#The Order of the Northern Sky | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ninetailedfoxmanchi · 9 months ago

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The Northern Winds (pt. 3)

PART 1 & PART 2

Summary: Lady Y/N is pregnant again after suffering a miscarriage. Winter is coming and with it spring and the news of Prince Jacaerys coming to Winterfell.

Warnings: pregnancy and its symptoms, childbirth, mention of postnatal depression, mention of rape, mature NSFW content (18+), SPOILERS FOR HOUSE OF THE DRAGON/FIRE AND BLOOD (both what has happened and what will happen in the end!!!)

A/N: Let me just say that I cried writing the ending of this story

Taglist: @nixtape-foryou @accountforreading123 @melsunshine @lovemesomevesey @goldenxshine @beebeechaos @mckennah123

@blonde-scandinav1an @letaliabane @answer-the-sirens @lilyed777 @travelingmypassion

***

Before long the Lady of Winterfell was high into her pregnancy and with it arrived a white raven from the archmaesters of the Citadel announcing the winter was upon them. If anyone knew of winter, it was the Northerners. A third of the crops of every harvest had been stored for winter ever since the first white raven arrived sending word of the summer’s end. The winter town beneath the walls of Winterfell filled eagerly once more, its houses, markets, and taverns bustling with life. Fire burned ceaselessly in every hearth making the view from the towers of Winterfell seem like the night sky with stars not of silver but of gold.

The Lady of Winterfell stood atop of one of Winterfell’s watchtowers, observing the smallfolk rushing among the houses and the passageways, taking care of the final errands before the day’s light would be consumed by darkness. Even as the night set in, Lady Y/N could still see them hurrying about because of their torches and lanterns to light the way.

Lady Y/N pulled her heavy cloak closer, supporting her great belly beneath it. If everything was as it was supposed to be, childbirth was not far away. The thought of it filled Y/N with equal measures of joy as well as worry.

The first few moons with child were not easy. Lady Y/N was abed for most of it, sick with nausea and barely keeping anything down. She did not care for food other than salt beef and rusk bread. Even oranges that were once her favourite she could no longer stand. And simply the smell of ale would make Lady Y/N sick immediately. Although it was Cregan’s preferred drink, he ordered it not be served at feasts any longer if the Lady Stark was strong enough to attend. As for him, he would drink wine instead or hippocras when the winter truly set in and the cold was strong enough to bite off your fingers.

Maester Bennard too was with Lady Stark most every day, brewing remedies for her nausea but with very little effect. Yet as the babe grew stronger, the sickness disappeared almost overnight. Lady Y/N regained her strength and her love for oranges and resumed her duties as the Lady of Winterfell with much eagerness although always beneath the watchful eye of Lord Stark. His hard, grey eyes would not leave his wife during council meetings, lingering either on her or her slowly growing belly. As someone who always wielded power, even as a child for Cregan was his father’s heir, Lord Stark came to know complete powerlessness for the first time in his life when his wife fell with child. Whilst he could command his men and wield his great longsword, Cregan could do little when it came to his yet unborn child. Whilst Lady Y/N was abed with sickness, Lord Stark would often leave the leading of the council meetings to his maester and his other trusted advisors. If anything were to go wrong again and Cregan would not be there for his wife, he would never be able to forgive himself.

Lady Y/N too was worried, especially during the first half of her being with child. She could not sleep for fear of waking coated in blood. She had nightmares and was sometimes so tired, not only from sickness but from fear, that she could only leave the bed to use the privy. Yet this time, Cregan was there by her side, watching over her and making sure that his wife had everything she could want and need. When Lady Ellyn was away to get some rest as she tended to Lady Stark at all times, the Lord of Winterfell would stay by his wife’s side, keeping a watchful eye even when Lady Y/N slept. But as the pregnancy neared the end, both the Lord and the Lady of Winterfell quickly forgot about the worries of the past and had no choice but focus on the present.

“If you are trying to freeze to death, there are easier ways than standing atop of a tower,” said the Lord of Winterfell as he joined his wife. Lady Y/N turned around, meeting her husband’s warm smile with her one of her own.

“The cold air does me good,” said Lady Y/N as Cregan wrapped his arms around her, his nose buried in the fragrant skin of her neck.

“Of course,” murmured Cregan, “You are carrying a northern child.” He kissed the part of Y/N’s neck not shielded by the red fox fur of her blue cloak. Goosebumps rose of Lady Y/N’s arms as she placed her hands on his that were supporting her belly. The babe kicked and although the sensation was uncomfortable for Y/N, it always filled her heart with warmth at the proof of new life.

Lord Stark could not help but smile when he felt his child move beneath his touch. But then his excitement faded some. “Does it hurt you when he does that?” asked Cregan his wife. Lady Y/N was surprised by his question, yet she should not have been for Cregan’s curiosity never ceased and his questions never remained only in his thoughts.

“It is uncomfortable but not painful,” said Lady Y/N before she could actually comprehend what Cregan said.

“He?” asked Lady Y/N, a grin growing on her lips. She turned around to look at Cregan. If it were not for the darkness of the coming night, Y/N would be able to see the heat creep into her husband’s cheeks.

“Or she,” said Cregan quickly, his eyes shifting between his wife and their unborn child. “Either one will do,” said the Lord of Winterfell as he knelt before his wife and kissed her great belly, leaning his forehead gently against it. Lady Y/N ran her gloved fingers through Lord Stark’s hair, secretly wishing their child, be it a boy or a girl, to have their father’s eyes.

Lady Stark placed her hand on Cregan’s cheek when he got up, her thumb smoothing across his wind-lashed skin.

“I too think it is a boy,” confessed Lady Y/N in a gentle voice. Cregan’s grey eyes had never before seemed so big and childlike to her as in that moment when his lips were parted but his mouth at a loss for words.

Lady Y/N stepped on the tips of her toes before Cregan cupped her cheeks and guided her closer. He kissed her ardently again and again, unable to detach himself from her love.

***

A snowstorm raged outside that morrow when the Lord and Lady of Winterfell broke their fast on fried eggs and boiled ham before they would attend the council meeting. Yet as Lady Y/N climbed the stairs of Rodrick’s Tower, a terrible pain spread from her back to her abdomen. A loud gasp escaped her lungs as Lord Stark turned around hastily, Lady Y/N’s hand grabbing onto his arm.

“What is it?” hurried Lord Stark.

Y/N gasped again at another wave of pain, followed by a strange sensation and a small gush of fluid trickling down her leg. A striking pain shot through her abdomen alone this time. Lady Y/N cried out in pain and would have fallen to her knees if not for Cregan holding her.

“The babe … It’s coming,” breathed Lady Y/N, her nails digging into her husband’s forearm.

Cregan did not hesitate and wrapped his arms around his wife, picking her up with easily yet with great care. “Hold onto me,” said Lord Stark and carried Lady Y/N to the birthing chambers. He shouted to the servants to get the maester and the midwife as his wife cried out in pain. Her breathing grew even faster when Cregan laid her into their bed. Y/N caught his hand, begging him with her eyes not to leave her side. Tears gathered in her vision as all of her fears and worries returned to her. She was not much afraid of the pain but for the babe. She would not be able to bear losing it.

“You will be alright, my love,” said Cregan and kissed Y/N’s brow. He brushed away the hair that stuck to her forehead before loosening the strings on her dress. A small sob escaped Lady Y/N’s lips as she paced her breathing whilst they waited for the maester and the midwife.

“I’m not going anywhere,” assured Cregan, holding his wife’s palm with one hand and caressing her cheek with the other. “I promise, my love.”

Lady Y/N nodded just as Maester Bennard, midwife Othella and her ladies-in-waiting arrived.

The maester asked Lord Stark to leave as was customary but Cregan would not be moved from his wife’s side. It was unheard of and yet not a soul dared to say a word of protest.

Lady Y/N remembered her mother’s letters of her own time with child and how Lord Jonos was never remotely interested in the babe until it was born. Lady Whytefort was supposed to visit before Lady Y/N went into labour but the snowstorm must have kept her in a lesser lord’s castle somewhere. Y/N had hoped her mother would be there when the babe would arrive yet she was grateful Cregan was there at least.

Lady Othella, the midwife who assisted the Lady of Winterfell in childbed, was no highborn lady at all but the smallfolk and the noble alike addressed her as lady for the many children she helped deliver and save when the labour was difficult. Lady Othella was a short woman of petite stature yet her hands possessed the strength that could wield a sword. She wore her hair in a coif of deep blue but her tawny locks more oft than not slipped onto her pale, heart-shaped face.

“Breathe, my lady,” instructed Lady Othella as the servants made the bed more comfortable for Lady Y/N. They placed pillows behind her head and beneath her hips, relieving some of the soreness in her back.

Lady Y/N nodded and paced her breathing. Her pains were still very far apart yet no less painful.

The labour lasted through the day and well into the night although there was no telling the time as the snowstorm raged on outside the windows of Winterfell. Near the hour of the ghosts, Lady Stark’s labour pains grew stronger and more frequent, now only moments apart.

Lady Othella announced it was time under the careful supervision of Maester Bennard.

Y/N let go of Cregan’s hand as she was sure she was going to crush all the bones in his hand. She gripped onto the linens instead but the Lord of Winterfell made her take his hand once again.

Lady Y/N pushed and pushed and prayed that the baby would come and come healthy.

“You are almost there, my lady,” encouraged Lady Othella, giving Lady Stark the last bit of strength she needed to push her baby into the world.

A sense of relief came over Y/N as the pressure was gone and the babe’s crying filled the room. Lady Y/N’s loud and fast breathing was scattered with the crying of happiness as Maester Bennard cut the navel string and the babe got wrapped up in clean linens.

“My congratulations, my lord, my lady,” said Lady Othella, a warm smile spreading across her lips. “You have a son.”

Lady Y/N fell the breath get knocked out of her for a moment, her big, pensive eyes wide with wonder as she stared at her son in the midwife’s hands. Lady Othella gave her the babe as Lady Y/N reached out with her hands and Lord Stark finally let go of his wife’s hand. Y/N pressed the babe to her chest instinctively, her mouth full of sobs as the babe’s crying eased. She looked at her husband whose grey eyes flickered between the child no larger than his two hands put together and his beautiful wife, his beautiful wife who just gave him a son.

Cregan’s vision became blurred. He could not remember the last time he cried for it was when he was still a child himself. Yet as Lord Stark saw his wife holding their son, his heart filled with joy indescribable to anyone and at the same time with fear so great he thought it would break him.

Lord Stark got up and kissed Y/N’s forehead, his hand barely touching the babe for fear of hurting him. The baby nuzzled into his mother’s chest, recognizing the warmth and the comfort of her body.

“We have a son,” Lady Y/N cried from happiness as she looked up at her husband.

“We do,” said the Lord of Winterfell in a quiet voice. “Rickon?” asked Cregan as he looked at his wife, his eyes were big and pure as a child’s.

“Rickon,” agreed Y/N and smiled at her babe.

***

After the long and tiresome labour, Lady Stark had time enough to rest and recover but would not let a wetnurse feed her son, not when she could do it herself. Maester Bennard advised against it and encouraged Lady Y/N to focus on recovering and to leave the babe to the wetnurse. Lady Othella did not share his opinion entirely, which was the cause of many quarrels between the maester and the midwife already during Lady Stark’s pregnancy.

Maester Bennard looked to Lord Stark for support, speaking of how the late Lady Gilliane Stark, Cregan’s mother, always entrusted her children into the care of a wetnurse as did the wife of Cregan’s uncle, who had three healthy sons.

Lord Stark stood by the small window of the birthing chamber, seeing how the terrible snowstorm was beginning to cease. The wind whistled and howled violently all the while as the Lady of Winterfell was in childbed.

Lord Stark turned to Maester Bennard when he felt his scholarly gaze on his back.

“You will do as my wife says, Maester Bennard,” said Lord Stark, his arms crossed pensively over his broad chest. His voice was as even and cold as steel.

“You are a maester of the Citadel and are highly valued in my household, Bennard – not only as a learned man but as a friend,” continued Lord Stark. “You are a maester of Oldtown yet you are neither a woman nor a mother and that is no fault of yours, so you will do as Lady Stark commands even if she chooses not to heed your advice.”

Maester Bennard lowered his gaze and bowed, “As my lord commands.”

The newborn babe suckled happily on his mother’s breast, who in equal measure could not be happier herself. Lady Y/N was not opposed to a wetnurse yet she wanted to care for her babe as much as she could on her own, particularly now when the babe had hardly been born.

Once Lady Othella and Maester Bennard retired, assuring Lady Stark was in as good health as she could be, Cregan allowed himself so sit beside his wife and his newborn son. Lady Y/N held the baby with one hand but reached for her husband’s palm with the other. She brought it to her lips and kissed it, her eyes closed as she did so.

“Thank you,” spoke Y/N gently, leaning her head tiredly against the pillow as she watched her husband.

“Whatever for?” asked Cregan, his sharp brows in their usual frown. He had done absolutely nothing whilst his wife did everything.

“Everything,” said Y/N nevertheless, gently holding onto Cregan’s hand. “Did I break all of your bones?” she smiled, brushing her thumb across the top of his palm.

“I think I still have a few of them left,” grinned Cregan as he looked down at his wife’s small hand in his. His heart weighed heavy in his chest but he did not know why. Perhaps he was so happy that some of his happiness had to turn into sadness or he would burst with joy.

“What is it?” frowned Y/N when she saw the melancholy in Cregan’s features.

I’m afraid, Cregan wanted to say. I’m afraid to lose you and I’m afraid to lose our son. Strange how new life so quickly reminds one of death.

“Cregan?” asked Y/N softly when he did not speak. Cregan only sat closer and kissed his lady wife, kissed her again and again, first on her lips then her nose and her cheeks and finally her brow. Cregan leaned his forehead against Y/N’s, his eyes shut tight.

“I love you,” promised Lord Stark and sealed it with another kiss.

“I love you,” said Y/N and caressed her husband’s cheek. The baby cooed when it was done feeding, now happily nuzzling against his mother’s warm chest.

“Do you wish to hold him?” asked Y/N with a smile. Lord Stark froze in place, his eyes round and his lips parted.

“I don’t know,” said Cregan and watched how the happiness dimmed in Lady Y/N’s bright eyes. “My hands … What if they are too rough for him?” said Cregan warily. “What if I hurt him?”

Lady Y/N’s smiled once again. “You won’t, I promise,” said Y/N as she sat up with Rickon resting securely in her hands. Cregan mimicked the shape of his wife’s arms and waited patiently for her to place his tiny, delicate son into his hands. The babe missed the comfort of his mother’s body and let out a cry and then another, each startling Cregan more than the other. But as soon as the babe found the warmth of his father’s chest he stopped his crying and sighed contently. Cregan felt his body tremble as he held his son, seeing how he blinked his small, storm-grey eyes.

When Lord Stark looked up once again, he saw how his wife had fallen asleep, her hand outstretched towards him. Cregan sat close beside her and listened to her soft breathing. As he watched his son, the Lord of Winterfell vowed to himself to destroy anyone who would ever think of harming them.

Come morning, Lady Stark awoke with her husband was sleeping beside her, his arm entwined with hers. She sat up quickly thinking of her son only to see him sound asleep in his bassinet. Lady Y/N laid back down, coming to realize how sore her body was. Every muscle in her body felt uncomfortable. She turned on her back, unable to supress a groan that woke Lord Stark from his light sleep.

“Will you please ask for Maester Bennard?” asked Y/N as she tried to sit up. Her body was something she did not recognize. A mess of pain and discomfort and unpredictability.

Cregan jumped to his feet and called the servants, who fetched Maester Bennard. In the meantime, Lord Stark returned to his wife’s side.

“Are you in pain, my love?” asked Cregan as he knelt beside the bed.

“Everything hurts,” confessed Lady Y/N but it was only normal to feel this way. She had been in labour for near a full day before the babe was delivered. Y/N needed help to use the privy and when she returned Maester Bennard was there with his assistants. He gave her instructions of recovery and some remedies for the pain.

“I would have a bath,” asked Lady Y/N, looking at her maester for advice.

“I believe it would do you good, my lady,” agreed Maester Bennard as he gathered his potions in his ornate, wooden box. “I would also advise warm cloth for your belly and your chest.”

The servants prepared a nice, warm bath whilst Lady Ellyn and Lady Jocelyn helped Y/N out of her clothes. Lifting her legs only slightly proved a greater challenge than Lady Stark could have foreseen. The warm water helped remedy the soreness of her body, however. Y/N allowed Lady Ellyn to help her wash as she could barely find the strength to move her aching limbs.

“You did so well, my lady,” said Lady Ellyn gently as she sat beside the bath, her thumb drawing circles into her friend’s hand. “You have the most beautiful son, you ought to be proud.”

Lady Y/N managed a smile but could not help but feel an unusual melancholy creep in. Lady Whytefort wrote to her of her own mother’s sadness after she gave birth to her. Lady Cerwyn – then Ryswell of the Rills before she widowed and remarried – was said to have locked herself in her chambers and refused to care for her daughter for near a moon’s turn. But afterwards when Lady Y/N’s grandmother recovered everything was as if nothing had happened. Even Y/N herself had not known of this prior to her lady mother’s letter although she was close to her maternal grandmother and stayed at the Rills many a summer’s moon.

Lady Y/N shared this story with Lady Ellyn.

“I am sure you have nothing to fear, my lady,” Lady Ellyn tried to reassure her friend although she had heard of similar experiences happening to other women. “Even if such a thing should occur, you have your ladies and a host of wetnurses who would die to serve House Stark. You would recover and all would be well, I am sure of it,” tried Lady Ellyn. What her friend spoke was true Y/N knew and yet she could not help but feel like a failure at just the thought of not wanting to care for her son. However, as sore and tired as Lady Y/N felt, she could and would not judge any woman who would feel the way her grandmother did upon birthing her daughter. Y/N could not even imagine how difficult it must have been for her own mother especially with a man like Lord Jonos. Lady Y/N loved her father dearly in spite of it all, but she could not stand the way he treated her mother. Especially not now when Y/N saw herself there were different ways of leading married life, good and gentle ways.

Lord Stark returned to Lady Y/N’s chambers. He had washed and shaved and had a change of garments. He seemed tired, a pensive expression hiding in his features.

“I would have a moment with my wife,” said Lord Stark to Lady Ellyn. She got up and curtsied. “If you are able,” said Lord Stark, now turning to his wife.

“I will get dressed,” nodded Lady Y/N.

Lady Stark was helped into a comfortable gown of cerulean blue and white Myrish lace with pearl embroidery whilst she had the servants braid her hair. The warm bath helped Lady Y/N with her pains, allowing her to walk with the support of her lady-in-waiting.

Whilst the Lady of Winterfell had a change of garments, the servants had brought food and drink aplenty for Lord and Lady Stark to break their fast on. They prepared a hearty broth rich with venison and grains for Lady Y/N to recover her strength, offering congratulations left and right as she sat down. Lady Stark reserved a smile for each of them no matter how low- or highborn.

“Could you find any rest, my love?” asked Lady Y/N once the servants left the Lord and Lady of Winterfell to break their fast in peace. Y/N took Cregan’s hand, the warmth of his touch instantly reassuring her. Cregan had dark circles beneath his eyes and his skin appeared ashen. He had not left his wife’s side not for a moment since she went into labour and stayed awake for as long as he could even after Lady Y/N had already fallen asleep.

Lord Stark rose his pensive, grey eyes to Y/N. “How can you ask me that when you have just given birth to our son?” said Cregan gently as he squeezed his wife’s hand in his.

“I could not have done it if you had not been there by my side,” said Lady Y/N genuinely. She paused.

“Are you happy?” asked Y/N anxiously. Cregan’s brows furrowed into an incredulous frown.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Only … You seem distant,” said Lady Y/N, watching her husband’s eyes for any trace of doubt.

“Forgive me,” said Cregan heavily yet his voice quietened some as he looked towards the window.

“Tell me,” asked Lady Y/N, not ungently, and squeezed her husband’s hand reassuringly.

“I …” began Cregan. “I had a brother,” said Cregan, his grey eyes returning to his wife. Y/N stared at him, her mouth parted. “He died aged only two when I was ten-and-one.”

“You cannot remember him from your time here at Winterfell. You could not even if you stayed for a full moon and not a day. My mother did not like him leaving his chambers. He was sickly … He had been since he was born,” said Cregan. “I … I barely knew him …”

“I am so sorry,” said Y/N, not knowing what else to say. She reached out to him, enfolding his calloused palm between her hands. They had been wed for more than a year and yet Y/N had never heard Cregan nor anyone else for that matter mention Lord Stark having had a brother.

“What happened?” asked Y/N gently.

“Fever took him,” said Cregan, his gaze focused on his wife’s hands clasped around his own. “First it took my mother, then Benjen not even three nights after,” told Cregan, his voice deep and sombre. “He was named after my grandsire.”

“I am so sorry, my love,” spoke Y/N gently.

Lord Stark got up from the table and stood by the window, his gaze reaching out beyond the walls of his strong castle.

“At least my mother did not have to see him die,” said Cregan to himself more than to his wife. “At least the Gods spared her as much.”

Y/N stared at her husband’s back, coming to realize where Cregan’s melancholy and pensiveness came from. The birth of their son agitated old wounds and disturbed the present. Cregan did not so much feel the loss of his brother when he held his newborn son; rather, he came to understand his mother’s worry and fear at the prospect of having to bury her child.

Lady Y/N gathered what strength she could and got up from the table on her own. Lord Stark turned around but Y/N was already by his side. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, Cregan’s hands instinctively wrapping around Y/N’s waist as he buried his nose in the warmth of her neck. Cregan let out a breath he did not know he was holding.

*** 2 YEARS LATER ***

As the cold and heavy winter went by leaving nothing but darkness and snow, a hope of spring returned when a white raven flew in from Oldtown bearing news of the winter’s end. Although the snow was never quite gone north of The Gift, the blizzards and snowstorms grew scarcer and were replaced by days of warm sunshine at Winterfell.

Despite the winter and Lord Stark’s frequent visits to the Wall before the snow became too tall to travel, there was always some form of joy and merriment in the castle walls of Winterfell. As little Rickon Stark, the firstborn son of Lord Cregan and Lady Y/N Stark, grew older and bolder by the day, he kept his noble parents busy even when there were no lordly duties to attend to.

“Rickon tells me you are going to show him how to ride to-day,” spoke Cregan softly, his voice deep and husky in the hour of the nightingale. His fingers were tangled in his wife’s hair, their foreheads nearly touching as they savoured the last moments of peace before the castle would be bustling with errands and duties to attend to once again.

Y/N rose her big, sleepy eyes to her husband’s. “He will only sit ahorse,” said Lady Y/N quietly, tracing her fingers across the scars on Cregan’s chest. “Mayhaps I will let Ser Tybald lead him around the courtyard if Rickon will wish to,” considered Y/N aloud.

“Of course he will, he is your son,” laughed Cregan, secretly delighting in his wife’s soft touch.

“Is he not your son too?” said Y/N aghast as she grinned, leaning on her elbow. “I suppose you preferred learning the names and banners of Houses to spending time with swords and horses,” she teased.

Cregan smiled and pulled Y/N into a kiss, her arms resting on his strong chest. She moved even closer, deepening the kiss as she harboured a secret to tell her husband. But as his arms wrapped around Y/N’s hips eagerly, she forgot all about the news and straddled Cregan’s waist instead. He pulled off her nightgown, his hands reaching immediately for her soft breasts. Cregan sat up and kissed them as Y/N’s hands tangled in his dark hair. She moaned when he found her sweet spot, knowing her body better than sometimes she did.

“Mommy! Mommy!” called a small voice running around the hallways of Winterfell. Y/N gasped as her gaze darted towards the door.

“Gods,” muttered Y/N hastily and jumped off the bed where she picked up her nightgown and slipped it on just in time. Cregan laughed as he leaned against the bedframe, watching a deep blush flush his wife’s cheeks as Rickon burst into the room, wrapping his arms around her mother’s knees.

“Good morrow, little one,” said Y/N, her eyes locking with Cregan’s when she picked up her son and held him to her. “Should you not be abed?” Lady Stark asked of her son but made eyes at her all too amused husband.

“I wanted to see you,” said Rickon cheerfully although there was sleep in his eyes.

“Alright, little warrior,” said Cregan as he got up from the bed. “Your mother is right. Back to bed.” Cregan took his son from Y/N’s arms, the playful, teasing look in Cregan’s eyes making Y/N’s knees weak. A shivery breath escaped Y/N’s lips as she watched her husband’s bare back when he walked across their chambers.

Rickon’s wetnurse was already at the door of their rooms yet dared not come in.

“I’m so sorry, m’lord,” said the wetnurse as she took Rickon from Lord Stark’s arms.

“That’s alright,” said Lord Stark gently, running his hand through his son’s dark hair one last time before he returned to his private chambers.

Cregan slipped his arms beneath Y/N’s bum and lifted her up eagerly, her legs wrapping around his waist as he carried her to their bed. He sat down, his large hands squeezing his wife’s soft thighs. Cregan went for his breeches but Y/N stopped him.

“Let me do it,” she spoke softly, her voice laced with desire. She dropped to her knees and undid Cregan’s nightbreeches, pulling them off with haste. Cregan watched as his wife took him in her mouth, her tongue sliding skilfully along his length. Cregan threw his head back in pleasure, his fists balling around the linens of their bed to keep himself from climaxing immediately. As Cregan groaned in pleasure his eyes met Y/N’s. She stopped, teasing her husband.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” muttered Cregan and quickly pulled Y/N into his lap.

“Show me,” she breathed against his lips, her heart beating harshly against her chest.

Cregan took Y/N’s waist and turned her around, pulling off her loose nightgown yet again. His fingers found her breasts once more as he kissed her neck one last time before he took Y/N’s hips and entered her. Y/N moaned loudly as she clawed at the furs of their bed. Cregan’s thrusts were hard and even before he slowly escalated his pace. Y/N could not help but whimper in pleasure as her husband’s fingers tangled in her long hair, pulling on them gently. Cregan leaned down and kissed her from behind, his hips moving faster and then slower as he felt himself nearing his pleasure. He reached around Y/N’s waist with his hand, his fingers nestling between her thighs. Y/N winced in pleasure, leaned into his touch and only moments away from complete pleasure. Y/N whimpered halfway through a moan, climaxing sooner than she anticipated. She leaned her head against the bed as her eyes closed, Cregan’s fingers digging harshly into the soft curves of her hips. Cregan’s seed dripped down the inside of Y/N’s thigh before they both fell flat on the bed, their bodies tangled and exhausted from divine pleasure.

***

After breaking their fast in Benjen’s Hall, Lady Stark took her son Rickon to the stables as she promised. Ser Tybald provided a well-natured, chestnut pony with mane the colour of butter for Lord Stark’s firstborn son.

“Let him smell you,” said Lady Stark and lifted her son into her arms. “Like this,” she showed by placing her palm gently to the pony’s muzzle. Rickon reached out hesitantly but when the pony leaned her muzzle against his hand, he smiled with eyes as happy as ever.

“You have to name him now,” encouraged Lady Stark, “But you have to name him carefully for he will carry that name for many years.”

Rickon looked at her with big, round eyes, his mind whooshing with a thousand ideas. He looked at his horse again with his lips parted.

“Squire,” said Rickon determinedly.

Lady Y/N watched as her son reached for the pony’s muzzle once again, mesmerized by Rickon’s likeness to his father.

Y/N kissed her son’s temple and put him down, allowing the master-of-horse to show him how to properly saddle and ready a horse. She watched as he was sat into one of the saddles, first off horse and later on Squire. He beamed with joy when Ser Tybald asked him if he wanted to have a walk around the courtyard.

“Mother, may I?” called Rickon from atop of his butter-maned pony.

“You may,” allowed Lady Stark, her lips spreading into a smile at the sight of her boy content. “Only be careful and hold on tight.”

“I will,” promised Rickon, his little hands wrapping tightly around the horn of the saddle.

Lady Y/N pulled her cloak closer to her as a cold, spring breeze swept through the walls of Winterfell.

“What did he name the horse?” asked a voice behind Lady Stark. She turned around, her eyes finding those of her husband.

“Squire,” smiled Lady Y/N.

“Of course,” said Lord Stark, unable to disguise a grin off his lips.

Y/N wrapped her hand around Cregan’s elbow, pressing closer to him. “What did you name your first horse?” she wondered.

Cregan smiled, “Jester.”

Lady Y/N could not help but snort a laughter, finding the name so very fitting of Cregan as she imagined him as a young boy. He laughed with her, almost asking the same of Y/N but quickly remembered.

“Blackspur was my first,” said Lady Y/N all on her own, the smile on her lips turning into a melancholy one. Ser Tybald had to put her down soon after the beginning of the new year for she had grown sick. It was the kindest thing to do, knew Y/N, yet that acknowledgement made it hurt no less. Blackspur had a long and comfortable life, longer than many horses. Those were the only thoughts that could make Lady Stark’s grief less painful.

“I know,” spoke Cregan and kissed his wife’s temple.

Suddenly echoed an approaching sound of hooves against the cobblestones. Lady Stark stood up straight, detaching herself hesitantly from Cregan’s warm body to welcome unexpected guests. Yet only two riders crossed the Hunter’s Gate into the castle, leading a beautiful filly tied to one of their saddles. She had long muscular legs, her coat of raw umber brown. She shook her head, her mane alike in colour, as the horsemen dismounted and one of them took her into Winterfell’s stables.

“Wait for me,” asked Cregan of his lady wife before he met with the other horseman, who bowed their heads before the Lord of Winterfell. They spoke briefly and even shook hands. Lady Stark’s gaze drifted to her son across the yard when his pony neighed, her heart leaping out of her chest for a moment. Rickon laughed however, savouring every moment before he would have to listen to Maester Bennard’s lessons on Houses great and small.

“Come,” Lady Y/N heard her husband call. She turned her attention to him but saw the riders leave through the Hunger’s Gate. They were gone as quickly as they arrived.

