him, since there was always something bothering him. I didn’t mean to make it sound like-” 

Leaning his head against the side of yours more, Jon’s voice was softer and soothing against you. “I wasn’t trying to upset you. You’re the only girl I’ve been with. I don’t exactly have a good idea for what others are like.” 

You leaned back more only to realize you couldn’t quite reach him the way you felt yourself starting to need. Gently twisting in his arms without pulling away, you rested your hands on his chest, Jon now pulled back to look at you with both hands back on your hips. Before saying a word, one of yours reached up, tracing his facial hair along to his jaw and around to entangle gently into his curls. You leaned up on your toes to press your lips gently against his. 

Jon’s hands tightening more and more, despite the tender kiss barley anything deep. Before it could get off the ground, you pulled back only to give one soft peck before speaking close enough to his lips he could feel every passing word. Your hands innocently moving both to play with his curls. “I liked doing these sort of things for Robb, and I really like doing them for you. Especially now that..” 

Trailing off, one hand tilted your chin up more so he could hover more over your lips with intent, “Now that we’re allowed to be together?” You nodded, and Jon closed the gap between your lips once more. The hand still at your hip pulled you in close to his front as your hands stayed locked behind his neck. Jon’s other hand cupping your jaw as he deepened the kiss almost every passing second until he could sense you shivering from being too lightheaded. Only giving enough space to let you gasp for a tiny bit of air before kissing you the cycle once over again. 

The room was quiet, muffled yelling outside fading to the only crackling of the fire and Jon’s soft lips coaxing more out of yours. Not taking command, but more imploring you to do what he was trying to tell you. Let him do the work. 

Let him nibble at your bottom lip until you granted him just enough room to gently slide his tongue into your mouth, tasting your own. Pulling you close by the small of your back, you shivered down that very spine as you no question could feel his hardening length through the soft material covering him. 

Your hands danced down, unlacing the middle of his shirt until you could press your palms flat. Only, as you felt the jagged scars littered about that you had long since memorized, even if just out of horror, you pressed against his front more. Kissing back now with more need as your other hand found the same scars. 

As your touch grew more firm and almost desperate for something, Jon begun moving up to cup your cheeks, keeping your lips as pressed to his as possible. Stealing the little breathe you were able to gain as if he wished for you to hand it all over for him to control. Gentle nibbles to your bottom lip that both had you part your lips slightly, but also pulled a small whine from your throat as your hands clutched his shoulders. Jon stepping forward to press himself against you firmly again as you now more obviously, felt him properly hard as his kiss grew greedy. 

One of those hands slid back to entangle themselves in your hair to angle you up to him, while the other slid slightly down to cup your jaw and part of your neck with a light hold. If he could feel your pulse race slightly as he did so, he responded by once more increasing such greed. No longer asking your permission to glide his tongue along yours but doing so the second you even tried to pull back for air. The hand on the back of your hair, just as a few times before, grew strong enough you couldn’t pull from his kiss, even as the lack of air made you weak and dizzy.

It made you whine into his mouth, and something akin to a growl vibrated through his own chest. 

Finally beginning to trace down his chest again, you blindly searched for the laces of his breeches and slowly undid them. Holding steady on his waist with one, you managed to slide your hand down quick enough he couldn’t react quite in time. A deep growl this time was unmistakable, his kiss bit harshly into your bottom lip as he held you, only to finally send the hand on your neck flying down. Snatching yours right as your were wrapping your small hand around his cock and yanking it up, holding it tight in the air. 

Pulling away from your lips as saliva trailed between your panting breaths as he kept you held by your hair close to look at him. “What do you think you’re doing?” Your lungs still heaving for air, you stared agape at him, your bright and unsure eyes looking to his growing more and more black with every passing second. You had nothing to say, unsure if he was angry until Jon sighed out frustrated. 

His hand loosening the tightness in your hair to rake through the strands with tenderness and his face softening a bit from such a harsh intensity. Pressing a much more gentle kiss to your lips, then standing back from you entirely before spinning you to once more let your back face him. 

This time, his hands begun to undo everything covering you up as well. Carefully draping your hair off to the side as he undid each layer. His voice was almost a murmur speaking low behind you, “Don’t do that.” Your face frowned in a slight confusion as he elaborated. “I don’t want you skipping everything and going right to trying to please me. What pleases me, is being able to take my time with you, not making you do things for me.” 

You felt something heavy in your chest, but you stood quiet and obediently let him take everything off of you, until finally you felt the cold hit your entirely bare skin as Jon let the last layer of all your clothing to drop to the floor. His hands finding your hips as he pressed against your back once more, his hard cock still hidden behind his own layers pressing into your ass as his hands roamed up your bare frame.

Your breathe stuttering as both large hands took a greedy handful of your breasts and almost used the position to force you back into his chest more. His touch rough and fingers sparing no kindness as they ran over each budding nipple until they were perfect for him to grasp in his fingers. A mixture of twisting and pulling before letting his hands knead the soft skin of your chest once more, you threw your own hand back trying to steady yourself at his waist while your other uselessly let your nails dig into the skin just below your stomach. 

Jon leaned down more, just as his hands yanked on your nipples rough and harsh to make you gasp, he sunk his teeth into a sensitive part of your neck. Deep and painful bites that stung just as he let go, running his lips and tongue over to soothe the area before sucking deeply against it to force it to bruise and colour against his teeth imprints. 

All the way down the side of your neck he never let up, all the while his hands on your breasts were rough and twisting pleasure sparking along each bud between his fingers, and the desire flooding your veins to down between your legs. You bit your tongue trying to keep from all the building hearing you. It didn’t occur to you in the moment, but the marks on your neck come morning wouldn’t be able to be covered up even with your hooded cloak around your neck and shoulders. The bruises and teeth marks would be a clear message to any and all who you belonged too. 

The White Wolf marking his mate against any eyes looking your way that weren’t himself. 

You felt the rushing warmth through your veins burning with every touch and every small growling sound that slipped as a grunt from his mouth, his covered cock hard as could be against you, only made worse when one hand finally left your chest. Moving right down to cover your own scar, Jon pressed your hips firmly back into his as he bared his teeth in a pant against your neck, his covered cock grinding into your ass more, keeping you pressed right against him. 

Just as you were about to find the strength to ask Jon to let you touch him, he moved the hand keeping you against him to slip down between your legs. Finding nothing to even work up, he growled. Knowing were he to choose so right now, he could slip his cock inside of you with no resistance, but it wasn’t quite enough for something more depraved in his mind. You were wet, but something in him demanded more, demanded you were soaking and begging for reprieve. 

Rolling your nipple between his fingers just as he ran his other hand along your clit, you jumped in his touch with a small crying gasp as he pulled from your neck, rasping deep into your ear with none of the harshness his touch held. “Shh, shh. It’s alright, darling. Just let me explore you.” You nodded obediently and it make his brain feel more of a mess.

Exploring was to then sink one of his fingers deep inside you, right to the knuckle in one smooth go before gently running it along something terribly sensitive. Jumping more in his touch, Jon pulled you closed by the hand groping at your breast still. Not going fast or teasing any slower, just a smooth, almost gentle pace he let it slide in you before moving to pull it out. Pressing a kiss to your cheek then resting his own cheek against yours, to watch as he sunk a second thick finger right along with the first as you both tensed and whimpered more in his touch. 

Your free hand moving to hold meekly onto the arm lower to you, your eyes struggling to figure out what to do, wanting to watch almost in an innocent awe as Jon would sink two think fingers deep inside you. Only to get overwhelmed and close them again with a hitch in your breathe when he would pull them out just the perfect amount so he, himself, could watch with pitch black, mesmerized eyes at how soaked you were making them. 