“What is it? Is their horse injured?” asked Y/N once at her husband’s side. Knights and lords, especially of smaller Houses, often brought their mounts to Winterfell if the animal was ill or injured for Winterfell had one of the best stables in the North.

“She is in perfect health,” said Cregan as he led his wife into the stables. The ash brown filly paced restlessly, her elegant head turning towards the strangers coming to see her. She was young, only just old enough to saddle.

“Why did they bring her then?” asked Y/N, admiring the magnificent animal and wondering if per chance they wanted Ser Tybalt to break her in and have her ready for riding.

“She is yours if you want her,” said Lord Stark, his gaze shifting between his wife’s eyes and the filly he chose for her.

“What?” gasped Lady Y/N, looking up at her husband’s expecting eyes. She was at a loss for words.

“I know she cannot replace Blackspur but—”

“Thank you,” Y/N cut Cregan off before he could finish. She took his hand and stepped on the tips of her toes to kiss him. He leaned down for her, his strong arms wrapping around her waist. Y/N pulled away slowly, looking around to make sure they were alone. Ser Tybald was still leading Rickon on Squire and informing him all about caring for horses.

“I have to tell you something, husband,” said Lady Y/N, biting her lip as she could not help but smile. She looked down at her Cregan’s chest and the silver direwolf emblem resting between his collarbones.

“What is it?” asked Cregan, his brows quickly jumping into a gentle frown.

“I am with child again,” whispered Y/N as she looked up into her husband’s eyes. The emotions in the greyness of his irises swirled like a great summer storm.

“Say it again,” breathed Lord Stark incredulous.

“I am with child,” repeated Lady Y/N, her smile as bright as ever as she observed her lord husband’s reaction. Cregan pulled her into his arms eagerly, his hands cupping her cheeks as he kissed her deeply. Y/N’s palms rested against her husband’s chest as she could not help but smile into the kiss.

“Mommy!” called Rickon’s small voice as he came running into the stables. Ser Tybald followed him with Squire.

“Can I ride again in the after-noon?” begged Rickon, his eyes as big as stars. The boy knew the answer would be ‘no’ but with his mother at least he stood a chance.

“Ask your father,” smiled Lady Y/N, her hand creeping into her husband’s palm.

“Father, may I?” asked Rickon carefully, his arms locked behind his back as he swayed left and right ever so slightly, his eyes resting on his father’s boots. He knew the answer this time too.

“Tomorrow,” said Lord Stark. “Come, Maester Bennard must be waiting for you.”

Speaking of which, as soon as the Lord and Lady of Winterfell returned inside the castle they were met with Maester Bennard. He was out of breath, his normally pale cheeks flushed with fever.

“My lord,” Maester Bennard gasped for breath, “My lord, urgent news from Dragonstone.” He handed Lord Stark a scroll of parchment with a broken seal of a red, three-headed dragon.

Cregan placed Rickon into his wetnurse’s care before he unrolled the raven scroll. “It’s Prince Jacaerys,” told Lord Stark aloud as he turned to his wife. “He is coming to Winterfell.”

***

As they lay in bed that night and Cregan’s hand rested gently on the barely visible bump of Y/N’s belly, neither the Lord nor the Lady of Winterfell could fall asleep. The night was bright and the moon shone invasively through the windows of their private chambers.

“What do you think he wants?” whispered Y/N quietly in case Cregan managed to fall asleep. She need not have asked for she knew, she only did not want to accept it.

“I do not know,” spoke Cregan gravely. “But I do now my father swore an oath … I swore an oath.”

News of trouble and strife in House Targaryen had long been flying north to Winterfell. The ravens more oft than not came from outside the walls of the Red Keep, coming from the Riverlands and the Vale and even from the Reach. The matter of succession seemed to be settled when King Viserys the Peaceful declared his daughter as his heir and future queen. Yet upon his death, appeared to have formed two camps that the smallfolk and the great alike called the Greens and the Blacks. The first supported Prince Aegon’s claim to the throne as he was King Viserys’ eldest son and the latter the claim of Princess Rhaenyra. If the North was to get involved in the war within House Targaryen, Winterfell would declare for Princess Rhaenyra as it did when King Viserys was still alive.

Y/N’s heart grew heavy in her chest. She placed her hand atop Cregan’s that was resting on her belly and squeezed it tightly. A shaky breath escaped her lips as she stared at the ceiling, knowing full well she will not find any sleep tonight.

“Hey,” whispered Cregan and leaned on his elbow. He caressed Y/N’s cheeks, making her look at him. “We will not know until he is here,” Cregan tried to reassure her some. He could not tell if it was the moonlight glistening in Y/N’s eyes or whether they were tears he saw, but Y/N nodded nevertheless if only to give her husband some peace.

The following eve came word from New Castle. Prince Jacaerys spent the night in White Harbor with his dragon Vermax and would fly for Winterfell in the morn.

The castle was up in preparation for the welcoming of the royal prince. Lady Stark ordered the kitchens to prepare the finest dishes of roast boar and pheasant in a sauce of almonds. The best casks of ale and wine were to be brought from the cellars of Winterfell and the Great Hall arranged appropriately. Only the highest and noblest of councillors were to attend the feast upon Prince Jacaerys’ arrival alongside Lord Stark and Lady Y/N.

After only just bearing through the winter, neither the Lord nor the Lady of Winterfell were too pleased to prepare a dozen sheep and goats for the prince’s dragon to feast on yet they had little choice in the matter.

Lady Stark chose a gown of ash green and pale white in the colours of Winterfell with a belt of white gold with the emblem of two direwolves’ heads baring their fangs at one another in its centre. She wore a necklace and earrings of emerald stones encrusted with diamonds that Cregan had gifted her upon the birth of their son.

The Lady of Winterfell paced around the Great Hall, making sure everything was perfect for the feast. Although she had put tremendous effort into the evening, both she and Cregan decided to keep the spirit of things much alike they would for any other highborn lord or lady coming to visit. Even though House Stark bent the knee to House Targaryen many years ago, the sense in the North was still that of House Stark’s rule.

Lady Y/N did not truly consider the prince’s dragon until she heard it screeching and roaring above the castle walls. Her heart sank as her eyes grew big coming face to face with her husband.

“Come,” said Cregan, holding out his hand. “He is here.”

The Lord and Lady of Winterfell gathered outside, greeted by the early spring snows. Lady Stark wore a heavy cloak of cloth-of-silver and wool, with fur of the grey wolf. She held her hands locked together before her, her breath coming out in clouds. It was nightfall already as she gazed into the sky. Her mouth went dry at the sight of an enormous, bat-like figure dancing in the sky. The beast screeched, irate with the cold and the snow.

The prince descended into the courtyard of Winterfell’s castle, the force of the dragon’s leathery wings sending snowflakes back into the sky. Prince Jacaerys dismounted and spoke to his beast in High Valeryan before meeting the Lord and Lady of Winterfell.

Lord Stark bowed his head and Lady Y/N curtsied gracefully before the crown prince.

“My prince,” said Lord Stark first, his words echoed by his wife.

“Lord Stark,” greeted Prince Jacaerys. “My lady,” he said, kissing the top of Lady Stark’s gloved hand. She offered a small smile but could not help but notice the prince’s youth although there were not many years of difference between them nor between him and Cregan for that matter. It was true what they said, however. The crown prince looked little like a Targaryen ought to with his head of brown locks and eyes of green. In truth, Prince Jacaerys looked much more like her own brother, thought Lady Stark, save for the prince’s fox face and slender frame true of House Targaryen.

“Welcome to Winterfell,” said Cregan as he accepted the prince’s hand in his. Lord Stark towered over the prince although he towered over most any man and Prince Jacaerys was no different.

The Lord and Lady of Winterfell welcomed the prince into the Great Hall where the noble councillors of Winterfell awaited, bowing and showing their respects to Princess Rhaenyra’s heir and messenger as he would name himself.

Prince Jacaerys was seated to the right of Lord Stark whilst Lady Y/N sat to his left. She nodded to the servants to bring the food and serve the drink whilst the singers sang and played their music. There was no talk of succession nor war or politics until the feast had ended. Although the Lord of Winterfell offered the prince to rest for the night before they talk, both Prince Jacaerys as well as Lord Stark were of a mind to speak now.

They walked the walls of Winterfell to ensure privacy, accompanied only by the cold and the snow. Prince Jacaerys looked toward the winter town, seeing but a few of the lights that warmed its houses during the past two years.

“I see winter is still true in the North although they say elsewise at the Citadel,” spoke the crown prince.

Lord Stark smiled although he wished to laugh. “These are only the spring snows, my prince. During winter, all that you see was covered in snow and all memory of warmth was neigh forgotten.”

Prince Jacaerys turned to his mother’s sworn vassal. Cregan Stark was a man hardened by cold and winter, a man seasoned in battle and in swordplay, whose reputation as one of the best swordsmen in all of the Seven Kingdoms preceded him. Lord Stark was only a few years his senior and yet he had seen and lived the life of a man.

Prince Jacaerys looked at Lord Stark with both envy as well as admiration. He was a royal prince and yet he had not lived or done as half as Lord Stark.

“I confess I wished to see the Wall,” said Prince Jacaerys, stirring his thoughts in another direction. “It would have pleased me to meet with you in the place where our ancestors treated.”

“Indeed,” said the Lord of Winterfell, the fur on his heavy coat ruffled by the cold winds. “At least you have the mercy not to threaten me with your dragon.” Lord Stark’s words cut a uncomfortable silence between the two young men.

“Surely the great Torren Stark would have sooner died than bent the knee. Unless he believed the Conqueror could bring unity to the Seven Kingdoms.”

“You are right in that,” agreed Lord Stark as they walked along the walls of his castle.

“That unity is now threatened,” urged Prince Jacaerys. “The realm will soon tear itself apart if the men do not remember their oath sworn to King Viserys. And to his rightful heir.”

Lord Stark stopped. “Starks do not forget their oaths, my prince,” said Cregan sombrely. “But you must know that my gaze is forever torn between north and south. In the winter, my duty to the North and to the Wall is even more dire than what I owe to King’s Landing,” spoke the Lord of Winterfell as they continued walking. “I need my men here.”

This time, Prince Jacaerys held his step. He frowned at his mother’s vassal, his temper as quick as any Targaryen’s. “Whilst your men guard against wildlings and weather, the Hightowers plan to usurp the throne.”

Lord Stark did not heed the haste of Prince Jacaerys’ words and climbed into the northmost watchtower.

“If my mother is to defend her claim, to hold the realm united,” said Prince Jacaerys, following him into the nest, “She needs an army. War is coming – to the whole of the realm, my lord. We cannot wager without the support of the North …” spoke the prince, his words losing breath as the vastness of the North opened before his eyes. An endless sea of white spread before him, disturbed only by shadows of trees and moving clouds of snow.

“My father brought King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne to see the Wall. His grace watched as their dragons, the greatest power in the world, refused to cross it,” told Lord Stark as the prince found his breath.

“Do you think my ancestors built a seven-hundred-foot wall of ice to keep out snow and savages?” said Cregan, looking the crown prince dead in the eye.

The young prince stared at him pensively. “What does it keep out?” he asked.

Lord Stark eyes darkened. “Death.”

The Lord of Winterfell walked Prince Jacaerys inside the castle. He felt the weight of his father’s oath, the oath that was his own.

“I have thousands of greybeards who have already seen too many winters,” said Lord Stark. “They are … well-honed.”

“So they are old?” asked Prince Jacaerys, his brows raising slightly. They had reached the chambers prepared for him.

Lord Stark nodded solemnly but the North needed its best men to remain.

“I can ready them to march at once,” promised the Lord of Winterfell.

Prince Jacaerys smiled, grateful for Lord Stark’s dislike of pretence.

“If your greybeards can fight, the Queen will have them,” agreed Prince Jacaerys.

A smirk crept into the line of Cregan’s mouth. “They will fight hard, like Northerners.”

***

Y/N could not even find it in her to sit down, much less fall asleep until Cregan returned to their chambers. The hour was late yet Y/N was as awake as it were mid-day. She stared at her husband expectantly when he returned, a great tiredness set in his features.

“He wants our men to fight for his mother’s claim,” confirmed Lord Stark.

And what of you? Does he want you? Y/N wanted to ask but could not make herself speak.

“I told him my men need to stay in the North. The Wall must needs be protected,” said Cregan. Y/N’s chest dropped with an exhale of relief yet only for a moment.

“I offered him my greybeards,” spoke Cregan before he walked over to one of the chests with his belongings. “I will go south as soon as they are ready to march.”

Cregan’s words knocked the wind out of Y/N as her heart dropped to her stomach. She grew sick with nausea.

“I thought to save this for another occasion,” said Cregan as he took a large package wrapped in cloth of silk from one of the painted chests.

Y/N stared at him astounded but took the parcel that he offered. She laid it carefully on the bed, pulling apart the silken wrapping. A coat as white as snow lay underneath, trimmed in fur without a single hair of colour. Y/N’s lips parted as her fingers glided through the fur as soft as butter. She frowned for she knew it came from a beast as rare as any. No wolf or mink could ever produce such a soft and white coat.

“Winter fox?” Y/N thought out loud, her big round eyes rising to her husband’s.

“To keep you warm if I do not return before the next winter,” said Cregan with a small smile although he could not hide the guilt and melancholy in his grey eyes.

Y/N looked at him thunderstruck. She did not care for the coat no matter how magnificent; all she wanted was her husband.

“Before the next winter?” gasped Y/N. “But … That could be years. That will be years.”

“I swore an oath, Y/N,” said Cregan with a heavy heart. “I cannot send my men south with no one to lead them.”

You swore an oath to me too, Y/N wanted to say but was glad she did not; the last thing she wanted was to argue. She understood that the realm was more important even if she herself would have let it burn to the ground if it meant her husband would remain by her side.

Y/N looked down at Cregan’s chest as her eyes welled with tears so hot they felt as cold as ice.

Cregan did not have the words to comfort her. He only pulled her into his arms, holding her head to his chest as she wept quietly.

*** ANOTHER 2 YEARS GONE BY ***

Many moons went by, then a year and then another during which Cregan’s letters maintained Lady Stark’s sanity. If not for her children and her ever faithful friend Lady Ellyn, Y/N would be sure to lose her mind. However, with one child running around and another at her hip - a daughter born in the late spring that she named Sarra - time went by quickly for the Lady of Winterfell after the first few moons without Cregan.

The council held news of the progress of the Targaryen war in the south. It received reports of the little prince Jaehaerys’ assassination, the death of Princess Rhaenys and her dragon Meleys at Rook’s Rest, King’s Landing changing rulers faster than the wind changes in the North, and even news of Prince Aemond’s death met at the hands of Prince Daemon at God’s Eye, where the lake swallowed both Targaryen princes as well as their mighty beasts.

All the while the news of war arrived from the capital and its surrounding Houses, the Lady of Winterfell prayed in the Godswood for her husband’s safety, that neither he nor his army be met with dragonfire, and that he returns safely to her, to Winterfell, to see his son grow and meet his daughter.

Lady Stark taught her children the ways of the Old Gods and spoke often of their father. Sarra was but a near a babe still yet Rickon had known and loved his father well. He cried many a night after Lord Stark marched south, and Lady Stark cried too. However, as time passed by, Cregan’s absence became easier to bear and life forced everyone to continue living. Seed needed to be planted for the first crops and people were beginning to leave the winter town abandoned to return to their farms and fields. The castle needed mending after the harsh winter as did the Wall, and lords from all over North came to House Stark for help.

In the meanwhile, Lady Y/N grew great with child and her lady mother came to stay until the babe was born. Lady Y/N had it easier with Sarra than she had with Rickon both in terms of early sickness as well as her time in childbed. Her daughter was born in the early hours of the morning, the labour lasting only a few hours. Sarra was a small, fragile babe but quickly grew stronger as the spring turned brighter and warmer. Although Rickon looked much like his father when he was born, he had grown more and more into the character of both his mother and father. He loved climbing and riding and pestered Ser Harwyn every waking moment to train him at swordplay. Sarra, however, was silent and calm. She looked like her mother with eyes that were exactly like those of Lady Stark.

The summer neared when a raven arrived bearing Lord Stark’s grey direwolf. Lady Y/N sat with the letter in her husband’s solar and read.

Beloved wife,

I encountered no war to speak of when my greybeards entered the red city. King’s Landing has long yielded to the many deaths of its kings and queens. I held court for six days to seek punishment for those who ended the life of King Aegon II, for no king should die of poison but on the battlefield with honour. I sought punishment for those too who conspired against the rightful heir. Many decided to take the black and join the Night’s Watch than to die at the blade of my sword. Those are the ones who will return north with me whilst many of my greybeards decide to remain in the south and in the Riverlands to attend the Widow Fairs.

I was offered a place in the king’s service that I could not accept. I long to return to you and our children, to see the towers of Winterfell rising before my eyes. When they place the crown on the boy king Aegon’s head, I will gather my men and we will march home.

Cregan

Lady Y/N reread the letter over and over again until it was engraved in her memory. Her heart beat harshly against her throat as her eyes watered yet she did not weep. She folded the letter and held it to her chest, closing her eyes as she leaned back in her husband’s chair. A ride from Winterfell to King’s Landing took a moon’s turn at the least, more with an army marching with you. Yet it did not matter. He was coming back. Cregan was returning home.

***

Lady Stark took to the Wolfswood with Ser Harwyn and an escort of knights following not far behind. She rode her mare neigh every day, the ash brown filly her husband gifted her after the passing of her beloved Blackspur. Lady Y/N named the beast Tempest for her temper and the ashen colour of her coat. Although Blackspurt had been wary of strangers but warmed up to them eventually, Tempest did not care for them. If she disliked any of them, she would show it by stomping her hooves or kicking, her teeth snapping at many a stableboy’s hand. But she was different with Lady Stark. There was a bond between the temperamental mare and the Lady of Winterfell no one could quite understand. Even in her pregnancy, Tempest sensed the change in her mistress, and whilst the horse did not care for her caretakers, she never lashed at children.

One evening Rickon resented his mother for not being to tell him when his father would return from the march. It has been close to two years since Lord Stark left for the south with his greybeards. The boy disappeared from his rooms in the night with no one being able to find him.

Lady Y/N’s first instinct was to check the stables and Squire but the boy was not there and the pony was in his stall. Whilst the castle was up in the search of Winterfell’s heir, young Rickon was hiding right where they first searched for him – in the stables. He meant to go to Squire, his beloved pony, yet as he stepped into he stable, the noise aroused Tempest.

Rickon tread carefully towards her, knowing of her temper but could not help himself. His curiosity was too great. He looked at the ashen brown mare in her stall, her breath coming out in clouds in the cold night. Rickon approached the iron bars of her door, carefully raising his hand to her muzzle. Tempest snorted, frightening little Rickon so much he fell to his butt. He did not understand why but he picked himself up and tried again. He brought his hand up to Tempest’s muzzle once again and let her smell him. Her muzzle was warm and wet against his touch, causing a smile to spread across Rickon’s lips. He carefully pushed open the door to her stall and met her, standing twice his size. His heart was thumping in his chest with excitement but he was not afraid.

They found the boy in the morning when one of the stableboys brought Tempest her grain and came to clean her stall. The mare was lying in the hay, staring warily at the stableboy whilst little Rickon slept against her belly.

Cold northern winds whooshed through the forest, rocking the tall trees of Wolfswood. Lady Stark’s gaze rose to their swaying crowns as she took in the fresh air after being cooped up in council meetings and hearing of the issues of the smallfolk. She had to condemn two thieves and a rapist – the thieves lost the same amount of fingers as the chickens they stole whilst the rapist chose death over taking the black and Lady Stark was glad for it.

Every time the Lady of Winterfell had to condemn a rapist she remembered the bandits who attacked her many years ago right there in the Wolfswood. She could not forgive herself for not taking an escort that time. If she had, the knights would have cut down the delinquents and they would never have had the chance to despoil that peasant girl. Lady Stark often rode past her father’s farm to see how they were living. When the girl wed last year, Lady Y/N then found a way to pass by her husband’s carpentry shop, making sure the girl and her family had everything they needed. It pained Lady Y/N to see the girl bow her head to her and curtsy clumsily when Y/N passed by on Tempest when she was the one who wanted to drop to her knees and beg the girl forgiveness.

“Have there been any more news from King’s Landing?” asked Ser Harwyn, the master-of-arms at Winterfell, waking Lady Stark from her thoughts.

“Not since Rhaenyra’s boy was crowned,” said Lady Y/N, leading her mare up a gentle slope.

It has been more than two moon's since the youngest son of Queen Rhaenyra was crowned Aegon III Targaryen although the smallfolk had already named him Aegon the Unlucky.

“Mayhaps Lord Stark took rest at Riverrun,” suggested Ser Harwyn, following his lady up the slope on his tall red gelding.

Lady Stark did not say anything. She would not allow herself to think of Cregan’s return for she found it consumed her thoughts and she could not find the will to do any of her duties if she did so. When Cregan left to fight the wildlings shortly after they were wed, Y/N felt almost as if she were greeting a stranger when he returned; and they have been parted for only four moons. It has been more than two years since they last saw each other now. Y/N could not bear to think of her husband finding company in another woman’s arms, of his love for her blowing away like the leaves off a dying tree.

“I would return to the castle though Stone Creek,” said Lady Stark to keep her thoughts from drifting.

“Past the girl Alys’s house?” asked Ser Harwyn although he already knew the answer. He as well as any who were there that day when the bandits were tried and condemned by Lord Cregan Stark knew the wroth of the Lord of Winterfell and the justice of his lady wife.

It was Ser Harwyn too who found the girl for Lady Stark and told her of her name and where she lived. Alys wed a carpenter, a boy her age with yellow hair and eyes the colour of the sky.

As Lady Stark commanded, they passed though Stone Creek on the way back to the castle. It was a small village of some half a dozen farms and their respective fields. The smallfolk stopped their work when the Lady of Winterfell passed on her tall mare and bowed their heads with respect. The Lady Stark wore a gown of pale poppy red with hems and bodice embroidered in the string-of-gold. It has been more than five years since Lady Y/N of Whytefort became their Lady of Winterfell yet none of her beauty faded in that time. She only grew further into her womanhood although ruling Winterfell made Lady Y/N harder. It strengthened her back in her saddle and firmed her slender yet womanly body with authority.

Lady Stark passed by the girl Alys’s house. She saw her in her garden surrounded by blooming herbs as she fed the chickens, her newborn baby crying softly in its woven bassinet. It has been a while since Y/N passed through Stone Creek for the last time she saw Alys was when the girl was still great with child.

Lady Stark smiled to herself and spurred Tempest on. The escort of knights followed as their hooves thumped through the small village. Winterfell already rose in the distance when the sky turned grey, its menacing clouds foretelling rain.

The company spurred their mounts to a leisurely gallop as they crossed the fields and meadows back to the safety of the castle. A drop of rain fell here and there but Lady Stark hoped to reach Winterfell before the downpour. The air was thick with humidity in the face of the summer. Y/N thought she heard thunder in the distance yet her eyes fell upon a darkness beneath the walls of Winterfell.

Lady Stark reined Tempest to an abrupt halt at the sight of the massive host of warriors beneath her castle. Ser Harwyn and the knights pulled up their mounts to a sudden stop as well, their horses neighing and pacing anxiously.

The sound of Y/N’s heart echoed through her mind as hot fever crept up her neck. Her breath caught in her throat.

“Gods,” gasped Lady Stark soundlessly as more raindrops began to fall but her gaze was set on the horizon.

Y/N's heels nudged Tempest’s belly as she urged her on with haste. They fell into a gallop so swift that Lady Stark’s hair escaped her pearl-embroidered net and floated freely in the wind. The castle approached quickly yet not nearly quickly enough. Tempest’s long muscular legs outran the other mounts who carried knights clad in heavy armour. Lady Y/N passed through the winter town, nearly knocking down a man and his flour cart in her haste. The sound of Tempest’s horseshoes against the cobblestones of the castle echoed in Y/N’s ears along with the wild beating of her own heart.

Lady Stark reached the innermost courtyard as thick raindrops began to fall in the thousands. As Y/N reined Tempest in, the young mare nearly rose to her hind legs. Tempest paced restlessly and snorted loudly as her breathless mistress sat frozen in her saddle. Y/N’s eyes found her husband standing beneath the stone canopy of the castle’s entrance, his formidable grey eyes awaiting the sight of the approaching rider.

Y/N’s breathing was loud and laboured as heavy rain fell down her face. Thunder echoed through the sky as Lord Stark came out to her. A stableboy rushed in and took the reins of Lady Stark’s mount. Cregan’s arms went to his wife’s waist as he lifted her from her saddle and helped her down. Y/N’s hands gripped onto Cregan’s arms, holding him tightly. To her, he looked the same as the day he left her. Her eyes welled with hot tears as heavy rain poured on the both of them.

“Is it really you?” asked Y/N, tears falling down her cheeks. Her body trembled. “Are you … Are you really back?”

Cregan watched her beautiful eyes, deep like pools with hope and longing. “It’s me,” he spoke as his large sword-calloused hand caressed her cheek, the tip of his thumb brushing across her lips. Cregan leaned in and kissed her desperately, having dreamed of this moment for what seemed to him a hundred years. His arms locked around Y/N’s waist, her feet no longer touching the floor. Even as they reached for air, their lips returned to one another’s, not being able to let go of each other’s bodies.

“Father,” said a small, breathless voice yet it was the only voice that could make the Lord and Lady of Winterfell tear away from each other.

Rickon stood beneath the stone canopy, not being able to believe his eyes either.

“Father!” called Rickon and ran out into the summer rain, his arms wrapping around his father’s neck. Cregan picked up his son and held the boy close to him, his heart aching with the time he had missed fighting for a crown he did not care for.

“Did you look after your mother, son?” asked Cregan against his son’s hair. Rickon pulled away, his big grey eyes meeting his father’s as he smiled.

“I did,” said Rickon proudly, “And I looked after Sarra too.”

Cregan turned to Y/N with Rickon securely in his arms. His grey eyes were drenched with guilt and love so profound he did not know how he was able to contain it in his chest.

“I would meet her,” asked Cregan, his voice soft as he stole another kiss from his wife. She took his hand and nodded as they got away from the rain.

Sarra was down for an afternoon sleep when Y/N showed Cregan to her nursery. The wetnurse stood up and bowed, startled as she saw the Lord of Winterfell had returned.

"Leave us please," Lady Stark gave her a small smile. The wetnurse bowed again and left the Lord and Lady of Winterfell with their daughter.

Cregan knelt beside Sarra’s small bed, his heart ripping into a thousand small pieces. A shaky breath escaped his lungs as he caressed his daughter’s soft hair from her face.

“She is so beautiful,” whispered Cregan, unable to take his eyes off Sarra. “She looks just like you.”

Y/N ran her hand across Cregan’s broad shoulders as she stood beside him, her heart filled with so much happiness it brought tears to her eyes. The Gods listened to her prayers.

Cregan took Y/N’s palm and kissed it as rain dripped off her long hair. He looked up at her. She looked even more beautiful than he remembered.

“I missed you, my love,” said Cregan as he stood up, his hands cupping Y/N’s cheeks. “I always dreamed of you.” He caressed Y/N's face gently with his thumbs, his gaze memorizing her beautiful eyes. Cregan kissed his wife tenderly.

#house of the dragon #game of thrones #hotd #house of the dragon fanfic #cregan stark #cregan stark x reader #hotd cregan #cregan stark x y/n #winterfell #house stark #the wolf of the north #cregan fanfiction

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torpublishinggroup · 9 months ago

Text

This advertisement is for Swordcrossed by Freya Marske.

WHAT’S IT ABOUT

Mattinesh Jay is the chronically responsible eldest son and dutiful heir striving to keep his family’s business running. Luca Piere is a menace of a con artist desperately trying to escape his past by taking up the blade. When the pair meet, swords clash, and sparks fly. Soon, they’re entangled in a conspiracy that may bring Matti’s house to ruin if they don’t work together.

Want to see if it’s to your liking? We’ve included an excerpt from chapter one below.

Chapter 1 Matti laid his fingers on the polished edge of the bar’s wooden surface and forced himself to stop counting sheep. And yards of twill. And looms in need of repair, and outstanding debts.

Instead, he counted today’s collection of ink smudges, bruise-black on the brown skin of his hands: six. He counted the number of blue dyes that would have been used in the fabric of the bartender’s layered skirt: four, possibly five if the palest shade was true dimflower and not just the result of fading.

The tense throb of pain like a fist clenched in his hair eased, grudgingly, to a quiet ache. Bearable. Normal.

It was busy in the drinking house, the post-dinner hour that usually found Matti heading back to his study to finish the paperwork that a member of his family had tugged him away from in order to eat. Matti counted the number of flavoured jenever bottles on the shelf behind the bar—fifteen—in the time it took Audry to finish serving her current customer and sweep her sky-coloured skirts to stand in front of Matti. “And here’s a face we haven’t seen in a while! Something tells me you’re here for a celebration, Mr. Jay.”

Matti hoped the smile he’d pulled onto his face wasn’t the wrong size, or the wrong shade of abashed. “News travels fast.”

“Mattinesh Jay and Sofia Cooper. A match surprising exactly no one.”

Matti kept the smile going. There was a silence in which Audry politely didn’t say, Pity she’s in love with someone else, and so Matti didn’t have to say, Yes, isn’t it?Audry said, “Wait here a moment. I’ve got something in the back that I think will do nicely.”

Matti cast a glance over the room as Audry disappeared. His cousin Roland made an extravagant sighing motion and pretended to check his watch when Matti’s eyes landed on their table. A burst of laughter came from a dark-skinned woman nearby; she was wearing a dress that rode high at the knee to reveal a fall of lace like frothing water, a northern style of garment that Matti’s own northerner mother seldom wore these days.

At the closest table the Mason Guildmaster, Lysbette Martens, was deep in conversation with a senior member of the Guild of Engineers. Martens met Matti’s gaze with her own and nodded brief acknowledgement. He was sure she was weighing his presence as consciously as he was weighing hers. This was a place to be seen, after all.

“Here you are. Red wine for young lovers.”

Matti turned around again. Audry named the price for the bottle as she uncorked it and set it on the bar. Matti paid her, ignoring the lurch like a fishhook in his stomach at the amount on the credit notes he was so casually handing over. Mattinesh Jay, firstborn of his distinguished House, had no reason not to indulge in one of the finest bottles of wine that money could buy.

No reason that anyone here would know about, anyway.

Matti took the bottle in one hand and hooked three glasses with the other. Making his way over to the table, his mind circled back to dwell on the wrong sort of numbers. The money in Matti’s purse was painstakingly calculated: enough for the first round of engagement drinks, and enough for him to hire a top-of-the-range duellist who would step forward in the awkwardly likely event of someone challenging for Sofia’s hand at the wedding itself.

Matti’s skin prickled cold at the very thought of what might happen if Adrean Vane challenged against Matti’s marriage to Sofia and won. His family’s last hope would be gone. Matti would have failed them in this, the most useful thing he could do for them.

He was so caught up in this uneasy imagining as he wove through the room that he collided, hard, with another person’s shoulder. Matti was both tall and broad, not easily unbalanced; the unfortunate other member of the collision made a grab for Matti’s coat, couldn’t get a good grip, and tripped to the ground with a caught-back “Fu—”

Matti tried to step backwards. They were crammed into a small space between tables and there were people moving around them. His first panicked instinct had been to keep the wine bottle upright and the glasses safe, so he didn’t have a hand free to steady himself on a chair.

He wasn’t quite sure what happened next, except that he ended up wobbling and stepping forward instead, and he felt his boot come down on something that was not the floorboards. A small, pathetic, grinding mechanical sound crawled up Matti’s nerves, heel to head, and reached his ears even amidst the noise of the busy room.

“Sorry!” he said at once. “I’m sorry. Was that—Oh, Huna’s teeth.”

The man on the floor jerked his head up, staring at Matti, and Matti stared back.

For a moment all that Matti could see was the wide, straight line of the man’s mouth, set beneath an equally straight nose, and the frame that set off the whole: the dark, luminous copper-red hair that seemed to be trying to grow in about ten different directions.

The man’s tongue darted out in a nervous mannerism, wetting his lower lip. Something in Matti’s own mouth tried to happen in a yearning echo.

“Would you please lift,” the man said precisely, “your godsdamned foot?” Heat flooded Matti’s face. He snatched his foot backwards with enough force that his heel collided with a chair leg.

The redheaded man stood, his fingers closed convulsively tight around a small velvet bag. His brown coat was shabby and made of a coarsely woven fabric, though his shirt was good and his trousers had probably been equally so before they’d been overwashed into a patchy shine.

“Fuck fuck shitting—fuck,” the man said in tones of despair, with a lilt to his accent that placed him at least one city-state farther east: Cienne, or possibly Sanoy. He shook the contents of the bag into his palm and ventured into new realms of inappropriate language as he did so.

Enough people had witnessed their collision, or had their heads turned by the stream of expletives, that there were a fair few necks craning to see what was in the man’s hand. Matti, at whom the shaking fingers of this hand were pointed most directly, couldn’t help seeing for himself the ragged, glinting pile of cogs and jewels and glass. Only the intact cover—monogrammed in a swirling, engraved H—spoke of this pile’s previous existence as a pocket watch. A very expensive pocket watch, by the look of it.

The man’s breath hissed out through his teeth. “Guildmaster Havelot is going to use my arm bones as a fucking lathe. He only had it made to order, and he only trusted me to pick it up, didn’t he? Two hundred gold. Fucking fuck.”

“I’m so sorry,” Matti said again. He recognised the name: Havelot was the Woodworker Guildmaster in Cienne. “Truly. I can—” He stopped. The abrupt lack of his words created a silence that seemed to suck noise into itself, as conversations died to murmurs and the onlookers sensed something interesting.

The man looked straight at Matti with a stubborn lift of his chin. His brows, the same absurd colour as the rest of his hair, had sprung up into the beginnings of hope; as Matti’s silence grew longer, they lowered again. And then lowered farther. He swept a look down and then slowly up Matti’s own outfit, and now pride warred with scorn in the way those maddening lips pressed together.

Matti felt sick. His own coat was made of the finest wool, a midnight blue cut perfectly to his figure, and the rest of his clothes were of the same quality. He was holding a bottle of extremely good wine. Anybody looking at him would make immediate assumptions about the amount of ready money that Matti might have, and the ease with which he would be able to reimburse a poor clerk, if he’d just ruined a pricey piece of artificer’s skill that the man’s employer had trusted him to travel all the way to Glassport to collect.

Of course they would make these assumptions. That was the point.

Matti swallowed and felt the burning heaviness of his purse redouble. He’d be left with enough to a hire a duellist, yes, but not one of the highest skill. It wouldn’t buy himself and his family the absolute security they needed.

His friends were looking at him. It seemed like every pair of eyes in the drinking house was looking, and in another moment the murmurs of curiosity would turn to murmurs of disapprobation. I thought Matti Jay had more honour than that, they would say. What’s two hundred gold to someone like him?

Besides, the plain fact of the matter was that Matti had broken the watch. And he couldn’t pretend that he and this man with his proud mouth and poor coat, patched at one elbow, were on an equal footing. Even if he were left without a bronze, Matti would still have influence, connections, the weight of his family’s name. That was still worth something. For now.

So that was that.

“I—I really am sorry.” Matti set the wine and glasses down on the corner of the nearest table and pulled his purse from inside his coat. He kept his gaze on the man’s face, on a pair of eyes that were either grey or brown—impossible to tell from this angle—and urgently willed them not to look away. To a degree that seemed irrational, he wanted to banish the judgemental expression from the man’s face. “Of course I’ll cover the cost. Two hundred gold. Who did the work?”

The man glanced down at the metal scraps in his hand, as though the answer might be hidden in the pile. “Speck,” he said at last. “Frans Speck, in Amber Lane.”

“He’s a fair man. Tell him what happened and he’ll rush through the repair job,” Matti said. He held out the century notes.

The man tipped the wreckage of the watch back into the bag and closed his hand around the money, slow and wary. His fingertips had rough patches that scraped against Matti’s own, sending a tingle up Matti’s arm.

“I appreciate it,” the man said. He looked less cold now, though still nowhere near warm. “You’ve saved my life. Really.”

Matti forced himself to smile. Forced himself to say, “It’s nothing,” as though it really were nothing.

The man nodded awkwardly at Matti and tucked both money and bag into a pocket. Then he turned and was gone, headed for the door.

Matti somehow made his way to his table and sat down. His heart was pounding so loudly that he could barely hear anything else, and he wanted to shout at his own blood to be quiet and let him think. He needed to be alone in his study. He needed to contemplate his options, and make lists, and pore over the accounts for the thousandth time, in case they transmuted themselves into a picture of prosperity instead of the ugly, desperate reality that nobody outside of Matti’s immediate family knew about.

“Two hundred gold,” he said, before he could stop himself. “Two hundred.”

“We saw. Hard luck,” his cousin Roland said, making a face.

Perhaps it was stretching the term to call Roland and Wynn his friends, but they were the closest thing Matti had to members of that category, and the only people he’d been able to think of to form his wedding party. At least the three of them never found it too hard to pick up their acquaintanceship again, even if it had been months since their last conversation.

Wynn turned the bottle of wine to inspect the yellow butterfly on the label. “How appropriate that we’re drinking wine from your betrothed’s own winery.”

“Audry’s idea of a joke, I think,” Matti said. The word betrothed had landed in his ears like a piece of music played in an unfamiliar key; his mind was still turning it over, trying to decide how it felt about the melody. His hand was shaking as he poured the first glass, sending the stream of dark wine shivering and slipping. He’d steadied it by the time he poured the second.

“Huna smile,” he said, opening the toasts by lifting his own glass. “Thanks for agreeing to stand up with me, you two.”

“Drown your sorrows in this one, and by the time we hit the next bottle you’ll remember that you’re here to celebrate. And that once you’re married to Sofia Cooper,” Roland went on, lowering his voice sympathetically, “Jay House will be rolling in enough money to replace a hundred watches.”

Except that Matti had to get himself successfully married in the first place. And he’d just lost his best guarantee of doing so.

He let the old, gorgeous wine flood down his throat until a good third of his glass had vanished. He felt lightheaded; it had to be panic, because the wine couldn’t be working that fast. Panic and a sense of becoming unmoored. And the image of the man’s face, pale and sharply beautiful, gazing up from where he was kneeling at Matti’s feet.

“A fair effort,” Wynn said, when Matti put the glass down. “But I’ll show you children of Huna how it’s done.” He raised his own glass. “Agar fill your plates and cups.”

Matti smiled and drank again, accepting the toast. Maybe the wine was working after all. He could still feel his panic, the wound-up watch of his worry, but he shoved it away into a recess of his mind: its own small, dark velvet bag. It would be safe enough there. It would last until tomorrow. Matti’s ability to worry was shatterproof.

For now, he was going to drink.

#Bramble #Booklr #New books #Tbr #Swordcrossed #Freya Marske #LGBTQ #Fantasy #Romance

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criticallyinneedofadar · 5 months ago

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The North (2)

Several months had passed since your arrival in the North, and though the first meeting with the lords of Winterfell had been met with skepticism, you had begun to earn their trust. It was a slow process—one built on action rather than words. Time and again, you had proven yourself, flying Cannibal back and forth to Dragonstone with news, provisions, and messages exchanged between Cregan Stark and your mother, Rhaenyra. The cold of the North was no longer a shock, but still, every departure was marked by the same words from Cregan:

"Be careful."

It was not an order, nor a plea, but the weight behind it never lessened. His gray eyes held a concern he never voiced aloud, his hand tightening around his sword belt as he watched you mount your dragon. Each time you flew from Winterfell, you felt the weight of his gaze follow you until you were beyond the horizon.

And each time you returned, it was growing harder for him to maintain the aloof mask of a northern lord.

On this day, you returned just as the sun dipped below the western sky, Cannibal landing in the courtyard with a rumbling growl. The men had grown accustomed to his presence, but they still regarded him warily. Cregan stood waiting at the steps of the Great Hall, arms crossed, his expression schooled into neutrality, though his shoulders betrayed the tension he carried.

"Safe and sound, my lord," you teased as you dismounted. "Did you think I wouldn’t return this time?"

He exhaled through his nose, stepping forward. "One day, you may not," he admitted, voice quieter than usual. "And what then?"

Something in your chest tightened, but before you could reply, he turned briskly. "Come inside. We have much to discuss."

Seated by the fire in the council chamber, Cregan unrolled a letter marked with the sigil of House Targaryen. "Your mother has asked about the strength of the Wall," he said. "She wishes to know if there is a force there that might be turned to her cause."

You leaned forward, studying his face. "And what do you think?"

He was quiet for a long moment. "I think you need to see it for yourself."

Surprise flickered through you. Cregan had been adamant about keeping you within the safety of the North’s strongholds, reluctant to let you near the dangers of the wilds.

"You would take me there?" you asked, watching him carefully.

"I do not want to," he admitted, running a hand through his dark hair. "But I need you to understand why I cannot send my men away to fight in a war when they are sworn to hold the North. If the Wall fails, the realm faces a greater threat than any Targaryen or Hightower could bring."

A chill ran down your spine, not from the cold, but from the solemnity of his words. You had heard whispers of what lay beyond the Wall, but no southerner truly understood the dangers of the far North. If Cregan Stark thought it necessary for you to see it firsthand, then the truth was more grave than any rumor could convey.

+++++

The morning air was crisp and biting as Winterfell stirred with the preparations for departure. Cregan’s men readied their horses, adjusting saddles and securing provisions for the journey ahead. The sky was clear, though the chill in the wind spoke of the deeper cold that awaited them the farther north they traveled.

You stood near Cannibal, running a hand along his dark, ridged scales, feeling the warmth that radiated from his massive form. His amber eyes flickered toward the gathered men with little interest, his tail lazily sweeping across the snow.

Cregan approached, leading a sturdy brown horse by the reins. His expression was unreadable, though there was the faintest glint of expectation in his eyes. Stopping just before you, he extended the reins in your direction. "Here," he said simply.

You eyed the horse, then looked up at him with a skeptical arch of your brow. "For me?"

He exhaled shortly. "Aye. You’ll ride with us to the Wall."

A laugh bubbled up from your throat, amused and disbelieving. "Cregan, I have a dragon." You gestured to Cannibal, whose nostrils flared as if in agreement. "I intend to fly there. Dragons are not made to traverse long distances on the ground like common steeds."

Cregan’s lips pressed together as he considered his words carefully. "The farther north we travel, the colder it will be," he countered. "Not ideal conditions for a dragon. The wind, the ice—it will be different than anything you’ve faced before."

You smirked, stepping closer to him. "There is little in this world that could keep a dragon from what she wants," you murmured, eyes locking with his. “A little cold will not sway me."

Cregan inhaled sharply, his grip tightening slightly on the reins before he shook his head. "It isn’t just the cold," he argued, clearly determined to win this battle. "The farther north we go, the scarcer the prey. There is little food beyond the Wall, and even less in the way of fresh meat. Cannibal will not have enough sustenance."

You hesitated, glancing back at your dragon, who huffed as though already aware that he would be left behind. Cregan had a point, and you knew it. The northern wilds were harsh enough for men—how much more difficult would they be for a beast that needed constant nourishment?

With a sigh, you relented, rolling your eyes dramatically. "Fine. But only on the condition that the people of Winterfell stay clear of Cannibal while I am gone." You smirked again, tilting your head. "I cannot attest for his mood while I’m away—he does not like to be parted from me."

Cregan nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching in something close to amusement. “A wise dragon indeed," he muttered under his breath.

You pretended not to hear him, though warmth curled low in your stomach at the implication. Shaking your head, you took the reins he offered and mounted the horse. The journey north awaited, but something told you the true challenge would not be what lay beyond the Wall—but the man riding beside you.

#cregan x you #cregan stark x reader #cregan stark #cregan x reader #hotd cregan

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qls-hostsevents · 7 days ago

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Introducing the QPR August 2025 prompts!

(plain text underneath for all pictures under the read more)

Starting from now you can plan, outline or pre-write as many fics as you want! We just ask that you do not publish anything until August 4th.

The master week repeats each week (so we will cycle through it 4 times) and assigns an extra challenge to those who want it! It is not necessary to do this, and you can ignore it if wanted.

We've provided 10 Alt prompts to use in place of the main prompts, so feel free to mix and match if something isn't quite your fancy!

Good luck writing, and we hope to see you in August!

Main prompts:

The prompts are set out in the following order: Quote, three word prompts, and a song.

Spring (week 1):

Aug 4: "Did you just trip?", Snow on the beach | Flower crowns | Easter, Wildflowers by Tom Petty

Aug 5: "Are you okay?", Healing | Painting | Weekend get-away, Ultimately by Khai Dreams

Aug 6: "Can I stay here for a while?", Flood | Death | Hospital, You smell of dead flowers by Vslush

Aug 7: "Do you think we're friends in every universe?", Bruises | Magic | Allergies, Honeybee by Steam Powered Giraffe

Aug 8: "Not all of us are what we seem.", Exhaustion | Hiking | Bird watching, FUNGUS by The Narcissist Cookbook

Aug 9: "Can we talk?", Blood | Sacrifice | Chronic Illness, It gets better by Bears in Trees

Aug 10: "You're allowed to make mistakes.", DnD | First Meeting | Concert, Je te laisserai des mots by Patrick Watson

Summer (week 2):

Aug 11: "You remembered.", Beach | Sunset | Volleyball, The nights by Avicii

Aug 12: "You're a liar.", Hope | Sunrise | Stars, Stubborn love by The Lumineers

Aug 13: "People will do a lot of things to survive.", Sunburn | Thunderstorm | Dehydration, Next of kin by Alvvays

Aug 14: "Would you even care if I died?", Hyperthermia | Trip gone wrong | Drowning, Half return by Adrianne Lenker

Aug 15: "What's wrong?", Car rides | Salt water | Wine, Orange sky by Alex Murdoch

Aug 16: "They're an idiot but they're my idiot.", Summer rain | Hot | Movie night, Mice on Venus by C418

Aug 17: "Who did this?", Friendship bracelets | Summer solstice | Jealousy, Burial blessing by Johnny Flynn

Autumn (week 3):

Aug 18: "I don't even know how to swim.", Harvest | Halloween | Rain, Home by Edith Whiskers

Aug 19: "You're overthinking it.", Cozy | Pumpkin | School, We fell in love in October by Girl in Red

Aug 20: "I can still see your ghost.", Overwhelmed | Spooky | Party, Candy by The Blasting Company

Aug 21: "I'm scared.", Cobwebs | Graveyard | Haunted, The woods by San Fermin

Aug 22: "Can you come pick me up?", Flu | Baking | Carnival, Flesh and bone by Madilyn Mei

Aug 23: Are you sick of me?", Nightmare | Library | Maze, Stars will fall by Duster

Aug 24: "I hope I never lose you.", Birthday | Thanksgiving | New neighborhood, Millie, warm the kettle by Rabbitology

Winter (week 4):

Aug 25: "You're horrible.", Fever | Skiing | Cat, The universe by Gregory Alan Isakov

Aug 26: "You need sleep.", Gifts | Jumper | Snow, Comfort chain by Instupendo

Aug 27: "Who are you when nobody's watching?", Hypothermia | Hibernate | Burns, Juliet by Cavetown

Aug 28: "I'm not sick.", Fire | Cold as ice | Wind, Sleeping by Gigi Perez

Aug 29: "How do I know you're not lying?", Blizzard | Hot chocolate | Buried, Northern attitude by Noah Kahan

Aug 30: "It's okay. I'm here.", Blankets | Snowman | Christmas, First love/Late spring by Mitski

Aug 31: "It hurts.", Shadows | Festival | Cuddling, Ivory tower by Philip Ayers

---

Master week:

Each day has 3 different genres/tropes to chose from

Day 1: Comedy | Fluff | Crack treated seriously

Day 2: Contemporary | Fluff | Domestic Fluff

Day 3: Dystopian | Angst | (Character) needs a hug

Day 4: Horror | Angst | Hurt no comfort

Day 5: Mystery | Hurt/Comfort | Academic rivals

Day 6: Sci-fi | Hurt/Comfort | Platonic soulmates

Day 7: Fantasy | Wild card | Enemies to qpps

---

Alt prompts:

The prompts are set out in the following order: Quote, an au, and a song.

Alt 1: “Sorry, I can't hang out today. I have to study for exams.”, High School AU, F.M.I.D by Pigeon Pit

Alt 2: “I know our kingdoms are enemies, but why does that mean we can't be friends?”, Royalty AU, Joan by Madilyn Mei

Alt 3: “Wait, you two know each other?”, Crossover AU, Alice by PEGGY

Alt 4: “I don't want to be a hero.”, Superpowers/Superheroes AU, Lion by Saint Mesa

Alt 5: “You didn't have to save me.”, Pirates AU, Sailor's boots by Frank Turner

Alt 6: “Hey, do we know each other?”, Coffee Shop AU, Happiness will ruin this place by San Fermin

Alt 7: “It's not my blood.”, Criminals AU, A bank robber's nursery rhyme by Goodnight, Texas

Alt 8: “I don't work for criminals. Not without the right price.”, Cyberpunk AU, Radioactive by Imagine dragons

Alt 9: “Did we just get attacked by a mythical creature?”, Mythology AU, Run boy run by WOODKID

Alt 10: “I'm barely tolerating you as it is.”, Pop Star, Meant for you by OMFG

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malvoile · 6 months ago

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Me and the Devil ; iii

ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ɪꜱ ᴀ ᴘʜᴀɴᴛᴏᴍ ʙʟᴀᴅᴇ ʙᴜʀɪᴇᴅ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʀɪʙꜱ. ᴘᴀᴜʟ ʜᴀꜱ ʙᴇɢᴜɴ ᴛᴏ ʜᴀʀʙᴏʀ ᴏᴅᴅ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍꜱ.

word count: 14.4k warnings: canon-typical threats, violence - serious bodily harm. graphic injury, blood, light smut, allusions ish to oral (f receiving), fingering, light choking, biting, very very brief dubcon (feyd warning tbh i should just call it this), unprotected PiV, fantasies, fair pulling. food sharing & mentions of hunger, discussion of alcohol, religious/cultural trauma, familiar trauma. freaky dreams, foreshadowing. fluff and some angst too - and a fair amount of politics that i made up lol notes: hiiii guys <3 a long chapter here, there's no good way to cut it up hehe - also i am sorry i didn't edit this after rewriting it so im sorry abt any typos. feedback very much appreciated! previous series masterlist

Concerns Rise Over the Destabilization of Sabberon

In the wake of the unseating of House Bourbon and the resulting power vacuum on the House’s formerly fiefed planet Sabberon, concerns are mounting over potential destabilization within the planet's region. Situated in a crucial sector of the galactic trade route, Sabberon's turmoil could have far-reaching implications, not only for orbital stability, but for the economic prosperity of the Landsraad's main trade economy.

With no governing body to maintain order, rising insurgent groups throughout the planet threaten to plunge Sabberon into chaos. The potential for conflict and upheaval remains a significant concern for the wider galactic community – yet as of today, there has been no comment by the Emperor.

This all comes to head a month before the Imperium's Annual Referendum, wherein new negotiations on Space Trade routes will be drawn, along with the final Arraignment of the House Bourbon.

- Collected Galactic News report sent to Duke Leto Atreides, 10191. Caladan.

Somewhere high upon the northern continent of the planet Sabberon, there is a trail that leads through the forest.

Past the Castle Bourbon, it winds up the slope of a mountaintop – in the short springtime, when the snow thaws and the glaciers spill their icy veins through the woods and ravines, the ground grows spongy with wild grass.

It is soft below your feet now.

The highest range of mountains tower in the distance; they dominate your sight, caps bald with such reflected sharpness that you have to squint against the rays. It is warmer in these elevations, and though the path you walk now is thawed and overgrown with alpine flora, those peaks on the horizon never lose their ice – nor the bursting jeweled-veins they hide deep within.

The sun is shy and springlike; it glows upon the skin revealed beneath your dress and glistens off dripping pine needles swaying to the ground in the breeze. Bare feet; cold, toes stained with earthy soil, and the warmth of a weight tugged within your grasped hand.

Trees rustle and whisper around you as you pass slowly, a breath echoed in the woods – branches smack against your bare arms as you near the secluded clearing ahead. It is small, though venerated; embraced by tall trees, laden with chiffon ribbons of green. Laid within your vision beneath the sinking shade is a pyre lit with candles, in offering and loomed only by the Pine which grows so high that it is swallowed by the breath of clouds high above.

The breath that falls from your lips is one of peace.

The sheet laid before the safety of the Pine is welcoming – you lie upon it, strewn with the breeze and the song of birds through the trees; overhead, the sky streaks pink and orange.

An arm brushes your own – a body lies beside you, and as your eyes flutter shut, you feel the touch trail slowly up the expanse of your side, curling around your arm to soothe the goosebumps which arise.

A pair of lips find your own, and though you see merely darkness and glimpses of glistening sky high above, the heat consumes you: Slowly and kindly.

A sigh against plush lips, hands searching for the heat of your husband, a soft breath of a chuckle against your cheek. He is bare chested; and his skin burns when he presses against your yearning palms, desiring, willing, hungry.

His own fingers trace the trail of goosebumps up your thigh and under the hem of the dress; pleasure follows in his wake as your head tilts back, a long-dormant yearning awakening at the sound of his breaths. And in the small noises you emit, a smile presses to your throat, a small hum of satisfaction from your husband above you. Though the sun is warm and orange upon your eyelids, you do not open them - far too caught in the warmth of your husband’s touch.

A grasp of the plush of your thigh – a soft thing, though intent in their own right; and you turn to receive his waiting body, a line of warmth upon your own as his touch teases over your heat. A long gasp when a warm palm finds your aching desire and teases you, light as the wind in your hair and the birds chirping in the woods.

Your lips find his once more, breath hot as his fingers press, agonizingly slow, into you; a sigh that slips towards a moan in the uptick in singing birds, the rustle of wind through whistling leaves as he hums into your mouth.

Tingling with anticipation, with desire, you clutch him – and muscles lithe and warm strain underneath your nails, his touch sliding to press against you once more, slowly moving into a rhythm that brings a gasp lodged into your throat.

A phantom tickle graces across your forehead – hair, though you’re unsure if it’s yours or his – and though he leans forward and grasps the sheet beside your head, his other hand continues its ministrations, stirring arousal from the deepest pits of your being.

In the throes of passion, you throw your head back once more, inhaling deeply in an attempt to conceal any possible hitch in control; though instead of the fresh forest, instead of your husband – you choke on the suddenly tinny air that seems to leak from the sky, which presses into your lungs even as you rock in pleasure.

A hazy thought meanders through your lapsed consciousness – your husband smells different here, upon the ground of the Sacred Pine; not like the fresh scent of sea-salt soaps and wooded forests; though the the metallic scent washes away as lips trail down your throat, nipping at your heady skin when your head falls back onto the white sheet.

Following the soft moan you let out is a shush from his lips, gentle as the breeze through the needles of the trees; Ecstasy dances through you, lighting a fire of desire that has your legs squirming to close as your husband presses them back open with the palm of his hand.

His presence is warm, eager; and consuming.

Though his hands push, bunching your dress over your hips; your eyes flutter to glance at the Pine, standing tall above you. From upside-down, it sways rather curiously, licks of heat igniting from high in the branches – and the sky is streaked in a bizarre breath, a strike of unease in your gut that is swallowed by the dip of light below ridged peaks in the distance.

Though even in the evening light, it seems as though the branches of the Pine are ablaze; and before you move to sit up, perhaps observe closer, your husband’s wanting lips slot against yours once more.

You melt into the sheet below; a warmth pressed eagerly against your own heat strikes a match within you, your eyes rolling back in pleasure before shutting in bliss. The moan that slips from your lips rings warbled in the clearing, as though fallen through a lake – and your husband nips at your kiss-bitten lips slowly.

The ridges of his spine tense as your hands slide along – and the length presses against your aching core, his lips grazing your cheek.

Wind whistles through the trees, ashy and blown. In the quiet of the forest, you whisper softly and your voice is nearly swallowed by faint screams.

“I love you.”

Barely a breath of words against his lips – and his hands tug your hair gently, exposing your neck to his wanting teeth once more. The Pine above sways again, belying a breath of orange and a scream of heat – but you blink and soon teeth are biting sharply, pain striking you through your spine.

Chuckles into the open air around you, curling in your mind as a hand slides down your side; though your words were no such thing of humour, your gaze flutters shut and lips press on in search of the more sensitive areas of your neck.

The chill breeze flutters over your bare skin, goosebumps cascading over every curve of you; though the more your husband bites down, the stronger the foreign smell grows – and in a grunt of discomfort, you shove his mouth away from your throat.

His warmth leaves you, and in an instant, his voice curls into your mind and seeps dread through you.

“I know, pet.”

A whisper - cold and sinister; you have less than a moment to shift, to scramble away from the huffing chuckle from the shadows of your vision, before it happens.

A sharp pain punctures through you.

Blood curdling – the scream you let out tears through the woods, sending a murder of crows to the sky with screams of their own; and your eyes fly open to find your husband’s eyes–

Though it is not Paul at all.

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen smiles cruelly, watching with a hunger in his eyes as he presses; The pain between your ribs is unbearable, and your hand flies in a choked gasp to cover his own, feeling the sickeningly familiar hilt protruding from you.

In terror, you look down:

A sickeningly pale hand grips your own nameday knife, the exposed part of its blade glinting in the dim light of the ceremonial candles; a lick of flames which were moments ago above you, around you, within you.

You are struck with paralyzing fear – and Feyd-Rautha’s breath is hot against you as he slowly leans down, lips cold; you feel the hilt twist just as his lips press to your forehead.

Blood seeps a slow march; over your body, it soaks into the sheet below you, tainting the ritual in crimson – and you remain in your expiring breaths, a small glowing ember carried to the hearth of forgotten gods; lied and lying, taking and taken.

“You're mine.” And his hand turns the blade deeper, glinting as you scream. “My little wife.”

Rays of sunlight pierce your vision when you jolt to life.

A haunt of touch still upon your ribs; and a face hovering before you, staring deep into your racing heartbeat. And so in your delirious panic, you lash out – a fight to get the body off of your own, your fist swings wildly in your blind haze.

Though a palm of defense catches the brunt of your offense, and you are effectively jerked aside as a gasp floats into the still dust of the room. For a moment as your heart pounds, you consider how many moves it'd take to disarm your attacker – but when you blink yourself into focus, your stomach drops.

Hestia, cheeks red as she breathes, her round eyes wide; her grip is firm, gentle around your closed fist, but her brows are knit with worry.

"My lady," Her voice is airy, eyes searching your panicked gaze, “You were only dreaming.”

It is ragged, the gasps you take – and you blink in rapid attempt to dispel the lingering tendrils of nightmare that still cling to your consciousness. Dread finds you; regret clasping your ribs in a deadly embrace.

“Void above,” You whisper, eyes pricking in regret, “I-I'm sorry,” you stammer, the weight of your actions crashing down upon you as you realize what you've done. "Are you okay? Hestia, I didn't mean to–”

Your hand is squeezed gently within her own. “It's alright,” she says, “You were frightened. I woke you while you slept. Anyone would react the same way.”

It is a lie wrapped in a gauzy layer of kindness; and guilt gnaws within you, a lump in your throat.

“I wouldn't hurt you.”

Though your tone is less than a whisper into the morning beams of light, Hestia's visage remains unwavering and calm. “I know you wouldn’t,” She promises, “And you didn't. I'm just glad you're alright.”

You are struck with relief at her words and you allow yourself a moment of breath as she takes a step away from your heaving chest to draw further the curtains across the way. The bruises and marks from your old life took several days to fade after your arrival on Caladan; though she, nor the other maids, ever said a thing, let alone stared too long when you’d slipped a tunic over the jagged scar across your ribs each morning– nor when they offered the makeup in the tone of your skin to cover the odd-shaped marks upon your neck of fading teeth – nor when they helped you pull the mourning veil over your face.