But just when you tried to calm your heart, Jon’s hand on your breast tightened to the point it almost hurt, his teeth baring as he buried his face in your neck and not so gently, moved to roughly add a third finger as he shoved deep. His palm now flat almost covering you as the heel of his palm ran harshly over your clit. 

Two was a lot, but three was really a lot. Thick and stretched as he ran them along your sensitive walls and refused to go anywhere but shallow thrusts deep. Making you soak his fingers as he panted into your neck, leaving another occasional bite along with a hiss as you clenched tightly around him. 

You felt out of breathe, like nothing longer could give you enough to stand on your own but there was nowhere to go but to lean more against Jon’s touch, only he was holding you up and you had to rely on him to not crumble. His own body behind you was almost overwhelmingly warm. The longer he pushed you to an orgasm, the warmer he grew and your front close to the fire making you sweat despite the cold. 

Filthily enough, something in Jon preferred it that way. Wanting you to be overwhelmed, give him everything of yours. Grunting deep in his chest, he roughly had to fuck his fingers past your soaked, tightness clenching around him as your voice breathlessly high pitched cried his name, pleads and pleases to follow that only made that dark, possessive feeling worse in his head. 

Then finally you felt the coil inside you, twisting and bending almost at a snap as you gasped a his name did Jon pull his hand down from your breast to your waist, and pulled his fingers from you completely. A refusal of an orgasm at the very last second, it felt almost painful to loose it. You almost fell in his arms with a weak sound of painful protest, his hand on your waist holding you tight as he let his other push against your stomach to keep you against him firmly. 

That was, until he slowly brought his hand up gently, drenched fingertips tapping at your mouth as he rasped into your ear. “It's alright, you taste so good, darling. I promise.” His dark curls enveloped part of your vision as he leaned over your shoulder to watch with blackness in his eyes. Slowly you opened your mouth as he sunk three of his soaked fingers in, overwhelming you in one smooth push as he, just like  in your cunt, sunk them to the knuckle.

Your hand flying up to almost grasp in a panic at his wrist, but your eyes still slid closed and sucked his fingers. You felt your eyes sting at the pressure of him so suddenly deep in your mouth, but you almost fought as more of the very wetness you tasted leaked from between your legs, at the wish it was his own seed you were tasting instead. 

He didn’t remove them, even when there was little of you left on them as he mumbled, accent thick as he lost his composure once more. “This-fuck, this is why I can’t have your mouth around my cock.” The hand on your waist shamelessly moved to rub tightly against your clit as he kept his fingers deep in your mouth. “I can’t- can’t control myself if you do. I’ll push you too hard, I’ll be too rough with you, and I don’t want that.” 

He was just rambling at that point as he gathered more of the utterly soaking wetness between you to coat your clit more. Would rub tight against it only to lose more of his calm and slip two of his fingers deeply back inside you. Pumping roughly, almost too fast for you to handle, and solely out of his own greed before sliding out and up to your clit again before sliding inside again, and repeating the pattern. 

Feeling like you were there, being dangled on an orgasm for a long time. The sounds of how wet you were, to you, was downright humiliating. Yet you suspected Jon wanted to hear it louder, hear more and more of it. “You’re so beautiful, but I can’t handle it. I can’t be kind to you when you take me in your mouth like that, like this.” 

You cried against his fingers as you felt another approaching attempt at an orgasm only to grasp his arm with both hands desperately, tears spilling from your eyes as he ripped his touch from your cunt again, letting the pain fill you from losing another orgasm. 

Moving away from you a bit, both hands flying tightly to your waist as Jon rested his forehead against the back of your hair. Your heart feeling both full and too heavy at not having the right senses to tell him it was alright to treat you the way he wanted to. You wanted him to feel safe with you to let it all go, but you couldn’t find the words. “Jon..” 

Shaking his head, you could sense his face was twisted in angry conflict as his voice was strained against the husk of it. “No, you don’t understand. I,- I need you to tell me to stop.” Your face twisted as as his tone was more upset this time. “Tell me to stop right now, please.” 

“Why?” 

Jon ran his hands more soothingly up and down your waist, and you couldn’t tell if it was for you or for him. Staying quiet for a good moment as he collected his voice enough to not snap. “I’ll be too selfish to stop on my own.” 

It wasn’t in a seductive move, more of that desperate feeling in him, as Jon wrapped both strong arms around your front tightly while his lips trailed up your neck to rasp deep in your ear, as he all but rambled. “I want to fuck you so badly, darling. It’s all I can think about, having you in my bed and keeping you on my cock, letting my seed spill so deep inside of you over and over. Until you pass out and then taking you again the second you come back to me. But I can’t, and if you let me do anything else right now, I won’t be strong enough to stop myself.” 

You so badly wanted to turn in his arms, so desperately wanted to wrap your own arms around him just as comfortingly as he did you, but there was a heavy conflict in his heart and mind that he was struggling with and you couldn’t escape his strong hold enough to soothe it easily with a gentle touch he deserved. “Jon, you are allowed to want me the way you do. I don’t want you to feel as if you should hide your needs from me. If you want that-”

He shook his head against you, voice rough and almost a bit angry at himself. “Its not normal, the way I want you. Most of the time, all I want is to keep you safe and happy. Just be with you the way I always dreamed of, but then I get you alone like this..” Moving to almost nuzzle against your jaw before pressing his lips to just under your ear as his voice slipped back deeper. “And all I can think of, is keeping you pinned to my mouth, letting me taste you all night. Sliding my cock deep inside you, as often as it takes to get you-” 

Jon stopped himself, but you both instantly realized what he meant. 

His voice changed, it was rough but something much more upset behind it this time. “I shouldn’t be treating you like this.” 

You felt a weight in your throat turn to more of a choke that wavered your voice. “Jon, let me see you? Please?” He considered it for a moment before loosening his grip. Turning in his arms, you ran your hands up his collarbones to run your thumbs along his facial hair. 

The black in his eyes was starting to fade, and a wide, watering sorrow filled the grey which was returning to them. Yours on his, his hands back to your waist as you both looked at the other, and nothing was said for quite a bit. None needed too, not with the two of you. 

His heightened, too raw of a feeling simmered down in your gentle touch and trusting eyes to calm himself. Leaning in with a gentle smile, “Listen to me, now. I love you. I love you, and I always will no matter what you think. If you want me here and now, that’s alright. If you want to wait until we are back safe in our own bed, in our home, then we wait until this is all over. But nothing about the way or how much you want me is wrong. You have me, all of me, however you want. There are no conditions to loving you, Jon Snow.” 

He swallowed heavily, the conflict a little less painful in his eyes. Instead an almost boyish softness fell over his features trying to come up with anything. But for now, what he landed on was so quiet, so soft and unsure with wide, bright eyes almost like a child. “Can we just go to bed? I need you in my arms for a little while, right now.”

You smiled softly, and luckily Jon let you lean to give him a small, innocent kiss. His hand reaching up to gently run along your hair once more as you pulled back. “Anything.” Tracing his nose along the length of yours before he nudged it playfully, leaving another soft kiss to your lips. 

Neither of you said anything else. Laying gently in the bed, Jon once more traced along your nose with his as his hand came up to cup your cheek. Thumb doing a similar smoothing touch on the skin there as only small times did he pull you close, to give a small kiss to your lips then one to your forehead. 

At some point, you finally fell asleep before he did. Eventually as he felt himself growing tired, he turned you in his arms, pulling you back against his chest as he buried himself in your hair. The hand running along your waist, slid under your own arm to press flat against your scar as sleep found him too. 