You’ve grown quite fond of them all. Particularly Hestia, in her tenderness and willful amiability; it occurs to you slowly as you watch her gather your clothing that you never found this kind of humanity on Giedi Prime.

And even after you and Hestia finish your breakfast, she doesn't ask about the dream; And you don't tell her.

It is certainly not the first of these dreams you've had – such a place has haunted you nearly every night since you begun dreaming again in the wake of the poisonous sun; Those mountains, the hills, the pathway to the open clearing: Each night, it calls to you, singing a song you cannot hear.

But never, not until now, has there been a man with you.

Never has Paul, nor Feyd-Rautha, found you in those dreams.

A sharp pain still clings to your breaths – and still lingers that phantom blade, stuck through your ribs; haunted in the shadows by the cold stare of the man you were once promised to forever.

A haunting thing, to near such a pleasant dream – only to be ripped from it by the ghost of shadows; and you reel anyways in shame from the beginning of the dream – fading at the tips of your fingers, such a warm and hungry thing it’d started out as…

Paul, your mind reminds you as you swallow the unease in your stomach, it was Paul who was with you in the beginning.

An odd ritual it’d been – one that felt faint yet familiar, as though some ghost long dead had whispered such things to you in your sleep; and you shake off the dusty robes of the past in search of the present, a more tangible and decidedly less salacious thing.

Dressing is a solemn affair this morning.

It is slow that you drape yourself in the fineries of a life far left behind; cloth made from the veins of plants alpine and far away – they smell of the ocean now, and you watch the pines in the distant western forest bristle in the breeze. It is not until Hestia brings forth the gifted necklace that you hesitate.

It glints in the morning rays – precious stone carving the hawk and sigil, a soft thing, but cut sharp with the cerulean green valleys and ridges of the jewel; and though Hestia is slow as a hunter to a startled doe, you still stiffen when he moves to lace it around your neck.

She's not unused to this; it's been half a week since it was given to you, and each day you have bared your teeth as she clasps it around your neck – though still, beneath the veil, holding the skin above your heart captive, you wear it.

She is beside you, now, and it is not hard for her to tell where your mind’s gone.

“You said he apologized?” She asks it tentatively, as though you might slit her throat at the mere mention of Paul; though instead you merely huff a humourless laugh. “He did,” You affirm, “Though only after I told his parents.”

Your agony is received; you sigh once more, “I acted like a child. Perhaps I was in the right, but nevertheless–” You glance out towards the glinting forest and moors beyond, clenching your jaw at the memory of Paul’s sharp eyes and accusatory tongue. “He must hate me more now.”

The necklace is clasped over your clavicle, and you can feel the incredulous look Hestia sends you; though you merely press your lips, admiring the pendant against your skin in the morning light of the mirror. It does well suit you, much to your chagrin; a fine piece as ever to hold above your head.

Power always seems so beautiful in the morning light.

She says your name gently, whispering into the empty bedroom, “He gifted you a family heirloom – look at it! It must be older than the two of us combined.”

And her irreproachability is as charming as it is unnatural – it is still an adjustment, to take in her joyous nature, the curve of a smile so genuine and spirited. It is still an adjustment, then, to see people so human and to try to return some semblance of that humanity in gratitude; and though she is lighthearted, it does not quell your distress.

Your teeth worry into your bottom lip as you hum gently, shrugging, though you wish to simply melt into the girlish giddiness that leaks from her and infects the corner of your smile.

“It's not so simple”

Your eyes cast down, where your bare feet stand against the floor – and for a blink, beneath them lies wild grass, a white sheet; a seep of crimson leaks through the pristine fabric and you snap away, taking a step back and staring skittishly at Hestia. “I think he’d prefer for me to remember who now holds my reins.”

And if anything, it is a relief to be able to speak so candidly with someone; a trust, knowing it will not leak from your lips through her own and into the ear of the Duke – or his son.

“Or, it's his way of trying to welcome you into House Atreides?” She suggests with a lifted brow, and the indignant part of you bristles as she continues, “He does not mean ill will, I promise. He's... slow to trust.”

You turn, figure shrouded in the morning light’s beams through your large windows. Your brow lifts, your tone teasing; A foreign thing – one that, out of rusty exercise, delivers more accusatory than intended. “You seem to know Lord Paul quite well, Hestia.”

And, as expected, she flushes red; you hide your smirk in the palm of your hand as she shakes her head, eager to dispel any perceived accusations.

“N-nothing like that, my lady –" And it is rather frantically she rushes to assure you, "My mother is Lady Jessica’s in-waiting,” She explains quickly, fingers fidgeting with the sleeve of your blouse, “And Paul is only a few years older than I - and though I am just a worker, he and I were reared very close.”

You’d figured as such; though she speaks highly of him, there indeed has been no inkling of affection held more than anything platonic in her musings. Though, if there had been, perhaps a part of you could not blame her; for visions of a youthful teen, curly hair and a sharp laugh, green eyes that swim with light and pool with the gentle fountain of dutiful intelligence. Perhaps he is someone you do not know; that odd feeling, that light when you know only a stranger’s shadow – just as you might be to him; his green ghost that haunts these halls.

You nod gently with a smile that grows in Hestia’s melting embarrassment – and she notices not a few moments after you crack.

A smile blossoms and it brings warmth into your sullen heart. “You tease me,” She observes with a small grin of her own.

You laugh only quietly, shaking your head, “I apologize, I couldn’t help it.” You admit, pacing away from the window to gather the garment from her arms.

“So you’ve known Paul for your whole life?” You wonder, unable to bite back the intrigue which laps at the shores of your mind.

And then comes a sweet kind of existence, one which lives in the early hours between the sun’s rising and the castle’s; Hestia nods, setting to work on your sheets, straightening them as you begin to dress yourself. “I've got no siblings of my own,” She muses lightly, “Though I imagine he is exactly what a brother should be.”

A memory is sharp in the bruise of your heart, and you blink back the vision of the boy falling to the sand, fingers grasping a blade too large for his palm. The numb ache crawls in an eclipse of your pleasant mood and you fight it with a blink.

There is a chip in the boudoir beside you; it glistens against the waxy shine of the sun. Hestia’s warmth, that song of unburdened amity, lulls the dull ache of your heart into a placant thrum.

“– Kind, thoughtful. He entertains the most foolish subjects and also the most serious –” A pause and a rustle, as if she’s turned to glance at you – you do not return the stare, mind too lost in the Paul that Hestia knows; the Paul you have yet to meet.

“And, if you’d believe it…” She says it almost conspiratorially, arriving to button the back of your tunic, as you turn from her, listening quietly, “he can be quite funny sometimes."

Funny. You send her a look; this time there is no fooling – she laughs gently at your doubt and nods, “Believe it or don’t,” she muses, “He is good. He will warm up to you.”

And though she says it in good nature, there is a dejection which leaks into your heart, which pools around the memories of sharp tongue and mistrusting eyes – of a short apology and a pendant wrapped around your throat, binding your wrists.

Instead you force a smile, hoping it appears more brilliant than you feel.

She is a sweet girl – a girl not familiar with the burden of family, of how it falls at your feet in a slump of black and pale and gray and death – and so you imagine her as a young girl, hand-in-hand with a young Paul, skipping down hallways and whispering conspiratorial through the doors of the worker’s quarters.

A melancholia visits you quite suddenly, and your eyes drift to the cobwebs of silk which spin small patterns across the high beams of your ceiling.

“I always seemed to fight with my siblings.” Your voice is a whisper in a breath; what a distant dream it is now, those nights curled together by the grand hearth, the days running through ornate halls, learning to hunt in the woods. Bows pulled from hair and tied into your own – a hand smaller than yours tugging you into an icy lake – screaming, crying, the thud of young limbs hitting another. Anger, that ferocious thing that is only so well known by that of your own kin; A hard thing it is to remember, when their faces have begun to slip away.

“I had four of them,” You offer to her – and though she knows just as well as each person within the Imperium knows now of your family and their end, you feel the comfort of choice; the warmth of choosing to reveal such information about your family to a lended ear. Your brows knit – there is a nest of brown twigs and dried mud just below your window. “And we would scream, and hit, and fight, – all the time, when we were young.” A gaggle of young chickadees vie for the worm in their mother’s mouth within the small nest, and you watch on with burning eyelids. Your breath is solemn, and your fingers trace over the healing scars upon your palm. “But they were my favorite people in this entire universe.”

It is still in the somber moment, though you break your shell with a cleared throat, tearing your eyes from the soft burgeoning feathers of the chicklets in the nest. And after a deep inhale, you smile wistfully, clearing your throat as you slide on the hand jewelry she offers to you; Hestia doesn't say anything, and you're grateful for it.

She lingers beside you as you slide rings over healed knuckles. Your voice comes once more, and it is stronger. “Family, blood or bond, is a precious thing,” you decide, turning to slip on your shoes and tie your trousers. “I am quite glad you and your mother have found it.”

And though there lingers some despondent hesitation, Hestia nods in agreement, her own wistful smile playing on her lips. “Indeed, my lady.”

Your hair catches the rays of sun in the mirror before you – tainted with the leaking green of your veil, you place the ferronnière above it; and you are beautiful in this light, yes – beautiful, but miserable. A dog with a collar for the Atreides leash.

Your gaze leaves yourself to find Hestia watching with a small smile.

An offer of her arm and a small nod brings forth a balm to the stinging hesitance of leaving your room.

“Now, let's get you to this War Council.”

Paul’s sigh is sharp in the empty room.

An aseptic scent pierces his nostrils, contaminating his brain – distracting him. The castle becomes very sterile, deep in the more secluded chambers; here, where he breathes and feels the world breathe too, the air has a chill to it – sharp with some kind of disinfectant.

“Concentrate, Paul.”

His mother’s voice is low, though soothing. “Project your will.”

But he can’t bring himself to look up – his mother stands just a few paces away, her eyes boring into him; Focus. He needs to focus.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he hums gently, a twitch of focus in the crook of his neck; but then, flames flicker up the sides of his vision – a large tree, smoke leaking from somewhere above where it pierces through the clouds. His name, sighed gentle as the breeze through the trees, trickling into his mind; hands, threading through the curls at the nape of his neck. His nostrils flare as he shakes his head, letting out a small groan of irritation. Focus.

Within him, an energy builds; something comes, and he knows he must not lose it – but as he begins to speak, a strange sense of trepidation washes over his mind; a nagging suspicion of unease, some dripping chill down the bumps of his spine. He falters in his words for a moment, confidence waning as doubts creep through the cracks in the shadows.

It's silent for a moment, before she sighs from across the room.

“You’re distracted this morning, Paul.”

He bites back a sharp I know – and instead sighs, a sagging weight in his shoulders as he pushes his hair back with the heel of a palm. “I didn’t sleep well.” He excuses, pacing towards the water pitcher; his mother follows, reaching for the glass he offers. She hums, sipping on the water as he stares into the reflection of his own.

“Dreams?”

She reads him so well.

Paul wills his spine not to tense at her words. With a half a breath, Paul takes another sip of his water – a purchase of time, perhaps. There is a giving degree to which he understands the Bene Gesserit’s plans, and how perhaps he might fall into them; this alone is cause for hesitation. Those years ago – almost two, now – the searing, bone-gnawing pain of that box; the whispers around closed doors, the breath that plumed when the Reverend Mother told his own lady mother that there were two candidates.

Two candidates – for what, he still doesn't know – and yet Paul may one day be one of them. It is an instinct, perhaps some method of survival written into his very DNA; he accepts the churning sick in his stomach at the thought of what his onslaught of dreams mean.

“Yes,” he acquiesces – any possible lie he could have thought to fabricate would have been sheared by the blades of her mind, anyway – and he turns to her, guarded but concerned. She is his mother, after all.

“I've been having dreams,” his voice is slow to regain traction – there is a small scuff on the floor and he traces it with his toe. “Vivid dreams…” He murmurs, chewing upon the skin of his lip, “of Sabberon.”

And perhaps to an untrained eye, there would be no change; But Paul's eyes are indeed quite trained.

A flicker of concern passes through her and it serves nothing but to feed the pit of anxiety that grows in Paul’s stomach.

“Sabberon?” She echoes with a wary tilt of the head, “And what do you see in these dreams?”

The hesitation comes once more, although the memory is still fresh in his mind: For in the beginning, it is that spongy earth, toes imbued with dirt. Soft whispers of his name from voices he cannot see, a caress of the wind in his hair, the glistening mountain peaks that glitter like jewels in the distance, the ribbons tied to trunks and candles lit unyielding even when the sky falls.

And then there is you; a soft thing, an inevitable one – with the soft skin of your thighs trembling in the wake of his wanting lips. There’s the sigh, hitched and breathy, as his hands hold your hips to the pristine sheet below you; the bunching of a dress, the glint of a blade's silvered and black hilt almost golden in the reddening sun.

Your gown, thin and blowing in the breeze, the same color as the veil which still hides your face from his wanting gaze; even in the dying light, the streaks of orange and pink in the sky, snow falling weightless from dark clouds above. That fabric, woven from the skin of alpine hemp which grows in clusters around your planet – bunching by your hips, your chest tremoring in the flickering light of ceremonial candles; breath, warm and willing upon his neck – palms teasing and eager alike, crawling in descent towards his own waistband. A soft moan, the smell of ash –

Paul is drawn back from the glimpses of skin and the flashes of metal, the smell of smoke; he swallows thickly, staring at his mother with the glance of a lamb before the jaws of a wolf – though he shifts, clearing his throat, and the veil lifts.

“I always…” He chooses carefully the truths he can forgive, “I always see a white blanket on the ground. Above, there’s a… the Great Pine of Sabberon. Visions of…” His brows furrow, swallowing the thick of concern, “of knives, and streaks through the sky; I think they’re… missiles. And we’re there together…she and I.”

Barely a blink from his mother as she murmurs, “Lady Bourbon?”

He barely nods, blinking away visions of shining hands and whispers threading through pine needles in the wind.

“I don’t know why it’s always the same dream,” He pleads to his mother – tell me it’s fine – and though his voice is barely audible, he cannot shake the calling for him, that odd feeling that something importing awaits him on Sabberon. “Maybe I've been reading about Sabberon too much,” He half-shrugs.

And it is a relief to admit it finally to someone – since your arrival, perhaps even in the days leading up to it, he’s unsure; but his dreams have ebbed and flowed in the brook of consciousness, always floating back to that place. Always there, and now, with you – and after the lessons the other day, he is sure: it's Sabberon.

He dreams of it burning; he sees it up in flames, and sometimes, you with it.

His mother does little to quell the concern that brims in his gaze – though she sets down her glass and kisses his brow. “Be cautious with your dreams, Paul,” She chides, “Listen to them, learn from them.”

Her gaze brings no such comfort to him as he watches her gaze flick from the cliffs through the casement and back to him.

“Dreams are messages from the deep.”

Though it is only late morning, the Strategy Council finds you quite weary.

You sit, toying with your fingers as you drown in a sea of House Atreides; and once again, the only solace in the room is your blade, laid in front of you on the table for all to see. Certainly a warning, this time.

Nearly everybody you've met of importance during your sojourn is in attendance – the table is large and long, so much so that you know you will have to project your voice to be heard by the dredges of your periphery; and around you sit war masters, strategists, women and men with intense stares and the symbol of house Atreides upon their clothing.

It is a fight, after Duke Leto sets a brief introduction, to not sound too sharp nor calculating; your gaze skitters over the listeners as you speak, their eyes interested, respectful – it is a shock to your body as you trail off, aware of the respect that brims in the quiet of the room.

But worse still is the fight to stifle your yawn as the Duke reviews intelligence reports; Gritting your teeth, you sit up straighter – through no hitch of boredom but instead the dreadful absence of rest, now is perhaps the worst time for your body to punish your mind for your lack of sleep.

And beside the Duke this time rests a chilling gaze, one you’ve yet to meet in such a scenario – Paul rests with a straight spine and a stare hooked upon the pendant hanging from your neck, and you fight not to stir with the heat of the green boring through your veil.

Until now, there's lived a cold silence between the two of you that has not been broken since it befell; that night when you were gifted the necklace – and besides the stiff apology he issued you the morning after, assuring you he was out of line for treating you with disrespect in his father’s study that morning – all that’s grown between you and your betrothed are cordial nods or a tight-lipped smile from him in passing, whenever a house member is around. Nothing more would dare be said between you, lest you pull a blade to his throat.

If you'd been less indulged in your studies and training – or perhaps he, less prideful – maybe it would not have gone on this long; a stalemate as stubborn as its proprietors.

But seeing as you've barely been in the same room once since that dreadful dinner several days ago, it's no different. You aren’t to be wed until the end of this year, but you know sometime soon, you will have to learn to live with him.

Paul does not notice your attention on him for some time as the strategy council rolls on; He is seemingly in his own world, gazing intently at the necklace in a way that gives you a rush of unease – and you, drawn into the world of dreamlike memory: Of hands smooth against skin, of soft breath upon your cheek, of curls tickling your forehead.

But it’s as if a shock hits him – and suddenly, a green stare finds your own; and though it is near impossible to discern your face unless mere inches away, Paul never fails to find your eyes behind the veil.

In his stare, your mind convulses; brought forth unbidden and unsolicited, you see them: Curls that kiss your forehead, lips plush and pressed to your neck – a hand snaking up the bareness of your thigh.

You swallow thickly, shifting in your seat; you’ve grown quite used to the demons which sleep in your mind – of Feyd-Rautha’s shadows curling to grasp your mind when your eyes shut – yet this strange thing, this new thing?

Now, you're flushing each time you catch your husband-to-be's eyes – like some innocent girl, lovestruck and awake to be put in a corner; catching those very same eyes which regard you as a pawn on the chessboard of his House, no less.

And yes – there is not a part of you so vain as to lie and say Paul is not extremely attractive. A creature made of dark curls, sharp angles, plush lips, that cooled, smooth voice; anybody worth their wits could see his allure – but even just this innocent observation rings forth a violent urge of resistance. An urge, to rip off the necklace; to scream at him, at the Imperium – I am not yours to keep.

Though, before you can do much of anything, his gaze is gone from you; Paul breaks the turmoil in your mind with a simple turn of his head.

Begrudgingly, you try to do the same.

Though it yields nothing but more trouble: Your eyelids droop as you fight to stare at the Duke, who speaks in what you can only perceive as background noise as your mind soldiers on against your own will.

“Lady Bourbon?”

And with that, your eyes snap up, heart suddenly beating hard under the alarmingly paternal gaze of Duke Leto; In fact, through the silence, you observe that every eye is on you expectantly, including Paul’s.

It is with ignorance of the concerned look etched upon his countenance that you snap out of your reverie, embarrassment flooding you; Paul's green eyes bore into you even when you turn to address the Duke.

“Apologies, Duke Leto,” you clear your throat, willing your cheeks to stop flushing from the attention, “I've been having trouble sleeping lately. I've been having some…” You reluctantly admit the burdens of your mind, “…odd dreams. They've been keeping me awake at night.”

After a beat, you stir, “Could you please repeat yourself?” You wonder with a flushed face and twisting fingers – but there is a quick glance sent from Lady Jessica to her son and your attention is stolen.

Paul’s own gaze meets his mothers and then casts suddenly downwards, as if deep within his own mind; and it is clear – whatever she delivers within her gaze, he is clearly avoiding – though there is little pause from the rest of the council, and you soon forget the look shared between mother and son.

From down the table, Thufir Hawat denotes a remedy in the form of an elixir you can take before sleep that should help you; the Duke orders a worker to have it brought to your quarters this evening, and in the expiring embarrassment of your slip-up, your mind rocks from its pulling descent to slumber.

You’re painfully alert after this, and when you are finally called upon to share your thoughts, it is by Gurney Halleck: “My lady, you’ve before mentioned certain endeavors during your time on Giedi Prime.”

You nod and he takes the affirmation with a nod of his own, “What do you know of their Spice exploits?”

And eyes once again fall to you from across the room; in a ticking of your jaw, you wish once more to rid yourself of the cursed veil that constricts your vision. Your spine straightens at the question and you choose your words quite carefully. “I do not know much of their spice harvesting,” you begin, “and it must be said that what I know is mostly second-hand; I learned most of what I know through the na-baron Feyd-Rautha.”

A murmur from the end of the table, one you are quick to squash with a withering look behind the veil: “He is vicious,” You affirm, folding your hands, “but he has his own weaknesses, ones which the other Harkonnens lack.” And though the implications of your words settle in unease around the room – the Lady Jessica’s head turns to you just slightly – you do not drop the Duke’s stare. “I might remind you all that Spice is not their only source of power.”

And in the wash of a renewed power – eyes are hooked upon your cloaked figure, on how the words drip from a mouth so concealed. “They have large petroleum reserves – from refineries around the planet, stored in the bowels of Barony; I've seen them, they're never-ending."

This makes the duke shift in his seat; likewise, Paul's brows furrow in thought.

Your voice is a beam through a forested canopy of pine and spruce, bursting forth into the sterile room; A perk of interest that bristles through the icy surface of a sleeping scape. “It is true, I was not an agent for my family; though from what I’ve been able to piece together, my family was recording Harkonnen reserves, and monitoring their activity with the Spacing Guild.” Your voice hangs, words heavy with implication. You swallow down the worry that gnaws in you before you continue. “Not just for spice, but petroleum. I was none the wiser until after they were caught.” You spare a glance to Paul, meeting his stare with your own. “–But of course, who is to believe me?”

Paul’s gaze is promptly cast away, written with some flash of guilt; and you continue once more. “I assumed it is is why the Great Houses likely allowed for me to be brought to Caladan – in hopes that I know something of my family’s findings.”

Your eyes fall to Duke Leto. “Am I right, my Lord?” You wonder; the room is quiet as your words are absorbed, a rainbow of faces all varying degrees of surprise.

Duke Leto is an honest man. “Yes,” he affirms, “It is one of the reasons I believe the Landraad passed the ordinance for your betrothal to be transitioned.”

The knowledge does not do much to ease your worry – indeed, just some figure of strategy in a game above your head.

His words are not unkind, though: “We've been concerned with any acts of retaliation to our house after this ruling, and though it hasn't come yet, we need to be prepared. We must know what you know, my lady.”

You press your fingers along the blade before you as you nod. “When the betrothal was annulled, they were distraught,” you admit with an open air, catching the guarded surprise of several glances. It is mirthful, the small smirk that sneaks onto your lips as you take in their expressions. “Not for some attachment to me, mind you,” You ease them, “Feyd-Rautha was the worst of them when it came to the dissolution of our engagement – but the truth is…” you offer a half-shrug, shaking your head in some bitter mirth. “Harkonnens don’t like when their toys are taken away from them.”

It is just as uncomfortable as ever; Paul’s stare is focused down, upon the grain of wood below your fingers, and you do not flinch at the set in his jaw. In the silence, you push forward, “Thufir has been tutoring me on local economics,” You nod to the man down the table, “I understand that the majority of the trading exports from Caladan are agriculture – fine wine and rice?”

Paul’s voice comes from the depths. “Yes,” he confirms; and you nod, the chain of your headdress chiming slightly as you hold his stare. You wet your lips, “The Baron could easily flood the galactic market with cheap petroleum, garnering almost no externalities for himself.” You tilt your head, “An influx of cheap fuel like that could disrupt the transportation networks – the market for space transport and exportation would be saturated by the Harkonnens within days.”

Sparse glances of thought and furrowed brows across the table – and after a moment, you hear the thought that has lingered in your mind since the moment you saw the refineries’ stock at Barony.

“An action like this would highly disrupt our direct trade access from this system to most others without use of the Spacing Guild.” Thufir adds – the Duke still looks at you, urging you to continue. You do.

“What I fear,” You crack your knuckles gently, knee bouncing just slightly under the table, “Is the vacuum that’s been left on Sabberon. There is no governing body now that my family has been eliminated.” It is a blunt, unemotional statement, and you move past it before the ghosts which linger in the corners of your heart come out of the shadows. “If Harkonnen boots hit the ground there, they could rather easily take control of the planet's resources and exports. Their battalions could easily squash the insurgent groups in the North and South.”

A nod, a sparse murmur – and then, a woman a few seats down from you leans forward to catch your gaze. “Sabberon's industries are commercial fishing, fir, logging.”

Hardly much to worry about, you know – and you turn, nodding. “Yes, they are – but I more mean the glacial deposits within our mountain ranges.” You purse your lips, a secret kept in the confines of Castle Bourbon tilting from your lips. “The highest ranges contain precious minerals and ores whose compounds are quite valuable for industrial applications. It’s how we industrialized so quick in the Turning Age.” You wish to avoid any history lessons – but it is important; and you clear your throat as you set down the pneumatic tubes you'd prepared before the council.

“I've documented, to the best of my ability, everything that I remember here. Feyd-Rautha knows about the deposits on Sabberon; I believe it is fair to assume the Baron does, too.”

It is in the lull of the moment, heavy and steeping with thought, that his face comes to you – and a sickly hand around your neck, a black smile: You're mine to keep. There's plenty of life left for you to serve.

In a blink, you’re back to the grain of the table, tracing along it with your nail. Paul leans forward, brows furrowed. “If the region of Sabberon is destabilized – controlled by Harkonnens or in civil conflict – we could lose almost all of our exports. It’s a crucial line of trade in the system for us.” He echoes your concern, “Giving them access to the resources is dangerous enough, but a near-monopoly on petroleum, Spice, and the Space Trade Route?”

There is a spark of intrigue at the sharp point of his intelligence – but nonetheless, you merely nod in agreement, pushing away any such girlish thoughts in sacrifice of the matter at hand.

Gurney Halleck’s voice cuts through your observation of Paul’s hair against the light: “We need to consider this carefully. If the Harkonnens make a move to Sabberon, we must be ready to respond. But acting first could have larger consequences.”

Duke Leto nods; with a glance to the War Master and back to the others. “Halleck's right. The Referendum is soon – the Landsraad will be redrawing the Trade negotiations then,” His gaze flickers to you, “–and your arraignment is set for the same congress. It seems the best option is to wait.”

Dread fills you; stuck between a rock and a hard place, you’re left with nothing to do but wait – wait for the impending trade drawings, for the impending arraignment. You’re no fool – the arraignment might leave you with no inheritance, no claim to Sabberon. Your gut coils in anxiety, and it is not soothed by the urgent sense that curbs the meeting: plans are drawn out to set more strategy meetings before the Referendum; you are requested to attend them.

Fear clubs up the ridges of your spine with each nod you give to passersby – and a panic pulls your eyelids to droop, your brain aching for rest.

By the time you return to your chambers, you are much too exhausted to seek lunch.

Instead, you are asleep within minutes.

Your name calls to you.

A hum in response as you thread your fingers through locks of curls; in the distance, birds sing. The sun drags streaks flying across the sky in its descent, and flakes flutter gently around you – though it smells not of snowfall. A bonfire crackles somewhere, you can smell the heady cedar embers, see the flames in your blinks.

Your hair is tugged; in a huff of laughter, you tug the tresses laced between your own fingers – but in another surprising jolt, you’re tugged again and you gasp, catching the flicker in green eyes. “That hurt,” Your floating voice chides, though there is no malice – your words are faint and dancing around the falling flakes – a warm palm grasps your jaw to tilt your head up.

“I'm very sorry,” he does not even trying to cover the lie, smiling against the dying sun. “Let me ease the pain,” He whispers, gentle and teasing against your jaw. A faint chuckle when he nips down your exposed neck and you breathe out; His hands are quite daring, slipping your dress over your head until you're bare against the sheet, blinking up warmly at the forest. The breeze of springtime is chill and disarming against your flesh; birds sing. His fingers trace you slowly.

And there is nothing but arousal snaking through you as he sinks lower, lips painting a path back up your thighs, nipping gently at your soft skin; A swat to the top of his head, and a short noise of protest from him in response as you bite back a smile.

“Paul,” you whisper, and it disappears through the trees as if off to find some other world. He hums in a teasing lilt, vibrations rippling from his lips to your warm skin, sending a cascade of goosebumps through you.

“Come back to me,” you whisper – and he listens, though he usually doesn't; His lips are replaced by his hips and soon, after a small roll, a gentle moan leaks from your lips. It is still slightly cold in the death of spring, but his skin is warm; His lips are warm.

“I'm here, aren't I?" His eyes are upon yours, and your stomach flutters, “I'm always here.”

And when he slides into you slowly, his lashes tangle in a kiss of deep brown – and your head tilts back against the sheet, his hand hitting the trunk of the Pine above your head, grasping with a thud; a long whimper is swallowed by his lips, consumed by his warmth, by the deep sensation that sends your back to arch.

And any semblance of chivalry dissipates as Paul begins to move; A palm gliding up from your hip, sliding over your breasts, pinching a pert nipple before rising – and you with a clutch upon his shoulders, grasping the warm skin and revelling in the sweet relief of pleasure. Fingers glide over your heaving chest as hips slide into your own – you’re pushed down against the earthy floor in ecstasy, and his grasp finds it suddenly–

A finger traces over the emblem clasped around your throat: A hawk, cerulean and shining, over your sweat-sheened, thundering chest.

And before any such disdain can leak from lips so wanting of affection, he’s pulling with a startling force – the necklace breaks under Paul’s grasp and falls apart, stones and pearls rolling over your bare chest and pooling onto the sheet below you.

And it’s a thing of pleasure, the way your hand snakes to press his grasp to your thundering heart; the pendant is thrown far behind you as Paul’s desperation leaks through.

A groan from his lips as his hand squeezes over your neck just lightly, your own grasping it in a shocking pleasure – it is unlike any sensation you’ve yet experienced, and soon pours his breaths and groans like a river of desire broken for you. A whispered phrase, over and over, spilling from your lips and his alike – lulling you into a state of euphoria as his body rocks with yours, breathing to the earth and feeling it breathe back.