Calmly and slowly walking through the crawling darkness, the emptiness of the corridors only filled with more corridors echoed by gentle torches draped along the walls between each chasm. You knew exactly where to go, exactly where your feet were taking you. You could hear those whom would describe such a place as dark and depressing, and grim and unsettling but you found no reason to buy into such a notion. 

Generations of Starks lay here, safe in the crypts beneath Winterfell and they would stay there unharmed by the world that unjustly took so many of them from each other. Had it been a very long time since you had been in here though? Or was this just their states as they were normally alone in the pitch black of night? They were wolves after all. 

Each statue sat tall but instead of stone, each was longer and held a living wolf. Colours alive and eyes following with nothing but rumblings as you walked. Not an inch of fear, as each one looked to you and making sure your feet found the right paths, only small growls if you got off track. 

Wasn’t that what Willem and Martyn Lannister had asked you that day in Riverrun? If Robb turned into a wolf at night? Clearly the answer was yes, all of the statues of Starks in the night right now followed your path as living wolves keeping each other guard and keeping you guarded safely to him. 

His statue was as you remembered, he was not yet a wolf as you looked to him at first. It must take time to return to life. The final moments you last saw the other were as painful and regretful as it was to learn it was the final. 

Being dragged away from Ned Stark by the City Watch, accused of a treason which was the truth, and it would never be anymore. His statue stood tall and firm as you recalled in the best of his moments, and you stepped forward to- but no, he didn’t stay a statue to run your hand along. 

Before your eyes, he was a wolf. The largest you had seen of them yet, only he didn’t stay in place. Before you knew it, Ned had leaped from his peak over your head and landed with a snarling growl onto the ground. Turning to look where he had spotted something, except the room was small and harder to move around. 

A smaller wolf sat on the bed, smaller and less large and a weak whimpering instead of snarling. Their face looked like Neds, but their fur was a mixtures of sticky red and toxic blue as the two stared at one another. The one you had not previously seen, looked to you with a curious tilt of their head and the second you gently stepped forward you felt a muffled but overwhelming sound that pounded horribly in your mind. 

Neither wolf sensed it, but you fell to your knees with the agony as it sounded almost upset. The wolves in the crypt behind all growled and snarled, deep and protective as the sound in your head increased and the two wolves by the bed did not react to either. They only paid attention to the other as the screeching in your mind sounded like crying, a high pitched crying that was not wolf nor adult. 

It was a crying that increased as the wolves of the crypt begun to howl in warning.

Only just as the crying and snarling stopped, the second wolf at the bed had turned to look at you. The smaller one with bright eyes that seemed more expressive then the held back of the other. They looked like you could read them like a human’s mind but their attention was snatched back by the gentle nipping of the bigger wolf as it to pay attention. 

The strange looking one, snuggled further down into the sheets of the bed, despite the thick and heavy smell like copper that started to coat the air. It was tasted on your tongue and it felt vile to sit in your nose it was so overwhelming, as the colours of their fur melted into the sheets until there was no wolf, just the bed now coated in red.

The larger one was no longer looking where the other had been. It was looking at you. Coming to snatch you by the edge of your dress the wolf pulled you to them, and as the torch fire along the crypt walls grew hotter, they inflamed so much it overtook the edges of the room. 

Leaving only you and the large wolf left as the rumblings above were so loud it hurt. As the torch fire seemed to explode in a flash of green, a larger fire came tearing along the ceiling and pulled away the roof exposing the bright sun, clear, blue and warm as it heated the crypt.

Something rumbled in that sky so loud both you and the wolf hurt in your ears. You tried to cover yours, but the shock wave of the sound had you fall to your knees, covering the ears of the wolf whining now beside you. As the sound grew too loud, your eye grew wide as a shadow flew across the floor in a large shape. 

Before your eyes followed back to the sky, the wolf beside you nudged you. Dropping the tiny wolf pup in his mouth into your hands, the pups fur coated the exact colours as the sheets of the bed the smaller wolf melted into. It was a tiny little rumbling of a growl in your hands, but as soon as you tried to look at it, instead the large, loud creature which tore the warm room off the crypt overcame your sights. But the second it hit the clearest part of the sky, you saw a wing before nothing more. 

The more you walked out onto the docks, the more crisp the cool air refreshed you. It was early, very early and your father was sailing first. He had longer to sail and it would take more time.

Not much words but that of wishing luck and to see the other again. You shook hands, but it for a second felt strange to do so instead of anything else. Maybe a hug, but you were both not quite sure that would be appropriate. For you two at least. Get through this battle and maybe you and Stannis might have a conversation which would make something better. There was something in his own eyes that seemed to sense the same conflict in the other.

Only for a second did a flash of concern come over just as one sharply of determination come over your eyes. His voice low, “Who else knows?” 

Yours was low, and nothing in your face changed. “Just you.” Your father commenting on the risk you were about to be taking, but you didn’t waver. “I’ve always been good on getting on people’s wrong sides. This time might just be a little bloodier.” 

You knew it was hard to tell for him if he was proud or wishing to scold you for this idea, but you were determined to make this work no matter the cost to you.

Like a girl when he left to sail for war, watching him go to take on the Iron Fleet you had stood on the shores of Dragonstone and watched him sail off, until there was nothing left to see. Only this time, you would follow not long after. 

The dream you were torn awake from bothered you, but with war approaching you hardly had time to think about how you've had that very dream for days. It wasn’t until sometime later as the sun rose to a point more would climb up from their sleep too did Jon come find you. 

There was a lot of work to be done before you left, a lot to put into place. But as you both stood there for only a moment before the rest of the North would wake and join, Jon pressed a kiss to the top of your head. Letting it linger before beckoning you to follow him, saying he needs to make sure you eat now or else you would forget by the time you all set sail. 

It was during the course of the day that you recalled the last time you had such a shockingly vivid dream. It was that final one you had over a year ago, which felt more like a vivid warning then a random assortment of images in your sleep.

It felt just like the ominous dream you had, right before you and Robb left for the Twins.

[clubdionysus]

[BAD DECISION #52] Gloating

warnings: fluffy n luverly, we teeter on the precipice of smut a few times but never quite cross the line IMO, shower <3 lovely lovely lovely, busan <33

notes: i never explicitly gave this story a city, but this chapter p much confirmed that it was daegu even if I didn't realise it hahahaha

wc: 8.4K

bd total wc: 540k (ongoing)

AO3 | MASTERLIST | MINORS DNI

Jeongguk isn't quite sure what wakes him.

It could be the echo of the television through his bedroom wall, and the tell-tale boom of Ryan Gosling's deep southern drawl when playing Noah that lets him know The Notebook is on. 

Could be the light that's streaming in through his bedroom windows, curtains open wide because he was in too much of a damn hurry to get you beneath his sheets to care for preserving your collective dignity from the ever-perverse stars that love to watch his every move – the ones in the sky, and the one with his heart. 

Could be the scent of meat wafting in through a small crack in his barely open door. Pork, he thinks. Bacon, maybe. In fact, no - bacon, definitely.

Pressing his face into his pillow, Jeongguk lets out a muffled groan. Stretches his body, then reaches out to drag you closer – only to sit up in great perplexion when he realises you're not there.

Hair haphazardly tufted on his head, body aching from the alcohol, his brows furrow. Sitting on his heels, he looks down. Realises he's far more naked than a slightly open door should allow for.

His skin is dappled in tiny little reminders of you: the silver of your glitter, the red marks left by your nails. If he were to glance in the mirror, he'd notice the purples too, left by your lips on his chest. Doesn't care all that much, 'cause you've got some to match. Tit for tat.

It's as he's studying his body that he notices the mess of a masterpiece on his arm. Thick sharpie bleeds ever so slightly into his skin. It's covered in glitter – an addition made by you in the early hours of the morning, wrapped up in his sheets and tangled in the way you feel about him. Trapped, forever. Perfection.