Hands grasp skin tight and desperate – your nails find the line of his smooth back, clutching to the lithe muscles that move with his hips; and he, tracing each curve of your face and neck with his lips, gasping as the flakes that fall around you begin to burn as embers. Smoke lingers somewhere far off; though you are with your husband and you cling to him, whispering that same phrase over, and over – a jolted gasp of pleasure – and once more; over, and over, and over –

“I'm yours.”

Something rouses you from sleep, much quicker this time, and you wake with a start.

Broad daylight streams through your chamber windows when your eyes open, your heart thundering as you shift on the sheets; A blurry form comes into view, fluffing the untouched pillow beside you on the bed. You do not strike this time, instead swarmed with shame and embarrassment in the wake of such tangible dreams.

“Bad dream again?” Hestia she sets down a fresh set of clothing; you swallow and wince at your dry throat, heart thudding. Bad dream... You can feel your face flood with embarrassment – you'd rather be caught dead than admit what you'd just dreamt, so instead you push your hair from your face, fanning your cheeks.

“Yes.” You croak, accepting the glass of water she offers you, “I did not mean to fall asleep.”

The sheets are warm and your spine is lined with sweat; you slide out of your bed with the elegance of a newborn mare, eyes flicking around.

The sky is sunny, not a single rain cloud; and your chambers are heavy, tight.

“I need some fresh air.”

Paul’s shadow dances across the wild grass as the midday sun follows his steps.

The breeze is much more permanent down by the shore; he brushes stray curls from his eyes, tracing the shoreline below with a lingering absence; It's only a few hours until he should be back in the strategy chambers with his father, helping draw plans for the upcoming Referendum – but the castle has grown stuffy and sterile at the same time, and his stomach growls in hunger. He needs some fresh air.

Though the sea mists his cheeks, his mind is stuck high above him, spinning in the memory of the Strategy Council meeting. Paul would be struck dead a liar if he were to say you were not one of the most intelligent women he’s met; and after this morning, there is truly nothing much else he has been able to think of – and despite himself, the growing bud of admiration sprouts within his mind, even despite your predisposition to violence and solitude.

Paul almost feels foolish for how blinded he was – if war is really on the horizon, he supposes it’s very lucky that House Atreides took you in; If not for your capabilities and sharp intellect, then for your claim to Sabberon, for your connections with the Ginaz and their Swordsmen; for your intimate knowledge of Harkonnen power.

It’s now as important as ever that Paul ensures you remain on the Atreides’ side, should this war come – a burden to hold you should you somehow wish to return to the black embrace of Giedi Prime, but one he will have to keep. Because you are too valuable to his House to let you go over trivial things; Politics is all two way streets; you will help them with your insights and they will protect you. And with this, perhaps, comes the truth – that Paul has begun to learn of you, of the you that shines through any small cracks in the armor.

And over the meadow he walks, he sees that lush green forest again; a woodpecker against bark, your hands sliding into his own as you lean him back against the trunk of a tree – the smell of smoke, an explosion on the horizon; laughter swallowed by the wind, lips pressed to parted lips.

Paul sighs harshly.

He's not sure if it was the correct decision to tell his mother about these dreams, instead of his father; skepticism is a biting friend as his feet trudge over the cliff and down, closer to the beach.

Paul loves his mother, but he is indeed not naive to the manipulative nature of the Bene Gesserit; in some dreadful way, he wonders once more which silent partners in the Imperium influenced the decision for the Houses to order his betrothal to you.

A small whisper in the back of his mind, that sickly voice of the Reverend Mother those years ago: Two candidates... Paul may one day be one of them–

The skittering of a rabbit through the grass calls his attention to the path, his jaw clenched tight.

The wind is swallowed by the structure under which he ducks; It is a small alcove – one of many below the cliffs which hold a cluster of tidepools, small and large. And this particular one catches his eye, just on the left – a soft smile grows upon weary lips.

When he was younger, he often played in these very alcoves with the few other children his age in the castle; swimming, playing hide-and-seek, sparring with wooden daggers.

His feet take him into the alcove without any hesitation – the rock grows slick with seawater and the scent of the brackish pools; it isn't until he's into the shade that he sees the figure seated among the pools.

You wear the same clothing you'd donned at the Strategy Council, your feet bare and dipped into the shallow waters.

For a moment, he considers turning back to his path towards the beach; but your back grows rigid as you turn to him, and he’s struck with a breath of beauty blowing in the breeze of your veil.

A thick silence; a silence lived between you, lodged like an unwanted burden – it has been some time since you were last alone. A memory of his shaking hands, the bite in your words as you’d clasped that pendant to your chest - of that sheer veil, of your glistening gaze across the table.

It is time to leave such hesitancy behind; and so with a tentative swallow, Paul takes a few steps closer.

“I hadn't expected to find you here,” An honest and neutral observation.

Somewhere beyond that gauzy veil, you stare back at him; and your fingers twitch towards the blade upon your hip before curling once more into a soft fist, cradled in a palm. “Nor I you,” you reply coolly – and in the uneasy silence, Paul sacrifices his pride and endures the agony of discontent.

He does not ask if you mind if he joins you – he knows that you would; so instead he sits gently, leaving a wide berth of space between you.

And while you bristle at his arrival, stiffening as he sits across from you and drops the bag from his back beside him, he cannot bring himself to blame you.

It is a peculiar posture you give; a cradling of your hand as you watch the ripples in the tide pool that he slowly dips his feet into – it is soon that he recognizes the gives of pain from your figure. And that very agony it is almost palpable in your silence as he looks down at where you rub the skin of your hand, swollen and red.

“I assume you met the crabs.”

And the headdress of metal jewelry that adorns the crown of your forehead chimes when you turn to watch him, surprise laced into your posture.

“I did.”

Your affirmation is punctuated by an unfurling of your palm, revealing blistered, irritated skin; He winces more for your own sake than in true surprise before letting his eyes roam gently over the near landscape – moss grows in clumps throughout the rocky pools, though he searches for that short, stalky root which grows just outside the reach of the water.

And after spotting one beside you, he reaches; you flinch, though he pays no mind to the hitch in your breath as he gives the stalk a quick tug – and the plant is ripped out, roots and all.

He hands you the root of the stalk, gesturing for you to take it: “You can use this plant.”

And in your evergreen poise, you grasp the root hesitantly, as if sensing a trap. It dangles limp from your grasp, earthy as the gems upon your jewelry – and you return to your statued posture, watching him, faceless and green as the moss around you.

He nods after a moment of awkward breath, gesturing to the stalk. “Chew it.”

You do nothing but breathe at him for a moment – and perhaps if he could see your eyes, he’s sure he would find disbelief; Skepticism. And perhaps if it were any other time, any other person, he’d laugh at the silent incredulity that leaks between you.

He shifts, feet circling in the pool of water. “It soothes the itch and the pain. You chew it, and spit it onto your palm.” Patience is lost when you do not respond – and perhaps out of the growing blush on his cheeks in your refusal to act, he sighs sharply, “It's not poisonous.”

I'm not trying to kill you, he almost says; but something in him stops the words before they leave his mouth and he instead tilts his head in a short mock of your own.

And he swears in the breeze carries a huff from beneath that gauzy fabric – and then the root disappears rather awkwardly under your veil.

In the glinting light of the cave, he can just nearly make the shape of your lips, hear the small snap of the stalk between your teeth. And in the quiet lap of waves against the shore in the distance, Paul watches expectantly – from years of habit, he is used to the milky taste; but he remembers how unpleasant it can be the first time.

And those eyes catch his own, some phantom force from behind shades of green – slowly, you spit it out onto your palm, as if questioning if you were doing it right. Paul’s face feels suddenly warm – a trail of saliva falls from lips glistening in the spare ray of sun, alight with a forested green and the milky blood of the root. It is a harsh reminder of the dream he'd woken up from this very morning; and with a sudden sense of panic – as if you might somehow reach into his mind and see such salacious thoughts – he forces the visions away.

The waves lap idly against his feet; you rub the mixture into your palm quietly.

“How did you know to do that?”

Your voice is curious, and the fingers not matted with the root-paste press against the spongy moss beside your pants. You’re a vision of that first day, when you’d whispered words of interest at the very plant nor beneath your touch; a vision of green and poise, of stoic quiet and twitching fingers. Despite himself, Paul’s lips curl up in a small grin.

Squinting against the sunshine, the beach in the distance is a warbly thing, foamed and bubbled by the current – and his left shoulder shrugs. “I played here when I was young. I got pinched a lot.”

You don't necessarily laugh, but there’s an exhalation from your nose that curves his own lips; and when, after a few more minutes, you reach to rinse your hand in the pool before you, the angry skin has returned to its glowing health.

Waves crash quietly within the cove and Paul warily watches one of the bluecrabs meander across a rock beside you – just when he parts his lips to warn you, your fingers move away, head tracking its path across and towards the smaller pool behind you.

And in the moment of silence, he hears the unmistakable rumble of your stomach.

“Are you hungry?” He asks suddenly, clearing his throat; Your hand has taken to drawing idle circles in the tidepool, and you hardly cease the hypnotizing movements as you shrug with a small nod. “I slept through lunch today.”

A moment of hesitation before he looks over his shoulder at you – unassuming, running your nails across the patch of bare skin awarded by the cuffing of your trouser legs; and slowly, from the bag beside him, he pulls out the food that he'd taken from the kitchen.

Apples, crackers, some imported cheese; sparkling juice from the vineyards south of Cala City, and a foil filled with bits of chocolate.

But through his focus on unwrapping the pack, your voice cracks into the cove, incredulous – almost amused. “This was all for you?”

Paul bristles defensively, giving you a wide glance, cheeks warm. “I was hungry,” He defends; and with a hard blink, he’s brought back to the week previous, when all that he saw when you were around was red – anger, trepidation, mistrust.

And though thoughts whirl in his mind quicker than he can catch – of you, your family, your time on Giedi Prime – he finds himself mildly pleased with the stalemate that has come about; a hand reached across an abyss, and a hesitant grasp in return.

Your voice is light when you speak again. “If I can confess,” your head trails down sheepishly – Paul’s attention follows you. “The veils have never made it easy to enjoy a long supper. They tangle in my hair no matter how it's styled, anyways.”

And despite himself, he huffs a short laugh; was that a hint of a joke, from you?

It is not so abnormal, veils – he has known many women in his life to wear them – but never in a custom such as yours; to not remove it in front of anybody for months and months of mourning – He cannot fathom how bizarre a change it must be, even if it is how you were raised.

So when your hands raise, he does not expect them to go towards the hem of the fabric.

And he does not expect you to slide it from the crown of your head.

It is sharply that he whips his head away; in a skipped heartbeat, the glimpse of your hair unfettered by the green gauze haunts his mind – what in the hell are you doing?

Paul’s heart thunders against his chest, though he cannot find any words to string into a meaningful sentence – he watches a bluecrab crawl into the pool across the way.

“I don't mean to shock you,” your voice is so very close, now; he swallows down the flutter in his throat at its lilt, “Truth be told, I'm not even sure if I'm supposed to wear these still.”

Confusion laces through his mind – the rock you sit upon is wetted and dark, clumped with bright emerald moss; and you, as if unknowingly, throw kindle into the fire of nerves in his chest.

A mirthful tone you bring with your words: “You don't have to look away, you know. I'm still the same beast as before.”

And he does look, after that.

Paul cannot help himself: he stares at you – really you – no fabric to cover the slope of your nose, the curve of your chin, the round of your cheeks; the way your brows gather, a canopy above the most expressive eyes he’s ever seen in his life.

And your hair is loose – let wild and uncovered, swayed gently by the sea breeze; glossy in the glint of sun off the sea in the distance. Paul wonders absently, in some foul derivative of jealousy or hatred, if Feyd-Rautha enjoyed your hair; unique as it surely was on a planet full of hairless beings.

Paul quickly schools himself – perhaps in another life, he’d be rather ecstatic to see that he has such a beautiful bride-to-be; yet it just serves to wash over another pang in his stomach. Your words of moments ago haunt over his mind as he once more meets your eyes, waiting for him. I'm still the same beast as before.

There is some inevitability to your gaze – disfavored to him, yes – but perceptive, knowing.

The pull of the tide must be answered by the shore, Dr. Yueh once told him; Perhaps that is true, and perhaps that is why Paul stares at you, the sense of mistrust breaking way to a new sense of dread, of regret.

You are no beast to me, he should say. But he doesn't; not when he’s unsure if it would be a lie coming from his lips.

Instead, he can only voice the astonishment in his mind at the sight of your veil held between your hands. “Why did you take it off?”

You blink; heavens, your lashes are long – they kiss your cheeks against the soft light from the grotto. He swallows thickly, busying himself with the apple and a knife.

Your voice comes as matter-of-fact as you’d been in the meeting that very morning. “Well, I'm quite hungry.”

You lean over – your tunic rustles in the movement, and Paul averts his gaze from the glinting necklace upon your chest, the slide of your hair upon the fabric of your back. Slowly, you take to slicing the cheese for you both with your very own blade – and Paul’s confusion has not quelled, but instead grown in the breeze of your nearly casual movements.

It’s as if the veil took with it the cold, calculating dissidence; you sit in front of him a young woman, plain. Pretty, sharp, cunning; but, simpler than that: Hungry.

A simple thing indeed – one that, as his own stomach rumbles, he knows he relates to. And so he offers you a slice of apple warily, watching you with some lingering shame, as if he's stumbled upon on a shrine long since sacred and wanting.

“I thought you wore them for nine months,” He states, tilting his head, "The anthropologists in the video said–”

But you’ve reared to stare at him, blinking in some odd vision of shock: “–Nine months?" You interrupt, voice more animated than he's ever heard; it nearly startles him, the youth in your voice, the life. You nearly bemoan, furrowing your brows as if hoping to recall a long lost memory. “It’s hardly been three weeks and I’ve already begun to fantasize burning them.”

Confusion must paint his expression, for your face changes sheepishly, falling into a solemn line. “Forgive me,” You clear your throat, “It's grown apparent to me as of late that am not well-versed in my own customs.”

And it is a stony, quick change from your previous cadence; Paul’s brows furrow, though you seem to offer him further elaboration as you take in his countenance.

“My family did not often uphold many of the old religion's traditions once I got old,” You sigh as you chew on an apple, tilting your head, “I was educated by the Bene Gesserit as my mother wished when I was young - and in many ways, our family adopted their customs in replacement of our heritage culture.”

It is a stone dropped into his stomach at your words, though he lets no emotion betray him – your voice licks with the lilt of trepidation in the mention of the Bene Gesserit; and your eyes, wide and expressive, only pull him in despite the foreboding churn of his stomach.

This is certainly not what Paul expected – why, then, have you been wearing the veil so devotedly?

“I have a book,” He says dumbly – and with a cleared throat, he ignores the sudden flush that crawls from the collar of his tunic. “If you– if you want to read more about it.”

You fix him with a look, and he’s struck by the rawness of your features. “A book?” you echo, and he shifts upon his seat awkwardly.

“About your family's customs. I j–” he stops himself, combing a stray curl back, “We thought it would be pertinent to know what your courting traditions are, what your customs are. To make you… comfortable,” he reasons gently, guilty that it was not so apparent from the beginning, “If… if we are to marry, it should be honorable. For both of us.”

It's as if his words have seeped into the spongy spin of your mind; your eyes have grown distant as they course over the shoreline across the way, brows settling in a line across the smooth skin of your forehead. Moments pass and the words he left hanging in the air stay; Waves kiss the sand of the cove and Paul toys with the knife in his hands quietly. He’s unsure how he might pull you from those cold depths of your thoughts, and so he sits, watching your lips purse and catch between your pearled teeth gently.

And after a moment, you come back to him. “Thank you,” You say – and your voice is once again that blank, cold tone – as if a wall had been snapped up suddenly, “I only remember wearing the veils when I was–” You break off for a moment, ripping the skin from a slice of apple. “When my sister died. I wasn’t quite old enough to remember much from it, and… I was eighteen when I left Sabberon. As I got older, our castle was so often full of visitors that we would regularly forgo most customs of my father’s family.”

It is a melancholy thing when you look back up at him. “If I can be honest, I… suppose I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Involuntary as it is, Paul cannot help his gaze from darting to the necklace you wear around your neck; and just as quickly he moves to search your visage – looking perhaps for any emotion. He finds none.

I shall wear it like a dog.

The breeze catches your hair. Paul’s brows furrow, “The veil wasn’t your choice,” he realizes. Guilt, that drooping, wilting guest, slumps upon the stoop of his heart.

And you shrug, glancing at your lap, “True, it’s been a long time since I’ve been able to make choices for myself,” you admit – and it’s an admission far too heavy for the air in the cove, as you swirl your toes in the pool, as his own press to the rock beneath the water, his heart heavy. A hand flickers to the veil that lies with its adorning metal headpiece to your left. “I guess taking it off is one of them.” You clear your throat, nails digging into the earth exposed from where Paul had ripped the root – and your other hand rises, almost as if you endure a sharp pain in your ribs – and you cradle the spot, fingers lingering in a haunting line before falling to the rock below. “Feyd-Rautha would not have let me wear the veil even if I had wanted to. But at least I am making the choice for myself now.”

And it is a jolting reminder, one of horror – when you had arrived on Caladan, Duncan's arm still bleeding with the result of your fight, Paul had seen a Harkonnen. A dagger wrapped in layers of silk and velvet.

And perhaps the Caladan air has changed you; but more likely, you have begun to heal yourself – and although you do not look well-rested, there are indeed healing wounds upon your arms; wounds that churn Paul’s stomach, that strike his heart in acrimony, in wrath. A nightmare, you’ve come from – and he knows now that whatever you’ve endured is something that would break many.

Still, you’ve changed in a gradual shift: You are not so fervent or distrusting as you were those first few days – though you remain that ghost haunting the halls, you walk with less wrath, more credence; He knows you speak with your chambermaids freely – you take sparring lessons with Duncan after Paul each day, and tutor in the mornings before he does. Your voice in council this morning: Grown and defrosting, confident; born to take on such a role.

You sit perched upon the dark rock – the light hits your hair and the slope of your nose, bathing your eyelashes in an ethereal glow. You’re a sharp woman, keen and astute; He watches your straight spine, the slow breaths which grow from a proud chest.

You will make a good duchess.

And in a moment, Paul notices – a wide gaze, searching his face; it occurs to him that perhaps this is also the first time you have seen him unobstructed. And so, with an odd feeling in the pit of his stomach, he lets you stare; a secret relish in the silence and its change in demeanor.

A once excruciating thing, leaking with the sentiment of shared disdain, of mutual mistrust – though now grows a respect, or maybe the roots to it; a slow thing, plotten in frozen soil and hoped to grow despite harsh weathers.

You finish your half of the apple, and he watches the glint of your necklace as you lean back upon your palms. “Can I…” His voice breaks through as an ocean does a cliff; “Can I ask you something?”

It is a beautiful collar. I shall wear it like a dog.

And Paul is so very suddenly tired – fatigued from his lessons, the council, the marriage, the prospect of war with the Harkonnens, of his dreams; his head feels as though it swims, light above the clouds and yet tethered to the ground below.

Your brows dip slightly, as if your hackles rise. “Yes,” you murmur warily, eyes roving over his figure.

He swallows thickly, willing himself to spit it out. “Do you choose to wear that?”

He need not gesture to the necklace that hangs around your neck; and you, stilling in the cold wind of truth. When it comes, it is not through words: Your eyes are wide and, if Paul did not know better, they reveal the sting of fear.

You say nothing, but in time, you shake your head slightly.

And this does not ease his conscience.

It is an echo of words bitten through clenched teeth and the onslaught of rain; it is in the weeping willows of that ceremonial dress, in the sliding of shade over your veil that first time he ever met you.

He’s not sure why he says it, but it comes as a whisper, as wind snuffs out a flame, as fog creeps across the shoreline in the early hours:

“Threats demand evolution.”

His murmur is swallowed by the breeze in the cove, by the rustle of the veil beside you.

His words bristle your spine, though you say nothing; and for a long minute, he avoids the burning stare of your gaze against his profile.

It is only after the food is prepared and spread over the moss between you that you speak; and in the time it takes for Paul to lay out the food, it occurs to Paul that this is the most you and him have spoken without being plagued by tense silences or passive-aggression – or at least without enduring the childish embarrassment of being mediated by his parents as they ask you both questions at the supper table.

A nail, trimmed and coated in a deep paint, traces the glass bottle that lies half in the bag – the soft clink of your tap brings his gaze from the pools below. “Did you intend on drinking yourself drunk this afternoon?” You wonder – a warmer tone, that inkling of amiability returning so suddenly.

He hands you a piece of bread and his knife, shaking his head wryly – though the lingering hesitance of unfamiliarity restricts him from jesting in return.

Having intended to be alone, Paul had not grabbed a glass, let alone two; and so he grasps the bottle by its neck, twisting on the cage atop it to begin to open it. An irritating curl lies across his forehead – and so he flicks his head to jolt it out of the way; your gaze tracks the motion.

“It's sparkling tea.”

At his words you hum slowly, glancing at the bottle in his hands.

“That’s a shame.” You muse, hand brushing one of your own strands away, “I've never tried wine.”

Paul's eyes flicker to you in surprise; Had you not been offered wine at supper here? Had you never had it in your youth, as a highborn?

“Not even when you were young?”

And you shake your head, a wistful smile gracing your lips; your hair is silken, even in the shade – Paul hadn't expected it to be such a shade, but suits you.

“Never,” you confirm, “Where I come from, our preferred drinks are mead or ale, usually served warm. And…” You trail off, shrugging, “On Giedi Prime they favor liquor that is made from anise – you know, the spice?” You inquire, and continue when he nods, “It's much too bitter for my taste,” you continue, your voice tinged with a similar bitterness that you describe, “And even if I did enjoy it, I… tried not to drink there, when I could.”

Paul looks out to the sea – clouds crawl in an ominous roll towards the shore, the air thick – it’ll rain this evening.

There is nothing to say; and so, he begins to ease his thumb over the cork, pressure pushing against him.

“In the South, all that grows are fields and fields of vines,” he explains after the moment passesa dn clouds swallow the sunlight. Dripping sun, wide-reaching hands of vines, drooping with heavy clusters of sweetgrapes in the South. “They make all kinds of fine wine there. Sweet, sparkling, aged.”

You hum at this, your gaze tracking his own to the sea, tracing the crash of waves against the stark cliffs in the distance.

Your small lunch passes by in intermediate silence after this: Both you and Paul are insatiably hungry, and in minutes the food is nearly gone – you’re not particularly warm, and neither is he; and it matters not. He is well consumed with his own thoughts to give himself the company you do not provide.

Though as the sun continues its peak in the sky and you continue to eat quietly – clearly attempting to remain amiable with him – a sense of regret bubbles in his chest.

“I owe you an apology.”

And it startles you – his throat is dry, and your jump goes unaddressed, your nails digging into the moss beneath as he refuses to meet your gaze. “I've…” He pushes away the pride that burns at his throat, “I’ve treated you poorly. Acted like a child,” he admits.

In his peripheral, you turn to him.

His sigh is weary. “I didn't expect for it to happen like this,” and the corner of his mouth lifts mirthlessly – emotionless, as he gazes to the coast. An understatement on his part, and surely yours, too – but it is indeed the truth.

And perhaps it is not polite to admit to your betrothed that you loathe the idea of marrying them, but he knows the feeling is more than mutual. And he does not blame you for it.

Paul is admittedly not usually one for so many words with a stranger – but they come forth very easily in the quiet of the cove. “I was… displeased with how this worked out. Shocked. But–” He shakes his head, unwilling to lose his thought, “But that doesn't excuse how I've treated you.”

You don't say anything, but he can feel how tense you've grown – a statue once more in the dying afternoon sunshine. You have every reason to hate the Harkonnens just as much as his family – if not much more; and with a clammy palm, Paul runs his hand over his forehead.

The thunderclouds loom in the horizon; the salt carries thick in the growing wind.

And with the absence of your words – perhaps in a moment of resignation, he says your first name; Never having said it out loud, it comes out as a murmur on his lips, a small hymn that coaxes your gaze to his own.

“This path was set for us.” He admits, swallowing thickly, “Though we can–” He turns to watch your eyes, how they swirl with unbridled emotion. “Maybe we can navigate it together.”

And in the afterbreath of his words, your breathing is heavy with emotion. Paul is not naive enough to believe it is tears, though he averts his gaze all the same.

“Yeah,” you finally whisper – and though it is dispassionate, withdrawn, it is laced with some small drip of desperation. “Yes.” You mend – though your eyes are far away, tracing the violence in the crashing waves, watching the foamy white caps break in their wake.

“I won't disrespect you again,” he insists, “I swear.”

You lift your feet from the water, curling them under you as you stir, nodding slowly. “Thank you,” Your eyes are sullen. “But don't make promises you can't keep, Paul.” And though he expected as much, the emptiness of your tone churns his heart and spins his head. “I've had my fill of broken vows.”

You aren't hostile in your words; instead they are melancholy, a dreary wind whistling through an empty ravine – beneath Paul, another small bluecrab treks across the terrain, rocking in the gentle water tides.

You’re right – and he's soon filled with the same sense of dread that he's felt after each dream that has haunted him since they began; that same melancholy which envelopes you as you rise, gathering your belongings, preparing to walk back to the castle.

And Paul walks beside you, little more than a few words escaping either of you as you go; a brush of your shoulder against the crook of his elbow, the hitch of a breath concealed with a glance to the shoreline.

By the time you enter the main gates, fat raindrops have begun to fall on Paul’s face, sticking heavy to his lashes.

You, likewise, shield slightly from the rain, your hair kissed with teardrops from the skies, sliding over your cheeks like the tears you’ll never give.

The halls are slick with intracked rainfall – workers offer towels, scold him, tease him; and yet they stare, though they try not to – eyes warm his neck, and pierce through the girl who walks at his side.

But still you walk with your head high, spine straight. Your eyes are guarded, almost insecure at the prying faces who watch your visage as you pass – but even as Paul walks you to your chambers, you don't give in.

And you don't put the veil back on.

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#paul atreides fanfic #paul atreides x reader #paul atreides x you #paul atredies x reader #dune 2021 #dune fanfiction #dune movie #dune part one #paul x reader #paul atreides smut #dune smut #dune fic

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janainaart · 1 month ago

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“Mythical figures live many lives, die many deaths, and in this they differ from the characters we find in novels, who can never go beyond the single gesture. But in each of these lives and deaths all the others are present, and we can hear their echo. Only when we become aware of a sudden consistency between incompatibles can we say we have crossed the threshold of myth.

Abandoned in Naxos, Ariadne was shot dead by Artemis’s arrow; Dionysus ordered the killing and stood watching, motionless. Or: Ariadne hung herself in Naxos, after being left by Theseus. Or: pregnant by Theseus and shipwrecked in Cyprus, she died there in childbirth. Or: Dionysus came to Ariadne in Naxos, together with his band of followers; they celebrated a divine marriage, after which she rose into the sky, where we still see her today amid the northern constellations. Or: Dionysus came to Ariadne in Naxos, after which she followed him around on his adventures, sharing his bed and fighting with his soldiers; when Dionysus attacked Perseus in the country near Argos, Ariadne went with him, armed to fight amid the ranks of the crazed Bacchants, until Perseus shook the deadly face of Medusa in front of her and Ariadne was turned to stone. And there she stayed, a stone in a field.

No other woman, or goddess, had so many deaths as Ariadne. That stone in Argos, that constellation in the sky, that hanging corpse, that death by childbirth, that girl with an arrow through her breast: Ariadne was all of this.”

– Roberto Calasso, from The Marriage of Cadmus and Harmony

#ariadne #dionysus #mythology #quote #tw: death

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nemesyaaa · 7 months ago

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Seven days // Zach mclaren x female!reader

Summary ; After an injury from soccer, Zach is forced by his doctor to rest his feets at home which leads him to order food. It was just supposed to be one night, but it was before seeing how pretty you are. And this is how you end up meeting him almost every night on your shift because he couldn't stop himself from ordering just to see you on his door . The food is great but he's now looking for another taste...

Warnings : None. it's purely romcom coded with all the fluff plotline and the cheesy lines filled because i needed this <3 (the delivery trope is so much underrated.)

Author's note : This is dedicated to @nadvs because we belong in the same zach fanclub. but also it's for all the zach's girlies. ✨‼️

There was no one who loved winter more than you. you were always the first to look forward to this season of the year. From the month of November, you waited at your bedroom window for the first snowflakes, the first white trees, the first mist on the window, the first icy breath on the snowfall. You couldn't wait for the city to be immersed in the Christmas spirit with all the decorations in the streets, the lightened places, the warm outfits to alleviate the chattered teeth and the frozen hands stuck on the pocket. The sunny sky above the roofs of the houses completely covered in snow, the sidewalks buried under the ice, and the snow was so pretty to contemplate in the parks, northern lights and the winter landscapes.

You were definitely a winter girl. that night like all the others where you were not with your nose buried in your books or on the screen of your phone scrolling all your tiktok fyp, you were working as a delivery girl in a chinese restaurant a few meters away from your home. The old couple who ran the house had agreed to take you in, even without any professional experience, and you had always been grateful to them. They were friendly people with immigrant backgrounds like you. You bonded easily, and you were a bit like their granddaughter. It was crazy how the clash of cultures could bring people together.

Because you had been lazing around in your bed for too long, you had to take a fast shower, and leave the apartment quickly. you hadn't even been able to put on a coat as you were already heading to your workplace. the only thing you had time to do was get into the frosty december mood with an eternal classic of your playlist music in your ears called “Last Christmas” by Wham.

you didn't like being late, because it made it seem like you didn't take your job seriously even though it was currently one of the things that mattered the most to you. you had good bosses, nice colleagues and in addition to your salary, you received generous tips. you may not have been rich but life offered you countless things to make you happy.

the only thing she had never given you before was a boyfriend. you'd like to say you weren't desperate about it but you were already in your late twenties and had no experience. it shouldn't be shameful to be single and a virgin but you were starting to believe that you would never find the right person. However, you had crushes but you were just good at accumulating them, not collecting them.

a woman should think more about her studies than about guys. and you agreed, but it was terribly frustrating to see the whole world pairing up when you had never kissed anyone, or even discovered what true love was. it was completely ridiculous.

you pushed the door of the restaurant, your entrance punctuated by a shrill sound of a bell. you greeted your work colleagues, put on your outfit and apologized to the bosses. you were ready to return to service.

“I don't mind if you're late here, but don't be late for the customer " the grandmother behind the counter gently scolded you, with a compassionate smile on her face.

“There is no faster or more reliable delivery person than me. I remind you that I have five stars on the site.”

“think you can beat me?” Spencer, one of your work colleagues, had challenged you.

“i already did. but thanks you, you’re adorable but keep going, I love seeing you believe in your dreams.”

you giggled before grabbing the bag of food. when you looked up at the address, your eyes widened.

“ what's the matter ? ” he asked because of the sudden look in your face. “ Something's wrong ? ”

“ it's just…i already delivered this guy almost everyday this week…i'm just kinda surprised, you know ? ”

“ you doubt the quality of my food ? ” questioned your boss with a fake offended tone.

“ no, lady su. nobody makes better food as you in this town but isn't-it strange ? ”

"maybe it's not about the food that he orders so much." had simply commented on the grandfather who passed by with a steaming tray of delicious dumplings with a plate of Peking duck.

you rolled your eyes, not believing a word he had just said. but he replied with a wink. sometimes you wondered if they weren't your real grandparents.

you left the restaurant before starting your motorcycle. on the way, you began to regret not having brought a jacket or scarves because you were starting to shiver. the cold was terrible with the wind which literally felt like a blizzard. your body felt colder against the temperature and you had been sneezed on several times. your ears were icy, and you were sure your bones were frozen. at least your fingers were.

you parked in front of the building. you rang the bell for him to open the building door for you before going up the stairs.

you knew the place by heart now that you came there every day. even though you tried not to think about it, it gave you a strange feeling knowing that he ordered at the restaurant every day. it was quite curious. you recognized that the food was incredibly good, but so much so that he wanted to eat it every day?

no way.

impossible.

you weren't complaining about having such a good client, it was very cool but you had to ask yourself questions. you barely had time to knock on the door when it opened, as if he had pathetically and desperately waited behind until you arrived.

“hey” his voice was always so friendly, so eager to greet you.

“hey” you replied with the same intonation, before handing over the bag of food.

Usually, you never bothered to take a closer look at your customers. you delivered and left but this time, you couldn't help but observe him from the third time you came. he must have been the same age as you. he was easily taller than you, his size forcing him to look down on your frame. he had intensely blue eyes, even brighter in the light of the hall.

and you could tell by his athletic shape that he had a sports career at his college. but judging by the way he grimaced when he walked, it was on break. you could tell that he had recently had a problem with his foot. you didn't need to have studied medicine to know that.

even if he wanted to hide it from you, you could hardly ignore that he was in pain.

as he picked up his bag, you sneezed. three times in a minutes. you tried to appear completely normal but it would have been hard for him to act like he hadn’t heard anything.

“i’m s-sorry.” you apologized. “ i'm fine. ”

“don’t tell me you deliver in those clothes ? ”

"it's okay. it's not about the co..." you sneezed.

“what did you say already?” he mocked you softly. “hold on. can you wait just a second?”

“w..."

you couldn't finish your sentence as he already had his back turned to you. you sighed slightly. you couldn’t lie about how terribly cold you were. you were shaking, and your cheeks were frozen.

when he returned, he was holding a jacket in his hand.

“I can’t accept it, I’m sorry.” you politely refused.

“I’m not going to let you go without it.”

“It’s embarrassing. and it’s not mine.”

he placed the jacket on your shoulders, ignoring your words. “now it’s yours. ”

“ you're too kind. I’ll give it back to you after my shift.” you replied, thanking him.

“It can wait until tomorrow.”

"Are you sure? I don't want to take advantage of your kindness."

“you’re better like that…” he hesitated for a long time before answering. “It looks good on you, better than it does on me.”

“then I should keep it.” you joked.

your little moment was interrupted by the vibration of your phone. it was spencer. you smiled, and replied “sorry, I have to go.”

you came home around two in the morning, the night had been long but warmer with your client's jacket on your back. you felt so good in it that when you got home, you kept it on for a few more minutes. the garment carried his scent, it was soft and surprisingly light as a perfume.

the next night he ordered again. you had left home early so as not to be late for work. he ordered at the same time every day, and he was very conscientious about this detail. so he was always your first customer of the day.

you had picked up the food, and walked over to his house in a fuzzy coat and matching boots. you had opted for something warmer, and you were carrying three bags in your hands. Chinese food, coat and apple shortbread with an aromatic touch of cinnamon and spices. you had spent your free time cooking instead of studying in order to thank him for kindly lending you his coat because it had saved you.

you followed the recipe from a culinary influencer that you followed on Instagram. you hoped that would have an effect on him.

you rang the doorbell. and the moment he opened the door, you were about to greet him with your charming delivery girl voice, but the words stuck wildly in your throat. you swallowed hard, forcing yourself to stay calm.

you were by no means shy, but he had literally managed to shove all of your self-confidence down your soul with his half-naked appearance. a hot steam hovered his tonic body and a white towel loosened his sculpted hips.

his chest was hot and wet as if he had just come out of a sauna. you wanted to look away but how were you supposed to ignore the size of his biceps when he rubbed his hair, the shaking movements of his arm making splash some beads of water. how were you supposed to ignore the six-packs exposed under your eyes. this body was just full of sins and you were about to lose your job if you heard your thoughts.

you gulped loudly, before finally being able to speak your mind. “ hey ! here’s your jacket. and i… ”

his smile was huge and in a way so warm. but mostly, it was his gaze. the way his eyes were fixed on your face, and your opened lips to catch every word of your mouth killed you. you tried to avoid his piercing stare but you couldn't escape it.

“ i made you some shortbread. i just hope you like cinnamon and apples. ”

“ you really made this for me ? ” he asked, like he couldn't believe it himself.

“ it's my way to show you how thankful i am. ”

“ seems like you've got a lot for me today. ”

“ "It's nothing. And you're a loyal customer. It's very nice to order from us every day. My bosses appreciate it."

“my name is zach.” he replied, holding out his hand to you.

“y/n.”

“I should have known you had a pretty name.”

you smiled before giving him all the bags. he returned a few seconds later with the tip. and your eyes widened at the amount.

“ wow... that's nice but i don't think I deserve that much money. "

“ you don't want my money ? ” he teased you softly, a little smile curving his lips. “ what can I offer you that would please you ? ”

“ you don't need to. just stay safe, okay ? ”

“ it comes from the girl who makes deliveries on cold winter days without a jacket. ”

“ i was stupid, it doesn't count. and I was late to my job, I didn't think too much. but now can you see ? i've got a superb coat. ”

he stared at you longer than he should. obviously, you were pretty. you were coming back from a long drive in the wind. you still had snowflakes in your hair, the tip of your nose was damp from the cold, your lips were slightly chapped and your breathing was foggy. you also wore an earmuff on your head which made your hair sag.

but you still looked so beautiful to him. his eyes were sparkling under the lights of the hall of his apartment.

“ would you mind if i ask you why you are ordering everyday ? i mean yea the food is really great and i'm happy that you're enjoying it truly. but it can't possibly be this awesome ? and deliveries cost some money at the end of the day, so is it…just about the food already ? ”

you know it was a risk to ask something like that but you couldn't hold yourself to hide this thought. you kept coming back everyday to his place, it was kinda your right to want to know. and also, he was not forced to answer you. you were anxious and afraid because you didn't want to seem bothered by him. you started to play with your fingers, slowly biting nervously your lower lip.

a little chuckle came from his mouth, before answering your thoughts. “ you've got me. ”

“ you think i'm dumb, zach ? ” you lighty joked to relieve the tension.

“ oh no. i know you're smarter than me, ma’am. ”

“ it's not true. you're just obvious. ”

“ but the food is really good. ” he defended himself by pulling out of the bag the box of noodles. “ want a bite ? ”

“ i'm working. ” you said.

“ actually, you're talking to me. ” he corrected.

how silly.

“ to be honest, i need to go back to work. my bosses will not be happy if i took too much time with a client. ”

“ then let's see each other without you being the delivery girl and me being the client. ”

“ i don't think it's professional. ”

“ think the way you stared at me when i opened the door was professional too ? ”

“ you know what you were doing. ” you mumbled in your throat.

“ and you're just mad because it worked. admit it, pretty. ”

you rolled your eyes and he laughed. “ it's not like you've got the body of an old man. ”

“ i'm a soccer player so i need to stay in good shape. i'm working out every day. ”

“ oh i totally suck at this game. ” you admitted.

“ you just need to learn. ” he answered. “ because, i promise, it's easy for a sport. ”

“ i don't know if i can trust you when i look at your foot…it doesn't look better since i come here…”

you didn't realize what you had just said until you caught his intense and piercing blue gaze on you. you looked away and he responded.

you had observed him. and you had just exposed it.

“It’s just an accident. It's nothing serious. I just have to be careful for a month but then I can start playing soccer and matches again. "

“you have to really love it to want to pick it up after an accident.”

“I don’t really have a choice.”

you would have loved to finish this conversation and even chat a little more with him but the clock was ticking and you had other clients.

"Okay. We can see each other again as normal people."

you wrote your number on a piece of paper before greeting him. you felt a little sorry for cutting him off in such a serious moment like this but you didn't have time anymore.

you couldn't afford to lose your job. you needed it. you were a student and you didn't really have the choice of working if you wanted to enjoy life, which was quite ironic.

When you got home, you had your phone on. zach sent you a message.

zach mclaren: hey

zach mclaren: your shortbreads were perfect

you: maybe i should start a business :)

(you boost my ego. thank you.)

zach mclaren: you know how to boost my ego too when you stare at me for so long

you: i was just checking that you don't get cold...

zach mclaren: you're not good at lying

zach mclaren: it's a compliment

you: i'm going to sleep.

zach mclaren: are you working tomorrow? i would love to see you

you: you're lucky. it's my day off.

it had already been half an hour since you said you were going to sleep but you continued to text zach. you would probably regret it tomorrow when you were half asleep in class but for now, you were responding to all his texts every second.

after your day of classes, you came home to change. you were meeting zach at the christmas market in a few minutes and you wanted to look presentable. you had arrived early for the meeting for fear of being too late, you hoped not to seem desperate or in too much of a hurry. when you saw his silhouette in the crowd, you smiled.

he was walking towards you, his hands in his pockets, and his lips were twisted into an adorable smile that was only addressed to you.

It was so warm in places like that but it was even better when you had someone by your side. you would think he was your boyfriend but he wasn't. you were still sadly single in winter.

“did you find something you like? " he asked.

“i was waiting for you.”

“ did you wait a long time ? ” he was now worried, but you reassured him.

“ also last time you said that you didn't have the choice to continue soccer…and i was wondering why ? i mean, there are a lot of alternatives. ”

“ i'm just…good at it ? i always focused on soccer since i'm a kid, and i've got no other skills or passions so i can't really give up. ”

“ there is no other things that you're good at except that ? i don't believe you. yes, i don't know you but you can't tell me you're only skilled at just shooting your feet in a ball. ”

“ i really need to show you what soccer is. ” he chuckled out loud, looking at you're confused look.

“ what do you do when you're at home ? you're just watching TV ? don't you read ? ”

“ it's boring to read. ”

you tried not to wince at his comment but your mouth was pursed slightly. “Have you ever tried to at least read some?”

you chatted while walking through the aisles filled with small traders. there was everything: jewelry, food, scented candles, soaps and body care, clothes and scarves, local products and a lot of other things.

“ i want to look at the scarves. maybe, i will find another one to add to my collection. ”

he nodded. honestly, all your desires were orders. he couldn’t say no to your sparkling eyes.

he followed you to the stand run by a lady behind her counter. she was quick to greet you as if you were her first customers of the day.

you grabbed the white scarf before wrapping it around your neck in front of the mirror. the wool was so soft.

you turned around to ask zach’s opinion but he was already looking at you. all his attention was fixed on you.

“it looks very pretty on you. you should pick that one. “

you didn't need to look in the mirror again because his gaze was terribly convincing.

White was certainly an ordinary color but with the tone of your skin, it was the ideal layering. the glow of your features was what made this scarf look so good, and what made you so attractive. Zach was literally watching you with stars in his eyes, trying so hard to not exposing his feelings but you were just so pretty with that accessory and your smile was literally taking his breath away. “ very pretty ” he whispered before towering with his height, using his hands to adjust the scarf around your neck.

His touch was so gentle, cold because of the snow that fell from the sky and gave your bones little shivers. You slowly met his gaze as his face was across yours, his fingers still wrapped around the fabric of the accessory.

Your mouth was agape, filled with tiny breathing that was tickling the space between you and him. You felt every snowflakes on your hair, your face getting colder with time.

When he took a step back, you looked away quickly.

“ i'm gonna take it then ! ”

“ you should. ”

when you were about to take out your wallet, he had already taken out his card to pay.

“You’re lucky to have a boyfriend like that. ” the lady commented.

“ he's n…” for some reason you didn’t continue your sentence.

you had just continued on your way to turn towards a food stand.

"you shouldn't have paid. I'll reimburse you..."

“I know but I wanted to do it. ”

"ok, then let me buy you something in return. why not a smoothie? athletes like that, right? it's fruity, it has vitamins. it's nutritious. let me find the perfect taste for you. ”

zach was lucky that you couldn't read his thoughts because he was gonna explode. hearing you talking about his health like that, turning yourself into a little nutritionist was something irreal for him. you were like a dream.

you were smart, gentle, soft and calm. you didn't need anything more to make him under your spell. just the way you were was enough. he was not the type to be difficult in regards to love, he could fall in love so easily with anyone. but the way you were, all the beauty that came from your brain, your physic, your gesture, your mind.

“ think you can do that without knowing every single thing about me ? ”

“ i know that you play soccer. ”

“ and ? ”

“ yea, you're kinda right. we don't know each other. but this is why we are here together in that marketplace. you're gonna talk to me about your life, the things you love, that make you happy and i will just be here, listening to you and realize that you're in fact a sweet boy. ”

“ only sweet ? i'm sure i'm more than sweet. ”

you ordered a smoothie and gave it to him, waiting to know what his thoughts on the state. he catched the straw with his mouth, and started to drink a little of the juice.

“ pretty good. ”

“ i'm glad. there are strawberries, bananas and spinach in it. i know it's the end of the day, but when you start your morning, it's a good and rich combo. ”

“ do you want to taste it ? ”

“ can i ? ”

“ you're lucky. i'm happy to share. ”

“ oh zach, you're too good. ”

“ i can ask for another str…”

“ it's okay. ”

he handed you the juice, and at the moment, you didn't care about the way your lips literally shared around the straw. you were just focused on how good your taste was. it was delicious.

you and zach continued to walk under the snow.

you shouldn't do it but unconsciously you noticed the little attention of the athlete. like the way he held you closer to prevent you from bump into people, the way he delicately readjusted your scarf so it wouldn't fall off, the way he slowed down when he felt like he was walking too fast for you, the way he went where your gaze went, looking at you so often to make sure that you were okay.

he was also a very attentive person. he loved hearing you talk, as he enjoyed listening to you. you were so interesting that he felt terribly boring next to you. you always had something to say, anecdotes, facts, stories. you could convince him to open a book more often with your words.

you had a way of being simply attractive.

when it started to get late, he walked you home. you talked about absolutely everything about cinema, music, sports, activities. you had never had so much fun. and it felt good.

you had even listened to music on the way home. you shared a pair of headphones that connected to your phone while remaining next to each other.

you had arrived at the door of your house, and a long minute had passed.

“thanks for today, zach. I don’t think I’ve ever had such a great day in my entire life.”

“then we should do this again. i mean if you're okay. ”

"Would you invite me again? It would be a pleasure. We could go to the cinema, or to.."

“whatever you want. i just like to be with you honestly. ”

you smiled. and his lightened gaze already catched your smile, while you wisely kept your hands in your pockets.

“ Oh, I almost forget.” you replied, giving him back the jacket he had lent you earlier. “ this is yours. ”

“you can keep it.”

“I can’t accept it.”

“And I can’t get it back either.”

“zach!”

"I'm serious. I'd rather see it on you than on me…”

he moved closer, leaning just above you. you had started to feel chills throughout your body, like squirming in your stomach. the proximity was so close that you were frozen. when you thought he was going to kiss you because he was leaning over your face, staring at you with light in his eyes, he simply blew on the tip of your nose. you shivered before feeling a slight rush of moisture on your face. a snowflake.

for some reason, you were kinda disappointed.

his mouth was so close to yours that you kinda expected it, his features were over yours, his lips were so close that you could feel his warm breathing against yours, and his nose was literally brushing your skin. the way it was so cold outside but every time he stood near you, the temperature rose again. it felt like he was enough to warm you up.

you didn't realize that you closed your eyes because of the sudden magic you felt inside your tummy. it was so strange. when you fixed your gaze on him again, he was two feets away from you and you chuckled softly. “ you scared me. ” you admitted. “ don't do that again. ”

“ i just protecting you from getting cold again. ”

“ you're worrying too much about me. don't forget yourself. ”

“ i can't help it. ”

"i-i need to go, okay. thanks you so much for today.”

“ text me when you're home. i mean in your room. ”

“ i'm literally there. ”

“ i just want to be sure. ”

“ okay. ”

you had been thinking about this day for the past two days. it occupied all your thoughts. you had returned to work, you had become a simple delivery person again.

you made your deliveries and then went home. the routine was the same except for one detail. zach had stopped ordering. now you were friends.

today, you suggested to Zach that you meet at the mall. It was quite cold outside due to the winter wind and snow so it was better to stay warm. you hadn't waited long before seeing him in the middle of the crowd. you were starting to get used to his presence in your life, and it was crazy how much space he could take up so quickly.

“wow, you really came fast.”

“I couldn’t keep you waiting. I'm a gentleman. ”

“I’m not that special you know.”

“I think you are. ”

“ I think you should stop saying things that make me want to fall in love with you. ”

“ Why ? Is it bad ? I'm a good guy. ”

“ Being too good is suspicious. ”

“ Fair point. ”

“ Anyways, does your feets hurt ? I've always ask you for things that make you walk so I feel sorry. ”

“ Don't worry, it's starting to get better. ” in fact, Zach was really surprised that you care about it. you cared about him more than he thought.

“ Really ? I'm glad. ”

you had followed the athlete to the video game store, a place that was extremely foreign to you but it was perfect. you wanted to know so much more about his world because since you knew him, you had the impression of only talking about yourself, of being the only one to open up.

“I bet you’re lost.” He scoffed, watching you glance around. “ You look like a puppy. ”

"I'm getting acquainted with your world. Be nice, will you?"

“I should teach you how to play.”

“ Oh yeah, teach me how to kick your ass. ”

" So this is your only motivation. ” he laughed, taking place next to you.

“ you know, i already play some games. not your type of game but…”

“ which one ? ”

“ just dance. ” you replied proudly. “ and i'm pretty good at it so don't even start to mock me. . ”

“ i believe you. but you know, you need to show me those dance skills one day. ”

“ don't say it twice. out of subject, why are we here ? you want to buy something ? ”

“ yea for my little sister. she loves to play video games like me, and it's Christmas soon so I want to buy her a new game. ”

“ oh so you're a big brother ? that's why you're so good with girls. ”

“ i thought i already told you. “

“ no, because i would remember it. what's her name ? ”

“ avery. i think you would like her. ”

“ i would like to meet her. ”

you kept talking while seeking a present for his little sister. when you find a game, he buyed it before the two of you walk to the bookstore. it was his time to get lost, and your time to shine.

“ so, this is your heaven ? ” he asked, still staring at you.

“ isn't it the most pretty place in the world ? i would buy everything here if i was rich but unfortunately i'm forced to choose only a few books. ”

“ you can read online. ” Zach suggested.

“ i know but this is not the same. i want to feel the paper. and i need to have the book in my room, to add it to my collection. ”

“ so you want to be an author later or something like that ? ”

“ oh no, reading is just a hobby. i learn a lot by reading. i can't believe you don't like it, or maybe you just didn't find the perfect book. let me find you one. ”

“ you really took that seriously. ”

“ this is why you shouldn't joke with me. so now, you're forced to read. ”

The Bluest Eye By Toni Morrison.

“ I've read this one when i was younger and it's beautiful. I think it's one of my favorites ever written. ”

“ I'm sure you've got great tastes. ”

one day, the grandmother who was your boss stopped you while you were going on deliveries.

“are you okay?”

“yes. why?”

“you know that guy you were talking about last time. he doesn’t order from us anymore. is he sick?”

" oh so that's it. don't worry. he just got what he wanted. " you replied with a wink.

A month had passed, and his feet were already feeling much better. he was going to return to university, and especially soccer.

zach mclaren : i've finished the book

you : how do you feel ?

zach McLaren : miserable

zach McLaren : but it was worth it

you : i felt the same the first time

you : but congrats, you read a book !

you : i'm feeling proud

zach mclaren : now, it's my turn

zach McLaren : come over

you : i need to study

zach mclaren : this is why you're texting me right now ?

you : i will be there in few minutes

you left your house after a quick shower to spend the rest of the day with him.

before returning to classes, he invited you to his house.

It was crazy knowing this building by heart even though you didn't live there.

he opened the door for you and you couldn’t help but joke. “ shit, you're dressed this time. ”

“ and i still make you look. ”

“ one point for yot. i've got the food. my bosses are generous and wanted to make the food for tonight. ”

“ i'm starting to be the favorite. ”

“ in your dreams. ”

you entered the apartment.

it was big enough for a student. you wondered how rich he was sometimes. you had started setting the table with all the chinese food, and he had brought the drinks. he had even prepared cakes for dessert.

you decided to watch a movie.

“what do you want to watch? ” he asked.

“ the princess and the frog. i'm in the mood to lurk at Prince Naveen. Isn't he the best prince ? ”

“ I thought i was. ”

“ So, i'm your Tiana. ” you joked. “ You would love me if I turned into a frog, Zach McLaren ? ”

“ Yea. And you will still be the best and the most beautiful person i've ever known. ”

“ I can't believe a man like you is single. ”

“ I can't believe you're single too. You're pretty, you're smart, you're talen…”

“ continue and i will think that you're in love with me. ”

“ does it matter ? ”

you looked at him, turning your gaze in his eyes.

maybe it was obvious from the start. all these commands, the way he looked at you, the way he absolutely wanted to spend time with you, the way he was constantly trying to talk to you. it wasn't just friendship, this affection was stronger, more intense. he wanted more than to be your friend.

what was less so for you was when all these attentions began to charm you. when was the moment, he made a house inside your mind and made you think of him so often.

“ Zach. ”

“ You're important to me. I love everything about you. I thought i was good by staying your friend but i want more with you. ”

“ It's so funny…I was just that delivery girl who came to your place and now, we're just here together…i mean, i'm just surprised…i'm just surprised because your words make me feel so attractive and important. i Always thought that i would end up alone and you just came into my life, made it brighter and now you're confessing your feelings about how you love me just because i was myself. ”

you were too sensitive, and zach took your hand in his, gently stroking your skin with his thumb, before you lost your gaze in the blue fierce of his eyes. “ hey, hey. look at me…”

“ when you seek love all your life and you suddenly feel loved, it's just so warm. you make everything so much better… ”

your words were shutted by his mouth, his lips moved into yours crushing them in a passionate kiss, as he pulled you closer with his hand on your cheek. you were exploding, making yourself a way on his lips, letting his free hand slowly down your body to catch your hips. he stroked them softly, his fingers dancing under the fabric of your t-shirt. you were on top of him, controlling the kiss with your tongue, and biting his lower lips with your teeths. you were pleased by the sounds of his moans under your breath. he was deliciously hot, and you shushed him with your fingers against the wet stream of his lips, forcing him to keep his mouth shut.

“ maybe, it's better to do it slowly because we are just confessing our feelings to each other. we shouldn't burn any step. it's okay for you ?”

“ i think you're right. it's better if we're taking time to make things right. ”

“ sounds like we're understanding each other well. ”

“ i really want to take my time with you, and we're not in a hurry. ”

“ i appreciate you for this. you're my first boyfriend you know and what i mean by that is that i'm…very happy that's you. i don't care that i'm not your first girlfriend because I feel really loved and it's all that matters. ”

#dividers by dollywons #my baby zach mclaren. been waiting for you <3 #walking green flag. love of my life. sweetest boy. babyface.#zach mclaren #zach mclaren and reader #zach mclaren x reader #zach mclaren x female!reader #the other zoey #zach mclaren fanfiction #i love him so much god #drew starkey x reader #zach mclaren x y/n

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elryuse · 1 month ago

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A Little Teaser......

This is my latest Series, Hope It's Enjoyable.

You awaken to a city carved into five kingdoms of blood and ice, each ruled by a queen whose beauty masks a blade. In the frozen sprawl of Northern Seoul’s Frosthaven, you once believed your heart was dead—until Winter’s blade found its way into your side and you answered Karina’s cold command.

You’ve seen Winter move like wrath incarnate, her loyalty forged in fire, and heard Ningning’s laughter echo through moonlit rooftops as you trained side by side. You’ve felt Giselle’s sharp gaze tracking your every step, reminding you that even allies carry their own agendas. But nothing prepared you for Karina’s velvet-gloved hand, pressing you into her world of whispered orders and frosted rose tattoos, where loyalty is both currency and curse.

Just when you think you’ve found a place—a sliver of belonging amid the carnage—the horizon burns with a new threat: the RED COVENANT. From Central Seoul’s ruined National Assembly, Yeji rises like a phoenix, her four horsemen—Ryujin, Lia, Chaeryeong, and Yuna—emerging from the shadows to reclaim territory with iron and flame.

Soon, Frosthaven’s ice will meet that fire. And at the heart of it all stands one name: Karina, queen of BLΛƆKWINTER, whose grip on your soul is as unyielding as the frost she commands. Will you remain her pawn, pounding flesh into ice for her empire? Or will you embrace the Red Covenant’s promise of rebirth and answer their call for revolution?

The line is drawn. The war has begun.

Seoul was once a beacon of light and culture—streets alive with neon glow, skyscrapers reaching for the sky, and communities bound by tradition. But when the central government collapsed under the weight of economic collapse and endless corruption, the city fragmented overnight. It wasn’t a gradual decay; it was a sudden, violent shattering. Factions sprang from the ashes of law and order, each claiming a slice of the metropolis for themselves. By the time the dust settled, Seoul had been carved into five jagged territories—Northern, Southern, Eastern, Western, and Central—each ruled by a gang queen whose power eclipsed any former mayor or general.

In the wastelands of Northern Seoul, BLΛƆKWINTER rose from the ruin of a collapsed corporate tower, carving an empire atop broken skyscrapers and abandoned data centers. Their leader, Karina, donned blade and frost-woven tattoos as both armor and warning. Where she walked, winter followed—intel networks delivered every rival’s secret, and her lieutenants—all members of her eponymous faction—enforced her rule with ice-cold precision. Across Southern Seoul, Crimson Lotus bloomed in the abandoned subways and burning neon clubs under Jennie’s command, rebelling against the old order with fire and blood. In Eastern Seoul, SUNKISSED VICE used illusions and propaganda to control hearts and minds under Soyeon’s cunning. The VENOM SAINTS in the west struck from the shadows, dressed in beauty but dripping with poison under Wonyoung’s reign.

Central Seoul was ground zero for the final collapse—a ruined National Assembly that became a throne for those who sought to unify what was lost. There, RED COVENANT emerged from the rubble, led by Yeji. With her four horsemen—Ryujin, Lia, Chaeryeong, and Yuna—she seized the old seat of power, promising a new order born not of ice or fire, but of pledges bound in blood and ash.

Now, Frosthaven’s icy walls stand on the edge of rupture. Karina, queen of BLΛƆKWINTER, rules Northern Seoul with frostfire and steel, her frosted phoenix tattoos marking every territory boundary she’s claimed. On the horizon, Yeji’s RED COVENANT advances, their banners—red and white—fluttering atop the smoldering remains of what once was. As the five territories hurtle toward war, your fate hinges on which queen’s promise you follow: the cold certainty of Karina’s rule, or the fiery rebirth offered by Yeji’s covenant. The city has been divided; soon, so will your loyalty.

#kpop #kpop x reader #kpop x y/n #x male reader #beautiful #update #kpop smut #yandere #yandere stories #universe #kpop universe #universe au #au

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universefcb · 3 months ago

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HeyyyyI love your writing can you do one about Marc Bernal and his gf going on vacation together for the first time

Thank youu

↬❥ Love Holiday

Marc Bernal x Reader!fem

Synopsis: You spending the holidays with your boyfriend.

a/n: He is so cute and graceful :(

REQUESTED

warnings: no.

And sorry if there are mistakes, English is not my language.I hope this is what you asked for!

The gentle warmth of the Spanish spring was beginning to spread through the streets of Barcelona when Marc Bernal pushed his suitcase through the airport lobby, a slight smile on his face and his eyes always straying to her—his girlfriend, her hair tied up in a mess, laughing at something the security guard had said. It was the first time they had traveled together. Just the two of them. No training, no commitments, no constant noise from the locker room or orders from the coaches. Just them, a sunny destination and time to get to know each other outside of their busy routines.

They had chosen Menorca. It wasn't too far, but it still felt like another world. The translucent blue sea, the little white houses on the hillsides, the slow pace of those who live with their feet in the sand and the salt on their skin.

Marc had booked a rustic little hotel near a hidden cove. It was simple, with whitewashed walls and white sheets that smelled of lavender, but she hugged him as she walked into the room, telling him it was perfect. And for him, that was enough.

In the early days, they woke without an alarm clock. The sun streamed into the room through the open windows, and she was always the first to stir, lazily pulling back the curtains and turning to him with a sleepy whisper of “good morning.” They had breakfast on the porch—fresh bread, fruit, strong coffee—and then went out to explore.