Though the ink has blurred a little, and it's far from pristine, the identifier remains, as if he'd ever forget: Byeol's Boyfriend.

Subtle, it is not, but since when have his feelings towards you ever been subtle?

As he clambers out of bed, he notices the slight sound of crinkling paper and glances up to a ceiling, which now only has a single bird strung up.

He knows exactly which remains, for he stuck it up a little later than all the rest. Though it still feels like forever ago, it's inevitable that it would be the last to fall – which means the one hidden in his sheets belongs to you.

There's a weighted sadness to the idea of the birds finally drawing to an end. Just one left after you complete the one he's trying to find in his sheets, and then that's it - it's over.

Realistically, he knows he's being dramatic as a pout prevails on his dry lips. He's in desperate need of water. Glances to his bedside table, where a pint glass full of water waits him, courtesy of the girl who left the writing on his arm.

His pout only intensifies.

Jeongguk knows that the birds aren't needed, but hates the fact they're coming to an end.

In the corner of his room, by the floor-length mirror that he's stolen hundreds of glances of you within, reside all of the previously done birds. They sit in a neat little pile, 'cause he doesn't really know what to do with them, but thinks they're worthy of preservation.

It was once just a mirror, but it feels like so much more, now.

Jeongguk discovered the power of tits looking directly in it. Has watched you straighten your clothes out ten dozen times over after evenings spent at his place. The glass traps so much of his life and yet nothing at all. Not permanently, at least. It's sort of like the birds, in a way.

They're responsible for everything, and yet realistically he knows they're responsible for absolutely nothing.

He always would have felt this way about you, he thinks. Maybe you would have followed a more linear path, or maybe he'd have still been plagued by fears he hadn't learned yet how to address, but it doesn't matter either way.

As he comes to stand by the door, tossing the slightly crumpled bird on his desk, Jeongguk knows better than to question the what-ifs. Used to waste so much time on them. Knows life is so much more rewarding now that he faces his fears instead of running from them.

There's a lightness to his gaze, serenity in his stature as he finds you. Adoration in his outwards affection. Eyes trained on you as you laugh with Jimin, Jeongguk's not really looking at you. Not in the way that he'd normally look at you.

You're standing by the kitchen counter, Jimin on one of the barstools. The Notebook is on the television, but neither of you are watching it.

There's an inability within Jeongguk to focus. He's not lost in your lips, or seeking out your eyes, or even counting the specks of glitter on your skin; rather he's engulfed by the warmth of the invisible glow that radiates around your body.

Oranges, and pinks. Clementine. Dusk, before the inevitable night sky you normally are. A promise of the best being yet to come – and yet so terribly perfect as you are.

Jeongguk cannot look at you like you're a human being because the way he feels about you transcends the physical. Goes deeper than the spiritual. Lingers somewhere between the brightest stars and the ancient plans laid out in the skies by the Gods.

But then your eyes flicker over to him, and he's locked in. Eyes on eyes. Lips mirroring lips; smiles forming. He can't see it, but he knows your heart must be doing the same thing, too.

"Here he is," you say fondly. The mascara beneath your lash line is smudged out, half of it on his pillows, most of it washed away after you'd woken up. Jeongguk loves it when you're in this state of undress, hair a mess, glitter everywhere and nowhere in particular.

It's a miracle you're able to articulate any words at all when he looks the way that he does.

Just in his boxers, not caring for you or Jimin seeing him like this, Jeongguk is unashamed – and why shouldn't he be? Boy is carved like a God, and it's his own damn hands that have sculpted himself this way. Has every right to be right at home with next to nothing on. You just wish he'd cover up when you're in front of other people so that you wouldn't look like such a blathering mess.

How he can possibly expect you to articulate more than three coherent words is quite frankly insane – but so are you. Are moonstruck at the mere sight of him. Awestruck. Lovestruck. Unable to think like a normal person, or do normal things like carry on a bloody conversation. Absolutely dumbfounded.

"And on that note," Jimin interrupts the quite frankly vomit-inducing way you're looking at one another. Pushes away the plate in front of him - the culprit of the bacon scent - and stands. "I'm gonna go grab a shower."

Light a bolt of lightning, Jeongguk sprints into action. Tumbles past Jimin's lethargic body – but Jimin is just as fast as Jeongguk is. Reaches for Jeongguk's arm and is catapulted along, as the pair begin to struggle for bathroom privileges.

"I need to brush my teeth," Jeongguk whines as Jiimin tackles him around his waist. "I'll be two minutes-"

"I said I was getting a shower first!"

"You could have gotten one all morning!"

"You could have brushed-"

"Boys," you interrupt, then physically recoil at how motherly you sound. "Jimin, you know he'll only be a minute or so."

"I said it first!" Jimin wails.

"Please," you insist, but only 'cause you know exactly why Jeongguk is so keen on brushing his teeth. You don't wanna have to wait the best of an hour ('cause that's exactly how long a hungover Jimin likes his showers to be) just to kiss him, 'cause he'll be precious about making the first morning you have together perfect.

"Fine," Jimin strops. "But this is the first and last time I'll let you use the two-against-one rule. Never again. Never ."

Jeongguk takes his victory like an asshole. Bows to accept his win. Could literally just go in, get his toothbrush and some toothpaste and use the tap in the kitchen – but no. Walks in circles around the bathroom, door still open just to annoy Jimin a little further.

"I'm gonna piss on his toothbrush," Jimin mumbles barely loud enough for you to hear, and while it makes you laugh, you do also have to kiss that mouth.

"Please don't," you beg, eyes wide, lips a little pouty. If Jeongguk were in the room, he'd be so incredibly fond - but he's not, and Jimin is capable of looking at you like a normal human being.

He grumbles as Jeongguk reappears in the doorway, smile wide. "No promises."

Jeongguk's grin prevails as Jimin walks up to the door, but he doesn't move. Anyone who didn't know them would be forgiven for thinking they're brothers. You understand why Jeongguk refers to Jimin as family. "What's the password?"

Smug in his grin, Jeongguk's towering stature is abruptly stolen from him, as Jimin gently taps against Jeongguk's underwear with the back of his hand. Gets Jeongguk recoiling in melodramatic pain.

"You cunt," he wails, immediately grabbing onto his balls as he collapses to the floor.

Of all the ways you've ever seen Jeongguk, this is by far the least dignified.

"B," he groans into the floor, body twisting far more than it needs to. "Avenge me."

Jimin glances in your direction. Smiles. "Don't need to worry about the piss. This is good enough revenge. Hope you didn't want kids."

"Piss?" Jeongguk whines, still on the floor.

"Get your shower," you tell Jimin, desperately trying not to laugh. They're such idiots, the both of them. Is a miracle either of have any swimmers left, given how often they'd hit each other in the nuts throughout their friendship. Has been a while since the last time, 'cause they're trying to be more mature these days - but it's Jeongguk's fault for behaving like a petulant little brat.

The bathroom door closes, so you finally let out the laugh you'd been holding in. Serves him right for gloating. 

"It can't be that bad."

"You try getting sack-tapped in your boxers," he groans, eventually sitting upright. Is slumped in his posture. Looks like he's gone twelve rounds in a boxing ring. You think he might cry. "I was defenseless. God, it still hurts."

Walking around the kitchen counter, Jeongguk is delighted to see you're just wearing his flannel and nothing else. If he wasn't currently nursing aching balls, he'd be nursing a semi instead.

The shirt is long enough on you for it to not be indecent, the tiny silver chain around your ankle glistening in the morning light pouring through the windows. Your face is almost bare thanks to you freshening up in the bathroom before either of the boys woke up, but there are still tell-tale signs of glitter dappling your skin - and even if there wasn't, Jeongguk'd convince himself there was.

Crouching between his spread legs, palms on your knees, you're eye level with his incredibly pouty face. He really is a sight to behold, even like this.

You're teasing when you ask, "Should I kiss it better?"

The way Jeongguk's posture perks up is nothing short of cartoonish. Eyes wide, he nods so fervently it's as if his head might just fall off. "That'll actually really help."

"Oh," you tilt your head to the side, cheeky in how you're winding him up. "But you seem fine now?"

His posture droops immediately. Even starts pretending to cry. "Hurts so bad."

Rolling your eyes, you stand and hold your hands out for him to take. "C'mon."

"So mean, Disco Ball."

And yet his hands slide into yours as if they were made to be there, and you're really not putting that much effort into pulling him up. His own strength and free will is subsidising it. Standing up straight, he doesn't let go of your hands. Looks down at you, and gently gently moves you back to the kitchen island. Says nothing as he loosens his grip just to let his hands dip behind your body.

There's an innate trust between you. Words need not be spoken. Gently, he lifts you so that you're perched on the countertop. Stands between your legs. Strokes the tops of your bare thighs. Nudges his nose up against yours.

"So mean," he whispers. Lets his lips - minty and so incredibly fresh even if still a little dry - sink between yours. There's a furrowing of his brows as he deepens the kiss, your legs hooking around his back to mirror his hunger for you.

"You like it when I'm a little mean," you smirk, taking just a second to pause the kiss - only for him to confirm that you're correct with another desperate meeting of his lips with yours. There's no thought given to the way his hands are all over you. Thighs, throat, cheeks, chest - he doesn't care. Just wants to breathe you in. Inhale everything you are like vapour; let you corrupt his airwaves like the smoke of a gun that was always gonna go off. Just a chemical reaction. That's all you are; an inevitable.

And god, how beautiful it is when the stars align.

"You're my girlfriend ," he husks against your lips, stopping for air and little else. "I like you all the time."

Any chance to breathe is rendered useless, 'cause a statement like that is bound to take all the wind from your sails. Makes you flounder. Giggle.

"What?" he grins, pulling away, to get a read on your face. So lovely. Oh, how he loves this.

Jeongguk has to mentally reprimand himself. Remind his brain that love is something only thought about; not something yet spoken of.

It'd be easy, he thinks.

Could just say it. Knows you'd giggle.

Is too scared of being laughed at, though.

"Nothing," you shake your head, trying to suppress your smile - but it's useless. Stroking down his arm, you let yourself indulge in the messy words on his skin. "Byeol's boyfriend."

"Really marked your territory, there," he commends.

With a raised brow and smirk that he knows means no good, he watches on as you let your nimble fingers tweak at the buttons of his shirt. The way you look beneath Jeongguk's clothes is nothing new - but the dark purple bruises on your sparkling skin are. A product of pleasure, and absolutely no pain, Jeongguk knows he shouldn't like the way they look as much as he does. It's tantalising how you don't completely reveal yourself to him - but he knows you'd let him push the material off your shoulders, if he wanted to.

"You marked yours, too," you shrug.

The movement of your shoulders lets the fabric slide. Not too far. Not enough to reveal everything.

No, it's Jeongguk's hands that do that.

And you just smile, biting down on your bottom lip as he does so.

"Jimin's only in the bathroom," you remind him.

"Lucky him."

Jeongguk doesn't give a shit. Dips his head to latch around your nipple, lips strong, tongue soft. Your head tips back, hands in his hair not to dictate his moves, but to give him little scratches against his scalp. Get him moaning - of which he instantly does. The sensation vibrates around you. Makes you gasp.

The fabric of his shirt pools around the crease of your thighs, but it takes him no time at all to let his curious hands find their way into your underwear.

"Gguk," you whine as he presses the pads of his fingers against you. He doesn't reply. Just sucks harder. Deeper. Gets you moaning. Whimpering. Toes pointing. "Room."

The instruction is clear - and on any other day, Jeongguk wouldn't hesitate. Loves having you in his sheets.

Pulling away from you, he shakes his head. Dark eyes heavy with his desire for you, it's a miracle he was able to stop himself. Holds the tops of your thighs. Isn't breathing quite right. Wants you in the most human of ways, yet somehow feels like whatever the fuck you share isn't human at all. Can't be. Is too fucking good. Cosmic. Celestial. Stellar.

"Not yet," he tells you. "There's a bird waiting for us."

Oh, how you've missed them.

"The kids are gonna be so pleased we're back together," you grin - only for Jeongguk to find it impossible to not kiss you. He does, however, pull the shirt back up over your shoulders. Preens you. Adores you.

"So is their father," he admits, then adds, "And I hope their mother is, too."

"The happiest," you whisper.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," you nod. "So - bird?"

"One of yours," Jeongguk says, making sure your legs are still wrapped around him before holding you tight to his strong chest as he stands up straight. Carries you back to his bedroom. Quite literally dumps you on his bed, reaches for the bird, then clambers into his sheets with you.

"I'm supposed to be heading over to Busan this afternoon," Jeongguk tells you as he hands over the bird.

This is news to you, but you had also spent the best part of a week not talking. Of course you wouldn't know.

Unravelling the folds of the bird as Jeongguk gets to his feet, you already know what the bird must be for it to have prompted that information from him.

Reaching for the clothes next to his bed, crumpled from how quickly you'd taken them off of him the night before, Jeongguk tosses them into separate piles. White tank in one, dark jeans in the other. Looks around his room for more clothes to add.

"Well, no, I need to," he adds. "Mum got Yoongi to make some trophies for her Salsa group. The ceremony is next week, but today is the only chance I'll have before then to get them to her."

Nodding, you've no issue with it. It wouldn't be the first time a bird has been postponed, and given the nature of your relationship now, time really isn't of the essence. Got all the time in the world. He'll still be your boyfriend, by the end of the week. The month, too. The year, you hope, but know better than to jinx it.

"It's fine," you offer. "It's been a while since you last visited. It'll be nice."

He nods now, tossing the last of his shirts into the pile of washing. Waltzes towards his bed, and flops down with you. Top and tail, his head is by your feet, one of his large palms wraps around your ankle just for an excuse to touch you.

"Yeah. Haven't been to Busan since we went together."

"She'll be pleased to see you," you hum a little mindlessly, your hand stroking up and down his leg. 

You envy his natural state of near hairlessness, and lament the fact you know you need to shave yours - he never mentions it, but you also know he kind of likes it when you're not pristine. Goes against the beauty standards you were raised with, but you think that's part of it. Is taboo. He's also just, like, the most primally charged man you've ever known. Him and that nose. Never stops smelling. It's nudging against the top of your foot, now, lips pressing a small kiss to it.

" Us ," he says softly, correcting you. "Pleased to see us."

"Wasn't aware I was invited," you say, a smile resting on your lips.

"Of course you are," he says. "Come with me. You know I get bored when I'm driving alone."

"Ah, so you're just using me?" You tease, really not minding in the slightest.

Jeongguk laughs. Shakes his head. "Boyfriend privileges."

"You're cashing them in early," you laugh right back, butterflies in your stomach making sure to say hello.

"Would have cashed them in months ago, if you'd have let me," he assures you, without a care for admitting just how much he's wanted this, and for how long.

Little admissions like these would have been so terrifying for him back when he first realised how he felt. They kind of melt into nothingness, now.

You're beaming like a ray of cosmic light as you sit up and change position to straddle over his lap. He makes no objection. Accepts your body on top of his like he always does. Welcomes you, even. Reaches up for you, hands on your cheeks, pulling you down for a kiss. Suffocated in your hair, the lingering scent of your perfume, he's smiling as he presses his lips to yours.