They walked hand in hand along the rocky trails, dove into hidden coves, laughed at inside jokes and took pictures of each other with loving looks. Marc, despite not being much of a selfie lover, let himself go when she pulled him close, squeezing their cheeks until they took ridiculous pictures, which she promised never to post, but which she kept like treasures on her phone.

At night, they would go to the town, choosing small restaurants with low lighting and music playing in the background. He would always let her choose the dish. “You taste better than me,” he would say, even when it meant eating something strange with octopus and garlic. She would laugh and hold his hand under the table, and he would feel at home, even so far from everything he knew.

One day, they found a completely empty beach. The water was so clear that you could see your feet even at high tide. They stayed there until sunset, without saying much. Marc, lying with his head on her lap, felt her fingers tracing invisible patterns in his hair. Sometimes she spoke softly, about her dreams, about her fear of growing up, about how that moment seemed like a bubble out of time. He listened attentively, responding with simple sentences, but with eyes so full of affection that she lost herself in them.

On their last night, they decided to stay in their room. They had an improvised picnic on the floor: potatoes, fruit, wine, and laughter. They put on a random playlist on their phones and danced slowly on the balcony, barefoot, with the sea in the background. Marc wasn’t exactly the best dancer, but she guided him with a shy smile, and in the end, everything seemed choreographed.

Before they fell asleep, she rested her face on his chest and whispered:

“Promise we’ll do this again? Many times?”

He kissed the top of her head and replied, without hesitation:

“I promise. But next time, I want to take you somewhere where we can see the Northern Lights.”

"Why?"

“Because you deserve to see all the beautiful things in the world. And I want to be there with you when that happens.”

She smiled, her eyes already closing, her body fitting into his like a natural extension.

And there, under the same sky that welcomed them during that magical week, Marc understood that love was also this: the comfortable silences, the plans whispered in the dark, and the certainty that it didn't matter where they went, as long as they were together.

Taglist: @paucubarsisimp @p4uul0vr @nngkay @meganesanchez @bymerinott @htpssgavi @luvvpedri @moonvr @joaosnovia (If you want to come in, just ask!)

#barcelonafanfic #fc barcelona #universefcb #football imagine #marc bernal x you #marc bernal imagine #marc bernal x reader #marc bernal x y/n #Marc Bernal x oc #football x y/n #football x oc #football x reader #football #barcelona x reader #my fanfiction #Marc Bernal

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vestaignis · 10 months ago

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Парящие в небесах: монастыри Метеоры.

Метеорами (Μετέωρα) называют скалы на севере Греции, которые образовались более 60 миллионов лет назад и в то далекое время являлись каменистым дном доисторического моря. Они состоят из песчаника и обломочной горной породы и достигают высоты 600 метров.

Свое название эти скалы получили не зря. В переводе с греческого «Метеора» переводится как «парящий в воздухе». И действительно, эти скалы выглядят именно так – висящие, замершие в воздухе глыбы представляют собой что-то таинственное и божественное. Но самым диковинным является то, что на этих скалах разместились православные греческие монастыри, что добавило еще большее величие и очарование этому месту.

Первые кельи отшельников тут начали появляться больше 1000 лет назад. Считается, что некий Варнава обосновался тут в 950 году, а затем к нему стали подтягиваться и другие монахи. Два-три века образованная ими монашеская община жила без особых проблем. Но потом в 13-14 веке в Фессалию потянулись любители лёгкой наживы, вроде крестоносцев и турок. Несколько монахов бежали со Святой горы Афона в Метеоры. Один из них, Афанасий, и положил начало строительству монастырей. Всего их было 24, но дожило до наших дней только 6 — четыре мужских и два женских. Сегодня монахи в Метеорах живут по строгому Афонскому уставу, не имеют частной собственности, работают в монастырском хозяйстве, наставляют прихожан, занимаются просветительской деятельностью и культурными проектами типа возрождения византийской музыки, обучения иконописи и создания музейных экспозиций.

Опытные туристы считают, что в Метеоры нужно обязательно приезжать с ночёвкой, чтобы спокойно погулять днём по монастырям и сделать их фото при дневном свете и вечером, когда монастыри освещает закатное солнце, или когда в монастырях зажигают огни…

Floating in the sky: the Meteora monasteries.

Meteora (Μετέωρα) is the name given to the rocks in northern Greece, which were formed more than 60 million years ago and at that distant time were the rocky bottom of a prehistoric sea. They consist of sandstone and fragmentary rock and reach a height of 600 meters.

These rocks got their name for a reason. Translated from Greek, “Meteora” means “floating in the air.” And indeed, these rocks look exactly like this – hanging, frozen in the air boulders represent something mysterious and divine. But the most outlandish thing is that Orthodox Greek monasteries were located on these rocks, which added even more grandeur and charm to this place.

The first hermit cells began to appear here more than 1000 years ago. It is believed that a certain Barnabas settled here in 950, and then other monks began to join him. For two or three centuries, the monastic community they formed lived without any particular problems. But then, in the 13th-14th centuries, lovers of easy money, such as the Crusaders and the Turks, began to flock to Thessaly. Several monks fled from Mount Athos to Meteora. One of them, Athanasius, began the construction of monasteries. There were 24 of them, but only 6 have survived to this day - four male and two female. Today, the monks in Meteora live according to the strict Athonite charter, do not have private property, work in the monastery economy, instruct parishioners, engage in educational activities and cultural projects such as the revival of Byzantine music, teaching icon painting and creating museum exhibits.

Experienced tourists believe that it is necessary to come to Meteora with an overnight stay in order to calmly walk around the monasteries during the day and take photos of them in the daylight and in the evening, when the monasteries are illuminated by the setting sun, or when the lights are lit in the monasteries…

Источник: //tourpedia.ru/meteora-monastery/ ,//alexio-marziano. livejournal.com/193649.html,/www.airpano.ru/gallery.php?gallery=77, /www.vash-otdyh.by/images/Blog/Greece/Meteora/Греческие_ Метеоры.jpg,/pikabu.ru/story/meteoryi_gretsii_7932658,/dzen.ru/a/ZDlcHwAyoF1ar_Nf,/tourpedia.ru/meteora-monastery/,// t.me/roundtravel.

#Greece #nature #landscape photography #Meteora #mountains #trees and forest #sky #clouds #medieval monasteries #Orthodoxy #Греция #природа #Пейзаж #Метеоры #горы и лес #небо #облака #средневековые монастыри #православие

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thetidesthatturn · 1 month ago

Text

Tides of Fire and Gold

Pairing: Pirate OT8, Captain Kim Hongjoong x freader

Warnings: violence, graphic descriptions, eventual sexual content/references, abuse, alcohol use - list is not exhaustive, read at own risk

18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI

This is a work of fiction and all characters are not based on reality

Masterlist

<< CHAPTER ONE | CHAPTER THREE >>

CHAPTER TWO - THE UNDOING

The following day, the sea is unnaturally still.

It stretches out in every direction like glass, reflecting a sky bruised in shades of violet and deepening blue. No gull's cry. No wind stirs the sails. The Halcyon drifts quietly, as if the ocean itself is holding its breath.

Below deck, the air feels tighter, the wood groaning under the weight of something unspoken. Lanterns flicker against the walls like restless spirits. Somewhere, ropes creak in time with the pulse of the ship’s heart – slow, steady, waiting.

The crew had been scattered across the ship with one shared order: Find out who she is.

But it’s Wooyoung who works in the places no blade can reach – through shadowed ports and coded messages, through rumours traded in the dead of night for coin, or favours, or silence. He doesn’t interrogate. He listens. And listening, for Wooyoung, is an art-form.

By the time the moon is a sliver above The Halcyon, the first whispers begin to arrive.

Wooyoung sits in the dim light of his cabin, a dozen parchments spread before him—none with full names, all with fragments.

“Child of the Coil.”

“Not born Fang… bred to them.”

“She was taken, not chosen.”

One scrap, barely legible, is smuggled from a spy within the Red Channel Cartel, who deals in trafficked knowledge:

She doesn’t remember her real name, they erased it, along with any trace of her real life. But the old ones called her Pyra. The girl born in fire. The one The Viper couldn’t kill.

When Wooyoung brings the information to the War Cabin, it’s with a rare seriousness. He drops the parchment on the table, allowing the crew to observe his findings.

“The Serpent Fang didn’t raise her. They stole her. From a burned village. A northern coast no one speaks of anymore – black sand, vanished people.”

Seonghwa’s brow furrows. “Pyra. That is not a name from the Fang.”

“No,” Wooyoung agrees. “It’s older. Isle lore. She might be a key, or worse – proof.”

Yunho leans in. “Proof of what?”

Wooyoung looks at Hongjoong then, voice quiet.

“That the Isle of Gold doesn’t want to be found… because someone already came from it.”

Below deck, in the grim and unwelcoming atmosphere of the brig, you sit on your cot, still chained. No awareness of the piece of your past being discussed elsewhere on the ship. Not even an inkling that the crew is starting to whisper the name you’d been given by monsters, like a prophecy.

But in your dreams, you see fire. Rippling, unforgiving flames.

Most of all, you hear a woman’s voice calling you by a name you’ve never spoken aloud. Not the name the men upstairs are calling you, not the name the whispers are chanting on the ocean breeze.

Your real name. The name no one knows. The name that everyone believes you’ve forgotten. But the truth is, it’s the only thing that tethers you to reality, to a sense of life beyond the one you’ve been forced into. The name that hasn’t been uttered since you were ripped from your mother’s cold, dead arms.

The storm, it seems, is only just beginning.

The cold in the brig is different now. It doesn’t bite – it seeps. Into your bones, under your skin, into the hollows behind your ribs. You haven’t seen anyone of importance since yesterday, just the odd crew member shuffling in to provide you with scraps of food, not served as a kindness – no, this was merely to keep you alive. To keep you useful.

You sit against the wall, knees to your chest, when the lock clicks.

Your heart skips, not needing to see who is walking towards you.

His presence is felt before he enters, looming over your head like a death sentence.

The captain steps through the door like the night itself let him go. Candlelight follows him in faint flickers, casting long shadows that crawl across the walls. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks at you.

Then-

“Nice to finally put a name to a face, Pyra.”

Your breath catches.

It’s quiet, that name. A single word. But when he says it, it feels like something being dug up. Like someone reached into your chest and pulled it out with bloodied fingers.

You flinch visibly. And for the first time since this all began, something cracks in your expression. Not rage. Not defiance.

Fear.

Because that name wasn’t supposed to be uttered outside the elders of the Serpent Fang. That name, given to you by the people who made it their life’s mission to break you, to mould you into a weapon, to sear your past and present from reality

You press your back harder to the wall, eyes narrowing. “You don’t get to say that.”

The captain tilts his head, watching you like a puzzle he’s already half-solved. “It is your name, isn’t it?”

You glare. “It’s none of your business what I am.”

He steps closer, slow, measured. There’s no cruelty in his face – but that makes it worse. He’s calm. Too calm. Like he doesn’t care whether you scream or confess. Like he’s already made his choice about you.

“The Fang called you a key. What do you open, Pyra?”

You stand, chains clinking, eyes sharp. “I don’t owe you anything.”

He watches you for a long time, gaze unreadable.

“Maybe not,” he says. “But they’re coming for you. And if you don’t start talking, you’re not the only one who’ll burn.”

You swallow hard, the resolve you usually kept slowly simmering away, along with your fire.

The room feels smaller now. Too small for the memories clawing at the back of your mind – flashes of stone halls, the stink of blood and incense, that mark that burned itself into your skin while you slept.

You don’t answer.

You won’t.

Not yet.

The captain takes a slow breath, then nods.

“Suit yourself.”

He turns, his coat sweeping behind him like a storm cloud. At the door, he pauses. Doesn’t look back.

“When you’re ready to stop being afraid of who you are,” he says quietly, “you know where to find me.”

Just before he reaches the door, for reasons unknown, you speak.

“Wait.”

The captain turns, raising an eyebrow.

“Your name. A name for a name. Fair, is it not?”

His mouth curves upwards slightly, into a faint smirk. “Of course, where are my manners? My name. Hongjoong. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Pyra.”

Before you have a chance to press further, he’s gone.

And you’re alone.

But that name – Pyra – still hangs in the air like smoke.

And no matter how long you sit in the dark, you can’t breathe it away.

No one else comes, your presence remains uninterrupted until sleep finds you once again. Another day, another night, in this damp, stench-filled hell.

You sleep fitfully, curled against the wall, brow furrowed in a silent war with dreams you do not understand. The ship’s rocking isn’t enough to soothe you anymore. Not since the whispers started. Not since the name was spoken aloud.

The sky outside is streaked in bruised amber, the sea catching the first light in broken shards. On The Halcyon, dawn doesn’t come with silence – it comes with steel.

Boots hit the deck hard. Voices rise and fall like tide and wind. And down in the war cabin, the core of the ship’s mind and muscle, the crew gathers – early, sharp, hungry for answers.

The long table is cluttered; half-eaten bread, tin mugs of black coffee, old maps curling at the edges, and the residue of tension no one bothers to wipe away. The scent of salt and oil mixes with roasted meat and the raw bite of expectation.

Hongjoong stands at the head of the table, his gloved hands resting on the edges like they anchor him there. His eyes are darker this morning. Quieter. He hasn’t said a word yet. His mind silently retreats back to his conversation in the brig the evening before, one that he’s gone over countless times since the moment it transpired.

Seonghwa is already seated, arms crossed, expression unreadable but cold. He’s watching the captain – not the door.

Yunho leans back in his chair, rolling a coin over his knuckles absentmindedly. He’s trying to stay relaxed, but his knee keeps bouncing. Uncertainty, his kryptonite.

San is pacing. He hasn’t touched his food. Every time someone shifts, he looks up like he’s expecting trouble to break through the floorboards.

Wooyoung lounges in a chair at the far end, eyes half-lidded, but listening very closely. His network gave the name. He wants the rest of the story.

Jongho slices into a thick wedge of nectarine with unsettling precision. Observing, waiting.

Mingi is the first to break the silence. He slams his mug down onto the thick oak. “So? What did she say?”

Hongjoong doesn’t flinch. He lifts his gaze, sweeps it across the table, lets the silence press down one more breath before answering.

“Her name is Pyra.”

The room stills.

Seonghwa is the first to react. Not visibly. Just a shift of his eyes, a tightening of the jaw.

Yunho murmurs, “So the rumours were true.”

San stops pacing.

Wooyoung straightens in his seat. “The Fang couldn’t have named her that. The name’s older. It’s in the old Isle records – they wiped it from the trade routes over fifteen years ago. She’s connected to something ancient, maybe something buried.”

Mingi scoffs. “Ancient or not, she’s hiding something. If she’s got answers, she should’ve given them by now.”

Hongjoong speaks calmly. “She’s not hiding. She’s surviving. There’s a difference.”

The crew quiets again.

“Whether or not she’s revealed anything thus far past the confirmation of a name, I know one thing with utmost certainty. She’s a map.”

Jongho finally looks up. “To what?”

A long pause.

“The Isle of Gold,” Hongjoong says.

That name doesn’t fall like a stone. It detonates.

Even Seonghwa exhales sharply. San mutters a curse. Wooyoung’s smile sharpens at the edges.

“If what you are saying bears any truth, then we are not just harbouring a ghost,” Seonghwa says grimly. “We are harbouring a storm.”

Hongjoong nods once.

“Then we better learn how to steer it.”

The room shifts. It’s no longer a question of if Pyra is dangerous. Only how much longer they have before everyone else finds out she’s aboard.

“Her name is Pyra,” Hongjoong says again, quieter this time, as if anchoring it to something deeper. “That’s all she’s given me, or more so confirmed it. But curiously, she asked for mine.”

That catches the crew off guard.

Yunho tilts his head. “She asked?”

Seonghwa’s brow furrows. “Not for information. For your name?”

Wooyoung mutters, half to himself, “That’s not interrogation. That’s… connection.”

Mingi grumbles, “Or manipulation. Asking questions doesn’t make her harmless.”

“No,” Hongjoong agrees. “But it means she’s not broken. Not yet. And that matters more than you think.”

A quiet settles again. The crew isn’t just parsing a threat anymore – they’re gauging a person. A girl who gave them only a name, but in doing so, gave them a piece of something real. Something unguarded.

San leans forward, knuckles against the table. “So, what do we do now? We can’t wait around for her to spill everything. The Fang won’t.”

“We plan for both outcomes,” Seonghwa says. “One path where she helps us. One where she does not.”

Jongho nods. “We relinquish control a fraction, barely. Keep her watched, but give her air. She’s not going to open up with a blade at her back.”

Wooyoung adds, “I’ll tighten the network. See if anyone’s heard of a girl called Pyra before she landed in Fang hands. Someone’s always seen something they weren’t supposed to.”

Hongjoong stands a little straighter.

“We earn her trust in pieces. No demands. No threats. Just consistency. If she’s been treated like a weapon all her life, then the most dangerous thing we can do…”

He glances around the table, voice steady.

“…is treat her like a person.”

The crew doesn’t respond right away, but no one argues.

“If the Fang comes, we’ll be ready,” Hongjoong finishes. “But for now, we let her breathe. Let her choose.”

He turns to leave, and just before the door closes behind him:

“And no one else speaks her name unless she gives it to you herself. Dismissed.”

And for the first time since this began, the crew understands, this isn’t about a girl with secrets. It’s about who she might become if someone finally stops demanding them.

The door shuts behind the captain with a quiet, decisive click. But the air in the war cabin doesn’t settle. If anything, the silence that follows his departure is heavier than before.

Mingi is the first to speak, voice low and edged with unease.

“You all heard it, right? The way he said her name. Like she’s not just a prisoner anymore.”

San exhales slowly, arms crossed. “He’s always had a soft spot for strays, you know why. But this isn’t the same. She’s not some deck rat who lost her crew in a storm. She’s Fang-raised.”

Yunho frowns. “And asking for his name? That’s not something most would risk unless they were playing the long game… or starting to trust him.”

“Or trying to get close,” Mingi cuts in sharply. He leans forward, both hands braced on the table. “You think the Fang didn’t train her for this? For manipulation, infiltration, deception? She’s not shackled because she’s helpless, she’s shackled because she’s dangerous.”

Seonghwa has been quiet, but his voice now carries weight when he speaks.

“It’s not her I am worried about.”

The others glance at him.

“It is the captain,” Seonghwa’s gaze lingers on the closed door. “We’ve seen Hongjoong bend before – for strategy, for survival. But this? This could become personal.”

Wooyoung raises an eyebrow. “You think he’s getting attached?”

Seonghwa doesn’t answer right away.

“I think she is the first person in a long time who has looked at him and asked something real. Not about his ship. Not about his crew. About him.”

Jongho shifts in his seat. “So, what do we do? Watch him?”

“No,” Seonghwa says. “We watch her. If she is genuine, we will know soon enough. If she is not…” He folds his hands. “We step in before it costs him more than his judgment.”

Mingi mutters, “Or his ship. And crew.”

Yunho sighs. “Let’s just hope she’s not the kind of fire that spreads.”

A heavy beat of silence.

Then Wooyoung, quiet now, adds one final thought, “Or worse. The kind that burns slow, until you don’t feel the damage until it’s too late.”

They don’t speak again after that.

The crew disperses one by one, each carrying the same quiet question: Is their captain seeing Pyra as a threat to navigate – or something else entirely?

And if it’s the latter…

How long before it gets them all killed?

Word spreads fast aboard The Halcyon. Faster than cannon-fire, faster than the winds that carry the sails. Within hours of the war cabin meeting, the ship’s rhythm begins to change.

Orders are given. Quietly, precisely, and without room for hesitation.

On the upper deck, Yunho drills the crew with renewed intensity. Every blade is sharpened, every gun cleaned twice. Lookouts are doubled at night. The Quartermaster scrutinises watch rotations to keep the crew alert and rested. They may not know when the retaliation will come, but they know it will.

“The Fang doesn’t lose quietly,” Jongho says grimly, fitting new bolts to the ballistae mounted along the aft rail. “We’re a symbol now. We hurt their pride.”

Seonghwa oversees the ship’s escape routes – map reroutes, dummy trails, hidden drop points where they can lie low or leave false evidence. His mind is a blade in motion, cutting through uncertainty with preemptive grace.

“If they strike, they’ll come fast and heavy,” he warns. “We don’t fight unless we choose the ground first.”

Meanwhile, below deck, a subtle shift begins. The brig is still guarded, but the energy has changed. Fewer taunts. Less suspicion in the guards’ eyes. Still watchful, but not cruel. They don’t look at you like a weapon anymore. It’s disconcerting, surely a measure to throw you off balance. To tip the scales in their favour. And it wont work.

Then one morning, the door opens. And it’s not a jailor who enters.

It’s Hongjoong.

He doesn’t bring chains. He doesn’t bring questions.

He simply states, “You’ve spent enough time in the dark. Come.”

You hesitate. Of course you do. But his tone isn’t one of command.

It’s an offer.

So, you rise, with the knowledge that this is all part of a bigger plan tucked safely away in the confines of your mind. You have the upper hand, you always will. Or so you think.

He leads you not up to the deck, but inward. Past the war cabin, through a narrow corridor lined with carved beams and weathered symbols etched into the wood. Until you reach a small room.

Modest. Clean. A cot against the wall. A small desk. A window. Light floods in – sunlight, real and warm. There’s a pitcher of water. A simple linen tunic folded neatly on the chair.

“You’re still under watch,” he says, turning to face you. “But this isn’t a cell. It’s your choice what you do with it.”

You study him. That strange intensity in his eyes. Not pity. Not weakness.

Something sharper.

But still, you don’t speak. You nod once.

Before he leaves, he pauses. “You asked for my name,” he says quietly, “why?”

This time, you speak, compelled by forces you don’t understand. “I don’t know.”

Hongjoong doesn’t reply, just observes. He tilts his head slightly, as if this small motion could subconsciously tip the answer from your own.

“Familiarity. I don’t know anything about you, or this ship, or your crew. Beyond the chatter outside of this vessel, the fear that spreads simply from the mention of the Halcyon, I know nothing real. Real is all I have.”

Stupid, stupid girl. Allowing yourself to open up, even just by a crack, was dangerous beyond comprehension. Your whole life as you knew it was built on the foundation of never showing weakness, never letting anyone in. The crew of the Fang had made sure that any sense of empathy or personality was beaten out of you by the time you were five years old. You knew better than this. But something in Hongjoong’s eyes, his demeanour, had punctured a hole in the impenetrable armour you had enrobed yourself in for the past thirteen years.

Whilst you were silently battling the storm that raged within yourself, Hongjoong was your twin. He had not expected such a response, and the one you had given had rattled him to his core. Underneath it all, you were just as he had theorised; a vulnerable, scared girl who had experienced a life of horrific pain. He didn’t know the full extent of your story yet, but piece by piece, he was determined to break down your walls.

“Thank you for the explanation. I’ll leave you to get comfortable. If you need anything, please just ring the bell outside your room.”

And just like that, he departed once more.

Elsewhere on the ship, the final preparations were underway. Wooyoung’s informants began to vanish. One by one. The Fang were mobilising, and fast.

The crew sat around the oak table in the war cabin, another night of strategising until the early hours underfoot.

Wooyoung leans forward, pushing his mug aside. “They’re coming, and they’re not bringing sails. They’ll be hunting through shadows.”

“San has loaded the gun deck with enough powder to sink a fleet. Let’s give them something to choke on.” Mingi growls from his seat.

Yunho, watching the sea through a spyglass, mutters, “They won’t stop until they get her back. Or burn trying.”

Seonghwa glances at the closed door to Pyra’s new quarters.

“Then let them come. We’re not the ones who should be afraid anymore.”

The door shuts with a soft thud. No lock clicks behind it. Just wood on wood.

For a moment, you don’t move.

The room is still. No dripping water. No rusted bars. No damp stone. Just the faint creak of the ship as it breathes on the tide.

You step in slowly, as if testing the floor beneath your boots might collapse. It doesn’t. The wood is worn, but solid. Clean. Someone took time to scrub the corners, smooth the splinters.

Your eyes land on the cot.

It’s nothing. Rough wool, thin blankets – but to you, it looks obscene in its softness. A place meant for rest. Not for punishment. You cross to it on instinct, then stop. Hovering.

You sit on the edge, but don’t lean back. You keep your spine straight.

The room smells like salt, linen, and something almost sweet. It’s disorienting. You’re used to metal. Blood. Stone. Even the silence feels wrong. You glance at the small desk. The pitcher of water. You approach it slowly, pour a glass. Your hands are steadier than you expect.

The window – gods, the window. You stare out. Not at sea, but sky. And for the first time in years, there’s nothing between you and the clouds. Just light. Just air.

It unnerves you more than darkness ever did.

You place your hand against the frame, fingers tracing the curve of the wood. You imagine a younger version of yourself, smaller, wilder, pressing her face to that same glass, wide-eyed and full of questions.

She feels so far away now. Almost fictional.

You close your eyes, and for a moment, the only sound is your breath.

And then—

A whisper of a thought. He told you his name.

Hongjoong.

It’s the first time you’ve let your guard down enough to consider the weight that a name bears. The silent reasons why you needed to know his name that day. And how he now knows those reasons.

You let the name settle in your chest. You don’t know why it matters. Maybe it doesn’t. But still, it lingers. Softly. Like a spark refusing to die.

You open your eyes again.

And for the first time since the raid, you are truly, terrifyingly alone.

No chains. No commands. No eyes. Just a room, and a door you haven’t yet tested. And the question burning quietly in your ribs: what now?

The answer to that question reveals itself immediately, just as the thought had appeared. A soft knock – not rushed. Not demanding. Just a single, almost polite tap against the doorframe.

You don’t respond at first. You don’t need to. Whoever’s out there already knows you’re awake.

“You’ve been quiet,” comes the voice. Smooth. Amused. Unbothered.

You turn your head slightly. No footsteps. He’s leaning.

“Most people snoop,” he continues. “Test the walls. See how far the leash goes.” A pause. “You? You’re playing the long game. That’s smart.”

You rise slowly and move toward the door, stopping just short of touching it.

There’s a beat of silence. Then—

“Permission to enter, fire girl?”

You blink.

He’s testing you. Toying with you. But the name… it hits something just under your ribs.

You open the door just enough to see him leaning against the frame, arms crossed, one brow arched with devil-may-care charm. But his eyes? Not smiling. Watching. Calculating.

“Wooyoung,” he offers, like it’s a secret you’ve earned. “I’m the ship’s problem-solver.”

You say nothing.

“Just wanted to see what kind of problem you are.”

Still, silence.

“Not much of a talker,” he notes, glancing around the small room. “Can’t say I blame you. Brig was a dump. This is… cosier.”

He steps back, giving you room.

“I’m not here to threaten you. Not here to beg, either. Just one question.”

You tilt your head slightly.

“Are you going to be the storm that sinks this ship?”

There’s no menace in his voice. No heat. Just the question, laid bare between you like a blade on a table. You hold his gaze for a moment. Long enough that he sees the flicker behind your eyes.

He smiles, slow and sharp.

“Didn’t think so.”

He pushes off the frame and begins to walk away, hands tucked into his coat pockets. But just before he turns the corner, he calls back without looking.

“Don’t wait too long to speak, fire girl. Secrets rot faster than corpses at sea.”

And then he’s gone, leaving behind only his name, his warning, and the unsettling realisation that someone on this ship might already see through you.

The sky burns with the last light of day, amber and crimson bleeding into the sea. Most of the crew is gathered near the mainmast, sharpening blades, coiling ropes, tending to tasks with half an eye cast toward the quarterdeck.

Like the crack of lightning across the moonlit sky, Hongjoong’s steps slap across the deck, his coat whipping in the wind, boots heavy against the boards. He doesn’t shout to summon Wooyoung – he doesn’t have to. His presence demands attention.

Wooyoung looks up from where he’s leaning against the rail, a sly grin already ghosting across his face like he expected this.

The crew quiets. One by one, heads turn. San straightens from where he’s been coiling rigging. Yunho steps closer, alert. Even Seonghwa pauses mid-conversation.

Hongjoong’s fist slams down into the railing, the wood cracking and splintering beneath his knuckles. The sound ricochets like a gunshot.

“You said what to her?!”

Wooyoung doesn’t flinch. But his smile fades, just enough to show the seriousness he hides behind smirks.

“I asked if she was the storm that’ll sink us,” he replies coolly, “Not exactly treason, Captain.”

“Don’t play clever with me,” Hongjoong growls, voice low but deadly. “You don’t get to prod at her like some game. Not after I told you to treat her like a person.”

The crew looks between them, eyes wide. The words aren’t just heat, they’re personal.

“You didn’t say to coddle her, either,” Wooyoung counters, stepping forward, tone harder now. “You’re not thinking straight, and everyone here knows it. She’s not a crew member, Joong. She’s a Fang. Or did that slip your mind when she gave you a name and made you forget the blood on her hands?”

The deck holds its breath.

Hongjoong doesn’t move for a moment, but his eyes – they seethe. Not just with anger, but with fear.

Because Wooyoung isn’t wrong, and that, perhaps, is what enrages him most.

“You don’t get to question my judgment,” he says, quieter now, but with a finality that cracks like thunder. “You’re not the one carrying what happens if we’re wrong.”

Wooyoung’s jaw sets. He doesn’t look away. But he nods once.

“No, I’m just the one who cleans up the mess if you are.”

Hongjoong turns on his heel and storms off the quarterdeck, leaving behind silence.

The wind picks up where words left off. Tension clings to the rigging, thick as storm-air.

The crew disperses slowly, like a flock unsettled by a hawk’s shadow. Eyes still flick toward the quarterdeck, where Hongjoong disappeared. Whispers stir. Doubts, sharper than blades.

That’s when the Quartermaster steps forward. Not rushed. Not loud. But deliberate.

He walks to where Hongjoong’s fist cracked the railing, glancing once at the splintered wood. Then he turns to the crew. No raised voice. No demand for silence. He just speaks, and the deck listens.