It's all very sickening how sweetly you giggle, and how serenely Jeongguk matches your energy. There's an understanding between you both that the happiness you share is not normal. Nobody feels this way. It's not possible. You're unmatched.

In all reality, you're just in your own little world. People are falling in love all around the world at the very same second - you're just too enamoured to even consider the way you feel for one another could be challenged.

And in a way, you're right, because no one will ever love in the same way that you two do.

But love is a big word, and neither of you are brave enough to say it. Have spent so long denying your feelings that some of them are still hard to admit.

"I'll come with you," you mumble into his lips. "Overnight or just the afternoon?"

"Just the afternoon," he says, pouting slightly as you sit up straight. "Boss is on my ass about those refurbs I've been putting off."

"Could always just hire a professional to do it," you say, thinking his Boss is being cheeky trying to use him for cheap labour.

Jeongguk doesn't mind. Has always been treated well by his Boss. Knows a fair amount of his tab gets written off as damages, or waste. Also knows if you want a job done properly, you should just do it yourself. The refurbishments aren't that huge, and Yeonjun will be on hand, too. Worst comes to worst, he'll give Yoongi a call.

"No need," Jeongguk shrugs, shoulders digging into his duvet. "Plus it'll be good to get my hands a little dirty. I'll be doing most of the work for the restaurant, so."

You raise a brow, offended he hasn't kept you posted on any changes there. "There's been news? With the restaurant?"

He shakes his head, then says, "Fake it till you make it, right?"

A flawed logic, he'll admit, but he's not about to give up on his dream just like that. Has spent too many months thinking about floor tiles and till systems, signature drinks and banchan just to let it all go to waste. The plan he set up with Yoongi was immaculate.

Sure, he'd always dreamt of that building, but maybe it just wasn't meant to be. There are plenty of other vacant buildings in the city. Probably ones that are even better.

Maybe he'll just have to reconfigure those little daydreams he's had of dropping coffee at your workplace, then heading a couple streets over to his own little restaurant, but it's really not that much of a big deal.

"Fake it till you make it," you agree. Think that speaking things into existence is one of the most powerful things you can do in the face of defeat. "What time are you heading over to Busan? I'll wanna make myself look human first."

"Hour or so?"

Nodding, you say, "That's fine. I'll run back to mine and get ready there."

"Let me put my washing on, then I'll drive you over," he says. "Probably be easier for me to just get ready at yours."

"Sure?"

He nods, and taps your leg to encourage you off his body. "Sure. Head over to Busan, say hi for a bit, then we can do the bird on the way home."

You let your body fall into his sheets, and pick up the bird once more. Study it. It's your handwriting, yes, but it's been so long since you wrote it that you'd almost forgotten it.

!!! FUCK IN A CAR !!!

Not the most intimate of all your birds, but one that requires a hell of a lot of trust. One that you're pretty sure will no doubt just become a standard, frequent occurrence with Jeongguk. Given how much he seems to like the idea of people knowing he gets to fuck you, it's that golden line between public and private that'll get him off easily.

Gathering your things as Jeongguk puts the washing on, you borrow a pair of his sweats and let him give you a piggyback to the elevator, party shoes in hand. In all likelihood, he probably shouldn't be driving just yet.

Thankfully, showers always seem to sober him up, and so as soon as you're in your apartment, he's turning it on. Doesn't wait for you. Gets in, and leaves the bathroom open for you.

Danbi's at Taehyung's place like she so often is, so there's no worry of any intrusion. Doesn't really matter, given that as soon as your phone is on charge, you're joining him.

The stream of water crashing down on you both is warm to touch, but incomparable to the warmth being fostered between you.

There's an awareness that nothing will ever quite match your feelings for one another. Jeongguk knows it. You know it. Need nothing else, so long as you have one another.

Rivulets of water trail from his soaked hair down his toned back as he turns to get your shampoo, and you can't help but marvel at him. Powerful in his stature, when he faces you again, you're so damn pleased to see the softness of his face; round eyes, sweet smile, cute nose.

A man of complexities is Jeon Jeongguk, and you'll gladly spend forever and a day trying to understand them all.

For now, you just let him do as he pleases. Keep your eyes on him as he lathers up shampoo between his large palms and redistributes it into your hair. He definitely doesn't realise you're not supposed to put it on the end of your hair, but it's a crime you'll take the fall for. Will suffer drier than usual ends just to feel his touch in a moment like this.

"Roots," you smile, voice a lil hazy from the serenity of it all.

"You just want a head scratch," he hums, but doesn't object. Does as he's told.

Closing your eyes as he delivers a head scratch that makes you realise why dogs always seem to like him so much, you smile. "Shampoo on the roots, conditioner on the ends. Have you learned nothing from our showers?"

"I won't lie, B," he promises. "Your hair is normally the thing I pay attention to the least whenever we shower."

It's not like he can nestle his nose into it while it's all wet. Loves it dry, but loves other parts of you when you're wet a little more.

He's deliberately been trying to avoid thinking about them. Knows he stands no chance as soon as he does. Is saving himself for later.

Sure enough, as soon as the thoughts are in his head, his prick starts being, well, a prick .

He'd done so well at keeping it down - but you're naked, and you're just so pretty, and he can't help how much he adores you.

"Ignore it," he mumbles, tilting his head back with a groan.

Rinsing your own hair off as Jeongguk has his little crisis, you can't help but find the predictability of him so incredibly sweet. Sure, his near-constant state of wanting you isn't always practical, but it definitely is a compliment.

He told you to ignore it, so you will. You'll think about it, still. Look at it. Smile. Get a little flustered. But you don't mention it, so you're basically ignoring it.

Why on earth you're choosing to start your relationship out with a denial of physical closeness, you'll never truly know.

Part of you wonders if sex will cheapen it; as if your desire to be with one another has no connection to your feelings.

That's the trouble with being so abhorrently intimate while under the guise of 'friendship'. Lines were so blurred, they're hard to make out, now. They need to be redrawn. Redefined - and they will be, just not right now.

For the first time, in a very long, the pair of you make it through your shower without coming undone. Neither of you mention it. Jeongguk's proud of himself. Pleased.

You're the one who thinks you might die, for a change. Are on the verge of getting to your knees as you watch him dry himself off.

"You're a perv," he tells you, and you don't deny it.

Instead, you drop your towel and are pleased to find he's just as transfixed as you are. "Sorry, what were you saying?"

He swallows. Hard. Mumbles, "Put your clothes on."

"Why?" you tease, as if he's not fuckin' twitching.

"B," he whines. Close his eyes. "Please."

Rolling your eyes, secretly so incredibly pleased by the way he reacts to you, you pull open the drawer that houses your underwear, and set about covering yourself up. A simple set is chosen. Not quite matching, but at a glance you'd be forgiven for thinking it was. Is just black, and a little lacey. Still has him winging and whining.

"Oh my God, just get dressed," you laugh, tossing his shirt across to him. The back and forth of you riling one another up is so stupid. Will only end in disaster. "We'll be late."

"In that case, we may as well do the bird on the way to Busan instead of on the way back," he suggests. Knows full well he'd gonna have a hard-on for the entire drive. Is not looking forward to it.

"I'm not showing up late to see your parents just so you can get your end away."

"Why not?" he pouts. "It's not like they'll know."

"Yeah, 'cause your mum totally didn't know we were up to no good before she got home last time."

"She never said anything," Jeongguk shrugs, ignoring the sarcasm in your voice.

"Well, what do you expect her to say?" you laugh. " Oh, yeah, Gguk, lovely to meet Jimin's former flame, hope you wrapped it up when you went to town with her. "

"Okay, when you put it like that," he begins, but chooses not to end the sentence. Sighs. Is all pouty and pathetic as he says, "Fine. Have it your way. We'll shag later."

"You're so hard done by," you tease him.

He nods. "It's a miracle I survive."

Death seems like a constant worry for Jeongguk. Always appears to be on the verge of it whenever he's horny, and to be near you is to be randy, as far as he's concerned.

Rolling your eyes, you don't entertain his whining. Dress casually, but make sure any evidence of the night before is covered. Jeongguk's wearing a long-sleeved shirt to keep the faint grey lines left on his arm covered.

There's very little talk of the night before; just acceptance of who you are to one another. It really shouldn't surprise you how normal being together feels. Had practically been official for weeks. Months. Were just too stupid to realise.

In the way that he lets you dictate the car stereo, and how he holds your hand whenever he can, there's nothing friendly about the drive.

You've two shared playlists. Called one STARFUCKERS and the other one STARLOVERS. Had initially been assigned for different moods. You've got the STARLOVERS playlist on this morning, and know damn well that the other one is always the one Jeongguk lets run through his speakers whenever he wants to add a little ambience to a shag. Friends don't have sex playlists.

You, as a collective, are stupid. And have never been friends. Not in the way you convinced yourselves you were.

Though you've only visited his parents' place once before, you recognise the roads enough to realise you're drawing near. It's only accentuated by Jeongguk slightly turning the volume of his car radio down, as if he's scared he'll get in trouble for having it too loud. Old habits die hard, or so it would seem - but he likes the idea of making new ones with you.

Pulling down the sunvisor to check yourself over, you worry that maybe the glitter is too much, or maybe your hair isn't quite right. None of it matters, and you know Jeongguk's mother is as lovely as anything, but you still want to make a good impression.

"Relax," Jeongguk hums. "You look fine."

"Fine isn't nice," you remind him.

Fine is fine . Boring. Irrelevant. You've something to prove now that you didn't have to worry about so much last time.

Last time you were here, you were just a friend (again, bullshit, but whatever).

This time, you're his girlfriend .

His girlfriend, who Jeongguk's mother thinks dated Jimin.

You're already off to a bad start. Don't even want to think about the gossip that will spread at her salsa class - especially if Jimin's mum attends, too. They're gonna think you're a floosie. A harlot. A homie hopper - though you're pretty certain that neither of those words will be in his mother's vernacular.

"Fine is nice," he tells you. "And besides, you know you're gorgeous. You don't need to worry."

"You're biased," you tell him right back, enamoured with the compliment, but also far more critical of yourself than he is. You know he's got a lovely pair of rose-coloured glasses on when it comes to you.

He could take them off and it still wouldn't matter. The stars would be fucking with his view, too.

"And you won't believe me regardless of what I say," he counters, seeing right through you. "So just accept you look nice, and that my mum really doesn't give a shit-"

"But I give a shit-"

"But you shouldn't," he whines, knocking the indicator to the left to pull into a space on the side of the road. "She already loves you."

"She's met me once."

"She's full of love," Jeongguk insists. Doesn't really understand why you're insisting on arguing against him. You know that his mother liked you. Wouldn't have been so warm with you if she didn't - or maybe she would have. She really is as kind as they come. "Doesn't have it in her heart to dislike anyone."

This isn't true.

There's a reason why Jeongguk only invited Hayun to his family's place if his parents were out of town, or in a group setting. His mother just never warmed up to her. At first, Jeongguk had thought that maybe it was in his head, but it's not like he hadn't brought girls home before. Then he thought that might be the issue - that his mother liked his high school girlfriend so much that anyone else just wouldn't be liked as much.

Wasn't until he saw the way the pair of you teaming up against him, and joking at his expense, that he realised his mother was very much capable of liking new girls just as much as she had liked his first girlfriend. Realised then that perhaps the issue of Hayun ran deeper than he could have ever imagined.

Funny, how these little tell-tale signs had always been there, but it took having the juxtaposition of knowing you for him to realise. Knowing everything that he does now, Jeongguk thinks it was obviously a bad fit from the start. Was just as delusional back then as Hayun seems to be now.

"I just really want her to like me," you say quietly, as you tuck the sunvisor back up. Glancing over to Jeongguk, you find his eyes already on you. Reaching out his hand, you give no objections as he holds yours.

"We don't have to tell her," he offers. There's sincerity in his dark eyes, wide and honest as they promise to do whatever you're comfortable with. "I mean, like, B- it's literally been less than a day. We're really jumping the gun with the whole meeting the parents thing."

You laugh at the flippancy of his remark. It's circumstantial, not intentional. Nod. "I guess if she asks we could say yes?"

He nods now, too. Squeezes your hand. "And if she doesn't, we simply won't say anything."

It's a compromise. The first of many, most likely. Relationships are built on compromises, and if this is how easily you're able to rectify worries, you really have nothing to worry about going forward with Jeongguk.

"Deal," you nod.

Part of you feels a little twinge of disappointment. One day into an established relationship and you're already downplaying what you are for the sake of an easy life - but it's not linear, cut-and-dry type of situation. Seeing his mum today is simply due to circumstances, not because you actually want to do the whole meeting the parents thing so soon.

In all honestly, Jeongguk's brought you here for the sake of a shag, and you definitely can't admit that .

"Nothing to worry about," he reminds you. Glances over his shoulder. Has parked on the street that runs along the side of his house. You're probably obscured from any window views, but it's still not worth the risk, he decides when he contemplates kissing you. Tells you so. "Not gonna kiss you, 'cause I dunno where she is, but I promise you'll be fine."

His insistence is sweet - and entirely correct, for when Jeongguk's mother rushes to the entryway, she's smiling so brightly she could blind.

"Oh, sweetheart!" She greets you, in that bright yellow motherly way that always makes you feel right at home. "He never said you were coming along, too! How are you? How was the drive?"

If looks could kill, Jeongguk wouldn't be dead, but he might just wish he was. "You didn't tell your mum I was coming?!"

"He doesn't even tell me when he's coming over, most of the time," she interjects, as if she didn't deliberately drop him in hot water just for her own amusement. "Just shows up expecting to be doted on."

"Okay, firstly, I never expect to be doted on-"

"He does," she insists. "He's a real princess when he wants to be."

"-And secondly, I was in a rush this morning. Was a last minute thing."

The proximity of your city to Busan - about an hours drive away - makes it an easy enough trip for Jeongguk to not have to plan ahead.

If he had moved to Seoul like he'd half considered a few years ago, it would have made it far more difficult - but he likes the ease of a life like this. Is quite content away from the hustle and bustle of the capital city, and the clientele it attracts.

Recently, things have felt breezy. Nothing is too much trouble.

Sure, some things don't go to plan, and yes maybe some aspects are going a little less than grand, but for the most part, his days feel like the calm oceans of Busan, even when he's miles away.

If his life was busy and hectic in the way that he's sure Seoul is, he'd get homesick far too often.

Truth be told, he thinks he'd be alright in the big city if you were there with him. Could find home anywhere he could hold your hand. Has known it since the last time he visited Busan. Doesn't matter where he is in the world. Home is a feeling, and it feels like you.

"Suppose it makes sense," his mother dismisses his comments as she ushers you further into the family home. You're carrying one of the bags with the wooden trophies inside, so Jeongguk reaches over to take them from you. Wants you at as much ease as possible. "I hear you two are basically joined at the hip, these days."

Your cheeks flame.

Jeongguk scoffs. "Where'd you hear that?"

"Where'd you think?" She smiles, the glint in her eyes just like Jeongguk's whenever he's being cheeky. "A little birdie told me."

"I'm gonna kill him."

Jeongguk's mother gasps. Looks at her son with perplexed horror - then smiles, because she really is the person Jeongguk gets his dramatic flair from.

"You're gonna do no such thing, Jeongguk," she assures him. "A murder conviction would bring shame on the family - and Jimin's mother has promised to give me her recipe for Castellas next time I see her, and I don't imagine she'll see that one through if you murder her youngest."

"She'd thank me," Jeongguk insists. "Plus, he's a little shit-stirrer. A self-inflicted murder."

"Watch your language, young man," his mother playfully scolds, knowing it'll fall on deaf ears. "Don't show off just because we've got company."

Credit where it's due, she knows exactly what buttons to press.

"I'm not showing off!"

"Boys," she says to you, with a kind smile and a roll of her eyes. "So precious."

It's so easy to tell she's the mother of only boys. Had to lean into being a wind-up merchant in order to not let the house be overrun with masculine energy. Anyone who meets Jeongguk would be able to tell he was raised with love. His softness and his humour both come from his mother, his logic and his love for good food from his father. He's the best of them both.

This outward kindness from Jeongguk's parents is what makes it so easy for Jimin to just pop by whenever he's in the area. Visits home far more frequently than Jeongguk does, and often will say hello, or pick some food up to take back to Jeongguk. Will stay for a gossip 'cause he just can't help himself. Neglected to tell Jeongguk how he choked on his drink when his mother mentioned his 'dating history' with you.

He very quickly set her straight - minus the whole shagging you twice thing - and made sure to let her know that you're a pair of idiots.

And so while his mother might not know for sure that you're dating, she's also not stupid.

She won't mention it specifically - but she will ask questions that teeter along the precipice.

In the kitchen, a bunch of fresh wildflowers are laid upon the kitchen counter, a pair of scissors and a vase beside them. Very recently back from running errands, his mother thinks a home without flowers cannot be classed as a home at all. Buys them herself, because she likes them. Doesn't wait on Jeongguk's father to bring them home.

Which almost makes it even sweeter when he arrives home from the driving range shortly after you and Jeongguk have made yourselves comfortable on the island barstools, newspaper in one hand, pink roses in the other.

It's a small bunch, just picked up from the grocers when he was fetching the paper, but it doesn't matter.

"For you," he smiles, pleased to have witnesses as he presents the flowers to his wife, then turns to face you both. Has a very similar mischievous grin to the one Jeongguk's mother often sports, and you both know he's about to wind Jeongguk up. "Watch and learn, son. Watch and learn."

As his mother takes the flowers, she's all smiles. They're far less impressive than the bunch she'd just been arranging herself, but they complement hers perfectly. She's a firm believer in the notion that it's the thought that counts. Appreciates her husband's gesture.

"Oh my God," Jeongguk whines again - and it makes you laugh how much of a petulant teenager he becomes whenever he's with his parents. "I don't need to 'learn' anything ."

Jeongguk's dad finds this quite hard to believe. Also has a lot less tact than Jeongguk's mother. Turns to you and asks, "When did he last get you flowers?"

It's at this point that both you and Jeongguk look at one another in a mutual state of mild panic. It's not technically admitting anything if you say last week, but it also confirms that he does buy you flowers - and that's not very friendly. Not in the slightest.

And, like, the flowers were props more than anything.

Props... for a date. That he arranged. And ended with you on your knees in Yoongi's spare bedroom.

You wonder Jeongguk is thinking about it, too.

The way he shuffles in his seat would suggest so.

"Oh, don't tell me he's never bought you flowers?!" His mother gasps in horror. Thought she'd raised him better. "I swear, you try and give them morals-"

Both of you frantically try to cover your panic, but only panic even more.

"No, he has!"

"Fuck off, I have!"

The way you talk over each other is terribly awkward, and embarrasing, and ever so cute .

"Language!" His mother reprimands Jeongguk, and then smiles, smug in her assumptions. "So you have bought her flowers."

"Oh my god."

"Young love," his father teases you both, but you know it's directed mainly towards Jeongguk. You're pretty sure he'll just whinge again - but he doesn't.

Instead, he rolls his eyes. Knows that the only way to end this conversation is to divert it. Mumbles, "You guys are lucky I didn't run away as a teenager."

Seeing the dynamic between Jeongguk and parents, you absolutely know that it never would have been an option. While you're sure they must have annoyed the absolute daylights out of one another, and that he probably did threaten to pack a bag on more than one occasion, their willingness to embarrass him is just a testament to how well they know him.

Of all the people you've ever dated, you've never seen a family dynamic as lovely as theirs. Gets you thinking that it's the kind of dynamic you'd like for your own family, one day.

"If you'd have ever left, you'd have been back in a couple of days to get your laundry washed," his mother assures him, as his father tosses down the newspaper onto the counter.

There's little care given to the fact you and Jeongguk are present as his father reaches for his mother's hands. He sets her hands into a position for dancing, and gently moves her to sway along to whatever song is playing on the radio. She lets him, no objection.

He embarks them on a slow little waltz, round in circles, nothing special - and yet the fact they're doing it at all is incredibly special, you think.

"Would not," Jeongguk protests, utterly unphased by his parents. The scene in front of him is entirely normal, to him. Grew up with affection. Is why it comes so easily to him. "I'll have you know I put on a washload before I left this morning."

"Is that true, sweetheart?" his mother asks as she turns to face you, still letting Jeongguk's dad lead the dance.

"It is," you say - because if there's one thing Jeongguk is good at, it's doing his own laundry. You've only ever known his room to be a mess during his exam period, or in the mornings after you've been there. "Separated his lights from his darks and everything."

"Thank you," Jeongguk beams, pleased that you noticed, and smug in proving his mother wrong.

She knows out of her two sons, Jeongguk was always going to be the domestic angel - his brother is simply too messy. Chalk and cheese, it's a miracle they were raised by the same parents.

"We can't stay for too long," Jeongguk tells his parents. "Gotta get back home-"

"Oh, you can stay for a little bit," his mother interrupts. "There's always room for you to stay, if needs be."

Jeongguk shakes his head. "We've both got work tomorrow. Can't be too late."

This seems to appease his mother, but she does insist that you stay for something to eat. It's an easy compromise, or at least one that Jeongguk puts no fight up against. Checks that it's alright with you and of course it is.

His parents manage to simultaneously treat you like they've known you for years, and yet make sure to ask all sorts of questions about your life, and how you fit into Jeongguk's.

Both his mother and his father are absolute chatterboxes, and it makes you realise why Jeongguk can be quiet at times. He's a listener. Knows the perfect place to interject.

Time slips by. With good chatter, and good spirits, there really wasn't anything to be worried about. Jeongguk always knew this.

"Sorry," Jeongguk offers as you finally retire to his car after half a dozen goodbyes. "I really did think we'd be in and out."

Shaking your head, you smile. "It's fine. It's actually really lovely seeing how well you get along with your parents."

He shrugs, opening up your door for you. His parents are watching from the door, and he can hear them cooing. Has half a mind to tell them to fuck off again. Instead, he rolls his eyes, and does his best to ignore them.

"They're annoying," he laughs, but gives them a wave before he walks around the car to get in the driver's side. Turns to look at you, key in the ignition. "So what now?"

Shrugging, you connect your phone to his speakers. Switch the playlist over. Jeongguk knows exactly which one it's on. Thinks it's a miracle he's been able to avoid thinking indecently for the last hour or so. Is utterly consumed by it now he's in the confines of his car with you.

"Drive?"

Biting down on his bottom lip, he nods.

"Home?"

You reciprocate the way he's looking at you, all starry for his eyes only.

"Home."