“You all bore witness to that conversation. You all felt it’s impact.”

Some nod. Others stay stone-still.

“That was not just mere anger. That was fear.”

The word lands hard amongst the crew. Seonghwa lets it sit for a beat.

“You forget sometimes – he carries more than we do. He is allowed to fear. But do not mistake his fire for weakness.”

He looks around the deck. Eyes locking with Mingi’s, then San’s. Then Wooyoung’s, who now stands, arms crossed, silent but unrepentant.

“Captain Hongjoong makes the calls because no one else has the strength to carry the weight when they go wrong. And if you think he is blind to the risks of her-”

He doesn’t say your name. But everyone knows.

“-then you have not been paying attention. He sees more than any of us. And if he is still watching her, it is because there is something worth seeing.”

A murmur, somewhere near the mast. The Quartermaster raises a hand. Calm. Firm.

“You do not have to trust her. But you will trust him. Or you do not belong on this ship.”

That lands harder than the captain’s fist ever could.

He takes a step forward. “We are heading into fire, one way or another. We need to be solid. Unbreakable. United. You want to question him? Do it in private. You want to mutiny?”

His tone sharpens, just for a moment.

“Then jump. Now. Before we reach open waters.”

Silence.

Then slowly, the crew returns to their tasks. Not relaxed. But grounded.

Because Seonghwa didn’t offer comfort.

He reminded them of who they are, and exactly who it is they follow.

Noticing it seems quieter in your quarters than usual, you decide to take a walk, one that was hopefully without prying eyes. Perhaps you’d venture up to the deck, feel the sea air on your face for the first time in what felt like eternity.

Just as you were reaching for the doorknob, commotion began outside in the corridor. Hushed tones turned to blazing words, and the unmistakable sounds of boots hitting the planks with haste.

“Y’know, Wooyoung will throw you overboard for telling the captain about his little chat with the girl.”

“I’d rather that than be accused of mutiny, my allegiance lies with the captain, not with his trickster.”

The two voices scuttled off down the corridor, and once you were sure they had left, you made your way up to the deck.

The atmosphere was thick with animosity from the moment you surfaced above deck. Ensuring you remained uncompromised, you ducked behind a few crates stacked just below the quarterdeck, just close enough to observe from a safe distance, and listened as the situation unfolded.

As far as you knew already, one of the lower-level crew members had let slip about Wooyoung’s conversation with you earlier in the day, to no other than the captain himself.

Pulling you out of your musings immediately, was a sound similar to a gunshot. The way it rang out across the deck put unease in the pit of your stomach. Slowly, you lifted yourself up just enough to peak over the crate, enough to witness the aftermath of Hongjoong slamming his fist into the railing on the port side.

You flinch when it happens – his voice, raw and electric, rolls through the planks like thunder in your bones. You clutch the edge of the crate, breath shallow.

You wait for the mockery. The doubt. The betrayal. But it never comes.

Instead, you hear him defend you. Demand respect for you.

You duck back down, forcing your mind to quiet enough for you to listen. And listen you did.

“You don’t get to prod at her like some game. Not after I told you to treat her like a person.”

The statement almost sent you stumbling backwards. Did you truly have it wrong? Was this not all part of an elaborate plan to get you to crack under false pretence?

The sheer fury in his voice couldn’t be faked, this was not a calculated ruse in an attempt to win your trust.

“Treat her like a person.”

As if he believes you are one. Still.

Despite everything.

Despite who he thinks you were.

Despite who you actually are.

You swallow hard. The air tastes wrong. Too sharp. Too close.

Then Wooyoung speaks – and his words cut clean. “She gave you a name and made you forget the blood on her hands.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. That should sting. That should make you angry. But all you feel is fear. Because part of you is afraid he’s right.

But then comes Hongjoong’s reply. Quieter, but heavier.

“You don’t get to question my judgment… You’re not the one carrying what happens if we’re wrong.”

And just like that, something cracks inside you. Not like a snapped chain. More like… the slow thaw of frost.

You pull your knees up to your chest, pressing into the shadow of the crate. The wood is cool against your back, but your skin feels feverish. The silence that follows gnaws at you.

You’re still crouched in the shadows when the sound jolts you – boots. Heavy. Purposeful. Slamming across the deck with no effort to hide the rage behind them.

You freeze.

The thud of each step seems to echo inside your chest, matching the sudden, erratic rhythm of your pulse. You press yourself tighter against the crate, shadows cloaking you like a second skin. You couldn’t be seen, not now. Not like this. If anyone caught you out of your quarters, especially after that, it would unravel everything.

Your breath hitches.

And then, he storms past.

Hongjoong.

His coat billows behind him like a black sail in high wind, fury radiating from every inch of him. His jaw is clenched, lips drawn into a hard, unreadable line. But his eyes – gods, those eyes. Still burning from what just unfolded. Still carrying too many truths.

He doesn’t see you. But you see him.

He disappears into the corridor, toward the captain’s quarters.

And you, against all reason, against all instinct

You follow.

Step by step. Silently.

You keep to the shadows, heart hammering. You don’t know what you’re doing. You don’t know why. But your feet keep moving, like the gravity around him has shifted, and you are no longer immune to it.

The door closes behind him, and you hesitate at the threshold, staring at the thick wood as if it might catch fire from your indecision.

You shouldn’t be here.

You should turn around.

Return to your quarters. Pretend you never heard anything. Pretend you didn’t feel anything.

But your hand lifts.

You hover for a breath, then you knock once. It’s a quiet, almost uncertain tap. The kind of knock that betrays how much it took to lift your hand at all.

Silence.

You don’t know what you expect – an order to leave, perhaps. Or for the door to remain shut, forever dividing the strange pull between you.

But then you hear the latch turn, and for the first time since your capture, you choose to step across a threshold. Not as a prisoner, but as Pyra.

The door creaks open.

Light spills out, warm, and gold-tinged, casting long shadows across the corridor. He’s standing just beyond it. Hongjoong, backlit by lantern-light, coat half-unbuttoned, hair slightly disheveled, jaw tight from everything he’s holding back.

His eyes find yours instantly.

They search you – quick, sharp. Like he’s not sure if you’re real. Or worse, like he’s afraid you are.

“You shouldn’t be out of your quarters,” he says. Not cruel. Not commanding. Just…tired.

You meet his gaze, but say nothing. You’re not even sure what you could say. But you don’t look away.

He opens the door farther, a silent invitation, so you step inside.

It’s the first time you’ve seen the heart of the ship’s mind. The Captain’s Quarters are nothing like the brig. No iron bars, no leaking ceilings. Instead, there’s maps unfurled across the table, books lining the shelves, a sword resting within arm’s reach. There’s chaos in the order. A reflection of him.

He closes the door behind you, and silence falls again, thick as the sea fog.

You turn slowly, eyes scanning the room, hands hanging uncertain at your sides. You don’t sit. You don’t know if you’re allowed to.

“You heard all of it, didn’t you?”

His voice cuts through the quiet like a blade. There’s no accusation in it. Just weary resignation.

You nod. Once.

His jaw flexes.

He moves past you, fingers brushing the edge of the chart table. Not looking at you now.

“I didn’t mean for you to hear that.”

“I know,” you say softly.

It’s the first thing you’ve said to him since your confession, the reason behind why you asked for his name, and when his eyes meet yours again, something flickers there.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says again. But it sounds different this time.

Like he’s not talking about his quarters anymore. You shift your weight.

Then, without fully knowing why, you ask, “Why are you fighting for me?”

The question hangs between you like lightning yet to strike.

He exhales slowly, like he’s been waiting for it – dreading it. He walks to the table, sets both hands down on the edges of a map that’s seen too many battles, too much blood.

“Because I know what it’s like to have your name used against you.”

You blink steadily.

He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t need to. You understand in a way that frightens you.

You take a slow step forward.

“You don’t know who I am.”

His eyes cut to you. Not with denial. But with something dangerously close to trust.

“No,” he says. “But I think you want me to.”

That stops your breath in your chest. Because he’s not wrong. Not anymore.

You don’t answer right away. Because your first instinct is to lie. Or evade. Or lash out with something sharp enough to wound and hide behind the blood.

But this time, you don’t. You just breathe.

Slow. Shaky.

“No one’s ever asked who I am,” you murmur, your voice low, almost too soft for the room. “Not really.”

Hongjoong doesn’t speak. He just watches. The air feels different now – thinner. Like the ship itself is holding its breath.

You don’t look at him when you continue.

“They called me Pyra because I came from the fire. Because I survived it.”

Your fingers curl slightly, nails digging into your palms.

“But that name wasn’t mine. It was theirs.” You lift your chin slightly. “The Fang gave it to me. Because they didn’t know the real one. No one does.”

The confession tastes strange in your mouth. Like ash, or honey, or something in between.

“I held onto it,” you whisper, more to yourself now. “Because if I let it go, I’d stop being me. And I didn’t know who that was anymore.”

The silence that follows is not cold. It’s reverent.

He takes a step closer, and you feel the shift in the floorboards, the warmth of him. But still – he keeps a careful distance.

“What would happen if you told someone?” he asks quietly.

You blink, startled.

“Told them your real name.”

Your throat tightens. “I’d lose control of it.”

“Or you’d take it back.”

His words settle like an anchor in your chest. You look at him finally – and this time, he doesn’t look away.

“You carry it like a blade,” he says. “But it’s a part of you. Not your cage.”

And then, even more gently “I’m not asking you to give it to me, I’m asking if you’ll let me earn it.”

There’s a beat of stillness. No wind. No ship creak. Just the steady drum of your heart in your ears.

And maybe, just maybe, for the first time, you believe that might be possible.

You lower your head, almost in disbelief at the moment you’re standing in. Your voice, when it comes, is barely a breath.

“Why do you care?”

Hongjoong’s gaze softens. But it doesn’t falter.

“Because you’re not a prisoner anymore, Pyra.You’re a storm on the horizon, and I want to know which way the wind’s going to blow.”

You step towards him unconsciously, a step too close. The distance between you is now palpable. A mistake you couldn’t recover from. But instead of recoiling, he too takes a step closer.

“Hongjoong…”

Slowly, tentatively, his hand reaches up to your face, brushing along your jawbone, and his fingers linger there, just for a second too long.

The touch is feather-light, deliberate in its softness, in its restraint. You feel the warmth of his hand against your cheek, the calloused pads of his fingertips betraying the quiet violence of his life… and yet, in this moment, he’s gentler than anyone has been with you in years.

You don’t breathe.

Can’t.

Because you know this is dangerous. Not just because of what he is. But because of what it makes you feel.

You, who has lived in armour and ashes.

You, who forgot what it meant to be seen.

He draws back slightly, but he doesn’t move away. His eyes are still on you, dark and searching.

“Pyra…”

There’s something in his voice now. Something rough. Something unraveling. As if your name tastes different on his tongue than it did hours ago. Like it means more now that you’ve stood your ground… and let him near it.

“I didn’t bring you here to break you,” he murmurs. “I don’t want to tame the storm.”

His hand falls back to his side, but his presence doesn’t.

“I just want to survive it.”

You swallow hard, your heart a riot in your chest, warring with itself.

You should walk away. Say something sharp, clever, distant. You should remind him what you’ve done. What you are. But instead, your voice slips through the silence.

“You’ll drown.”

His lips twitch. Almost a smile. But there’s no amusement in it.

“Maybe.”

A beat.

“But I’ve already jumped.”

With that, his hand finds your face again, and he closes the gap between you. Your heart hammers in your chest as you too, lean in. Closer and closer, until you can feel his breath on your face.

And in that fragile space between one breath and the next, the door bursts open.

Seonghwa.

You jolt backwards, heat rising to your cheeks like a flame exposed, shame and adrenaline colliding in your chest. Your breath catches in your throat, pulse thundering as if your heart might betray you aloud. The air is thick with the ghost of what almost happened, what nearly slipped past your guard – and now Seonghwa stands in the doorway, eyes sharp, taking in everything without a word.

His eyes scan the room, landing on you first, then Hongjoong. He hesitates. Takes in the charged silence. Something sharp flickers behind his calm expression.

“We have a problem,” he says tightly.

“The Fang’s ship was spotted near the outer reef. They’re not running.”

He meets your eyes as he says it.

“They’re waiting.”

And just like that, the fragile moment between you and Hongjoong collapses under the weight of war.

But something has changed now. Not broken.

Shifted.

And the storm, at last, begins to move.

The map table is littered with ink-stained charts and rough-sketch battle plans, the wood still warm from the heat of too many hands. Seonghwa wastes no time as he strides into the war room, flanked by Yunho and San, tension simmering beneath every movement.

Hongjoong stands at the head of the table once more – Captain, commander, storm contained, only just. Whatever softness existed moments ago is gone now, tucked away like a secret. His gaze flicks briefly to you as you linger near the door, but he says nothing.

He can’t afford to now.

“Confirmed sighting of the Fang’s crest off the western reef,” Seonghwa says, planting a marked stone onto the chart. “They are not pursuing. They are anchoring.”

Yunho leans in, brow furrowed. “They’re not hiding either. That’s a challenge.”

“It’s bait,” Wooyoung mutters, arms crossed, eyes cold. “They want us to come to them. Probably think we’re dragging our feet because of her.”

No one looks at you. But the tension tightens all the same.

“Doesn’t matter what they think,” Hongjoong says sharply. “We meet them. On our terms.”

He moves to the side of the table, dragging a finger along a different route on the chart.

“We won’t charge head-on. We use the shoals here—” he taps a jagged patch of reef, “—to mask our approach. San, you’ll lead the infiltration team from below deck if we board.”

San nods, already calculating.

“And Pyra?” Wooyoung asks, tone edged in something unreadable. “What happens to her while we play hero?”

This time, Hongjoong does look at you.

The room quiets.

His voice is even.

“She stays here. Watched. But unharmed.”

A few eyes flick toward Seonghwa, who says nothing. Just studies you carefully.

You say nothing either. Not yet.

“We sail at dawn,” Hongjoong finishes. “Tell the crew to ready the ship. And the guns.”

The others nod, filing out one by one, already falling into the rhythm of preparation. Orders shouted, boots clanging against the deck above, sails being checked and weapons drawn from storage.

You’re left with the echo of it all. The shift from intimacy to inevitability.

And with the truth you can no longer ignore, they are preparing to risk everything for a war you were born from.

You’ve barely made it past the roar of preparation – the clanging of weapons, the barked orders echoing up the walls—when a voice stops you.

“Pyra.”

You turn.

Seonghwa.

He stands with his arms crossed, posture rigid but eyes calm. He doesn’t look like a man preparing for war, not in this moment. He looks like a man with questions.

“A word?”

It isn’t a request.

You follow him into a side corridor, lit only by the glow of oil lamps and the occasional gleam of polished steel from the weapon racks. The noise of the deck fades behind you.

He stops, turns, and studies you in the silence.

“You’ve unsettled him.”

You blink.

“Hongjoong?”

He nods once.

“He would not speak it aloud, but it is there. In the way he hesitates. In the way he is… different around you.” Seonghwa’s gaze sharpens, a subtle edge creeping into his voice. “You have pulled something loose in him.”

You stay silent.

Because what can you say? That you feel it too? That it scares you?

He steps forward.

“You need to understand something,” he says, his voice low. “He carries more than this crew knows. The choices, the ghosts… he cannot show weakness. Not even once.”

You stiffen.

“And you think I’m a weakness.”

“I think you could be,” Seonghwa says plainly. “Or you could be something else entirely.”

There’s no threat in his words. Just careful honesty.

“So, I need to know, Pyra—”

His voice drops, barely above a whisper.

“What are you really doing here?”

Silence.

Your pulse thrums like a warning drum, but this time… you don’t recoil.

You meet his gaze and answer, honestly:

“I don’t know yet.”

It’s the truth, but it’s not the answer he wants, and it’s the only one you have.

After a pause, Seonghwa exhales slowly. Then nods once.

“Understandable.”

He steps back. “But if that answer changes…”

A flicker of something – not quite menace, not quite mercy, passes over his face.

“Let me be the first to know.”

Then, without waiting for a reply, he turns and walks back toward the sounds of war.

Yeosang moves among the cannons with measured precision, sleeves rolled up, hands blackened with powder and grease. Where the others are loud and burning, he is eerily still water, a quiet force of clarity in the chaos.

Hongjoong approaches him, flanked by Yunho.

“You’ll handle the ranged strategy,” the captain says. “San leads boarding. I want our first and last shot coming from you.”

Yeosang doesn’t even look up from the mechanism he’s calibrating.

“They won’t see us coming.”

Hongjoong nods, satisfied.

“Make sure of it.”

Yeosang’s hands pause only briefly – his gaze flicking across the deck toward you, where you’ve just emerged from below.

There’s no judgment in his eyes.

But like Seonghwa’s… there are questions.

And for now, you have no answers.

The sea beyond the gunports gleams gold, restless beneath a bruised sky. Yeosang wipes his hands clean on a worn cloth, double-checking the alignment of the starboard cannons. Around him, the crew moves with purpose, voices low, tension thick. Everyone can feel it: the storm before the strike.

Everything must be exact.

Yeosang doesn’t allow for guesswork – not with lives at stake.

“You’re quiet,” comes a voice behind him.

Jongho.

The youngest crew member leans against a crate, arms crossed, eyes tracking Yeosang’s movements. His brows are knit, not from frustration, but something closer to… worry.

Yeosang doesn’t look up. “I’m always quiet.”

“You’re quieter.”

That earns a glance. Jongho’s gaze isn’t on him, though.

It’s fixed on a small figure across the deck. You, standing alone near the rigging, head lowered, shoulders braced like you’re expecting a wave to hit you at any moment.

Yeosang studies Jongho, then returns to his task. “You’re not the only one who’s been watching her.”

Jongho shifts uncomfortably. “She looks like she doesn’t know whether to run or jump.”

Yeosang’s movements slow. His voice is careful. “Would you blame her?”

Silence. Then Jongho pushes off the crate, restless.

“I just… I don’t get why everyone’s so sure she’s dangerous.”

He swallows. “She looks more lost than anything.”

Yeosang doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he walks over to the cannon closest to the gunport and lifts a small, hinged panel in the deck. Below, a hidden cache of smaller explosive rounds, his invention, nestle in canvas.

“Lost things can still burn,” he says finally.

Jongho frowns. “So can we.”

That draws Yeosang’s eyes up sharply. Jongho meets his gaze, unwavering for once.

“But someone gave us a chance, didn’t they?”

Yeosang holds his stare for a long moment. Then, slowly, he lowers the hatch.

“Keep your eyes open,” he murmurs, a little softer. “But keep your heart guarded.”

Jongho only nods once and steps away, heading toward you. He doesn’t approach, not yet. But he’s closer than he was before. Watching. Guarding.

Yeosang returns to the final cannon, gaze fixed out on the horizon, the gears within his mind clicking and whirring with an emotion he can’t quite place.

The wind has softened, leaving the sails whispering secrets to the sea. Most of the crew is below deck, sleeping or preparing for tomorrow’s strike in silence. Up here, the stars burn sharp and bright. Distant, unreachable.

Jongho leans on the railing, jaw tight, eyes cast toward the dark waters below. The creak of wood behind him doesn’t startle him. He knows the sound of San’s boots.

“Can’t sleep?” San’s voice is quiet, like it belongs to the night.

Jongho shakes his head. Doesn’t answer.

San joins him without asking, forearms braced on the same rail. For a while, there’s only the ocean and the rhythm of sails breathing overhead.

“You’ve been watching her.”

Jongho tenses slightly. But doesn’t deny it.

San continues, his tone unreadable. “I have too.”

Jongho glances at him then. San’s eyes aren’t accusing – they’re reflective. Tired, maybe.

“She’s not what they think,” Jongho says, voice rougher than usual.

San nods. “No. But she’s not harmless either.”

They stand in silence again, the kind that doesn’t press, just fills the space between unspoken truths.

“I don’t think she knows who she is yet,” Jongho murmurs eventually. “But she’s trying. And no one else seems willing to see that.”

San exhales through his nose, something like agreement crossing his features.

“Hongjoong’s walking a line no captain should have to.”

He straightens, looks directly at Jongho.

“So maybe we help keep it steady. Quietly. From the shadows.”

Jongho studies him.

Not a command. Not even a suggestion. Just truth.

He nods. Once.

“Watch her back.”

“And if she turns on us?” San asks softly.

Jongho looks out at the sea, the darkness stretching forever.

“Then we’ll still be the first to see it coming.”

They don’t shake on it. They don’t need to.

In a world of pirates, shadows, and shifting tides, the quiet pact between them is solid enough.

As San walks away, Jongho lingers—just for a moment longer—eyes flicking toward the faint silhouette of the captain’s quarters.

Because even storms deserve someone willing to weather them.

The sea is oil-black and still. No gulls. No breeze. Just the creak of the Halcyon’s rigging, and the soft rustle of her sails barely breathing.

She cuts through the water like a knife.

The crew is silent. No laughter. No murmured wagers. Just eyes, focused. Weapons, checked. Blades glinting cold beneath layered coats. Muskets loaded. Pistols primed. The kind of stillness that only comes before war.

San spots the ripple first. A cut in the fog. The unmistakable shape of a mast. Then another. And another.

The Serpent’s Fang.

Without a word, Hongjoong raises his arm.

The trap springs.

Sails lurch. The Halcyon pivots sharply, flanking the convoy’s edge with brutal precision. At the same moment, fire bursts across the line – Yeosang’s explosives detonating on contact, setting one of the Fang’s smaller ships ablaze. Chaos erupts before a single command is shouted.

Cannon fire rips across the water. Chain-shot splinters masts. Hooks bite into hulls. Then come the screams, the clash of steel—chaos.

San launches himself from the rigging like a shadow with teeth, crashing onto enemy decks. His twin blades flash in the morning light, every movement brutal and precise. One down. Another. He doesn’t pause.

Wooyoung’s firebombs spark to life from within the enemy’s cargo—he’d hidden aboard one of the merchant-styled supply ships during the night. When his fires detonate, a chain reaction ignites the lower hulls. He leaps overboard just before the flames reach the gunpowder hold.

Back on the Halcyon, Seonghwa moves like a commander possessed, directing reinforcements across the rails and through the tangled melee with mechanical precision. His sword is sheathed in red already, but he barely flinches—until a flaming arrow pierces the main sail above.

Jongho is on the port side, hauling wounded back and forth under cover. A younger crew-mate screams, pinned beneath fallen rigging—Jongho throws it off with raw strength, shielding them with his body as an enemy blade barely misses his spine.

Yeosang, perched in the crow’s nest, releases a barrage of miniature incendiaries down onto clustered attackers. His bombs explode on contact, ripping through enemy formations.

Amid the smoke and fury of the fray, Mingi is a force of nature – less a man, more a storm with a broadsword. He crashes into the enemy’s front line like a wave, swinging wide and wild, unrelenting. Two Serpent Fang pirates charge him at once; he doesn’t falter. His blade arcs, and one drops. The other he grabs by the collar and hurls into the sea. Blood streaks his cheek, his coat torn, breath heaving with each strike. But he’s laughing, fierce and reckless, driving the enemy back step by step. He doesn’t see the skiff. Doesn’t see the quiet shadows slipping aboard behind him. His focus is locked forward, unaware that the most dangerous battle is no longer ahead.

The Halcyon is cutting through the Serpent’s ranks like a blade through silk—but it comes at a cost. Shouts ring out. Smoke blurs the lines between ally and enemy. The main deck becomes a battlefield of fire, blood, and steel.

And in the chaos, they come.

A low skiff, black as night, coasts silently along the shadow of the Halcyon’s hull. Too fast. Too quiet. Grapples bite into the lower stern. Figures slither aboard like smoke.

The Viper’s men.

Three of them, hooded and masked, moving in formation with practiced silence. They slip through the lower levels, bypassing the main hold.

They know exactly where to go.

One pauses by a door, your door.

Meanwhile, across the smoke-choked battlefield, Hongjoong lifts his head. His eyes lock onto the movement. That feeling. Cold, electric, wrong.

His heart slams against his ribs.

No.

He breaks rank. Barrels past startled crew, ignoring the shouts for retreat. Vaults over fallen beams, slashes down an enemy who lunges in his path. Breath coming hard. Fast.

This isn’t happening, this couldn’t happen.

Pyra, knowing wars like these all too well, already knows how this will end.

Not in glory. Not in victory songs. But in blood, smoke, and knee jerk choices that no one walks away from clean.

While the ship shudders with distant cannon fire and the crew shouts orders above deck, you slip from the room they’d told you to stay in. Not a cell, not anymore, but still a cage. You move like a whisper, barefoot and sure, the floorboards cold beneath you. The Halcyon’s belly trembles with every broadside blast.

You find a belt in the crew’s quarters. A small dagger on the desk. You take both. Your hands are steady.

They will come for you. Of course they will.

You are the loose thread, the secret untied. And the Fang always cuts loose ends.

You descend two decks, keeping to the shadows, breath shallow. The smoke is heavier here, filtering in through the cracks in the hull. The scent of blood lingers, familiar. Almost comforting. You’ve lived through sieges before. You know how they move. Where they’ll breach. How they’ll hunt.

You station yourself behind a column near the cargo hold, eyes locked on the hallway ahead. Silent. Waiting.

Then—

A sound.

Not boots.

Gliding steps. Too quiet for a man who belongs to this ship.

A flicker of movement. A flash of a black hood. Another. Then a third.

They’re here.

The Viper’s men. Just as you knew they would be.

And they’re heading straight for you.

You tighten your grip on the dagger. You told yourself you wouldn’t fight. Not for them, not against them.

But something has changed.

You’ve seen the way Hongjoong looked at you. The way he ran for you.

And maybe it’s foolish, but you are tired of being a pawn.

This time, you’ll choose who you bleed for.

Hongjoong is running blind.

The battle above still howls behind him. Shouts, steel, the crack of cannon fire, but it’s muffled now, drowned beneath the thrum of blood in his ears. He barrels through corridors like a storm barely holding itself together. His boots slide on the smoke-slick wood, shoulder crashing into walls as he takes each turn too fast.

His only thought: Get to her.

The sight of those hooded men slithering aboard, their path too direct, their purpose too focused. It burned into him like a brand.

They’re not here to sack the Halcyon. They’re here for Pyra.

He shoves open a bulkhead door. Darkness swallows him. The belly of the ship is quieter, colder, thick with smoke and the iron tang of blood.

“Pyra!” he calls, low and sharp.

No response.

Panic curls up his spine. He rounds a corner, seeing a flicker of movement ahead. A glint of steel. A shadow passing. Too fast.

“Pyra!”

He doesn’t see the figure step out behind him until it’s too late.

A blow crashes into the back of his shoulder, hard and deliberate. He stumbles forward, off-balance, and a second attacker slams him sideways into the wall. Steel glints near his throat.

They were waiting.

He fights to breathe, twisting against their hold, drawing a dagger from his belt – but a third figure is already there, wrenching it free and slamming him to the floor with brutal precision.

A knee pins his chest.

One of the masked men crouches beside him, blade at his throat, breath hot through the fabric of his hood.

“You should have stayed above deck, Captain.”

Another hand closes around Hongjoong’s throat. Tightens. His vision begins to blur.

But then – a whistle of air. A dull crunch.

The attacker above him jerks, then topples, collapsing in a heap beside him. The second doesn’t even get a chance to turn.

She’s there. A blur of movement and violence.

Pyra.

The third man lunges for her, but she ducks under his blade, pivots, and drives her dagger upward into his ribs with horrifying precision. A twist. He crumples without a sound.

Silence crashes down.

Hongjoong coughs, dazed, staring up at her.

She’s panting, blood on her hands—not hers. Her chest rises and falls with lethal stillness, eyes wild, glowing faintly in the dark. A shadow of something long buried, now unearthed.

He realises, in that heartbeat, that she didn’t need to be saved.

She chose this. She chose him.

And now nothing will ever be the same.

Your breath rakes through your lungs, harsh and unsteady. Blood drips from the tip of your blade. You don’t feel it, feel anything but the thrum of adrenaline still pounding through your limbs.

Three of them.

Dead at your feet.

The oath you swore long ago – the one they branded into your skin and soul, now lying in pieces beside their cooling bodies.

You don’t look at them. You look at him.

He’s still on the floor, half-propped against the wall, blood on his lip, eyes wide and dark with disbelief. But not fear.

Not of you.

That’s what undoes you.

“Pyra…” His voice is low, hoarse. “What… what did you do?”

Your fingers are trembling. You hadn’t realised until now. You curl them into a fist, force the tremor away.

“I made a choice.”

The words leave your mouth before you can stop them. And gods, they feel heavier than steel.

“They were your people,” he says, not quite a question.

You don’t answer.

He presses anyway, more gently this time. “Weren’t they?”

A beat of silence.

“They were,” you say, finally. “Once.”

It’s all you give him. And yet it’s everything.

His eyes search yours, uncertain, still trying to piece together what it means. A girl once captive aboard his ship… now a killer in its defence.

“You didn’t hesitate,” he murmurs. “Why?”

You could lie. You could say it was instinct. Survival. But something inside you rebels at the thought.

So instead, you give him the only truth you’re ready to admit.

“Because I didn’t want to lose you.”

Silence falls again, heavier now. The fire of battle replaced with something raw, something unfinished.

“I ran down here to save you, I broke rank,” he says, voice low, like he’s only just realising the irony. “And you were the one who ended up saving me.”

You sheath your blade, hands-stained red.

“They taught me how to fight,” you murmur. “They just never expected me to choose someone else.”

His lips twitch—a half smile, pained and reverent. “You’re not what I thought.”

You reach for him, hesitating only a breath before helping him to his feet. He stumbles slightly, and your hands stay at his arms longer than they need to.

And he doesn’t let go.

His grip is steady. Warm. Trusting.

Too trusting.

You hold his gaze, your voice low and sharp, the edges honed not from anger, but warning.

“You couldn’t even begin to fathom what I am, Hongjoong.”

The words cut through the stillness like a blade.

“If you knew what was best – for you, your ship, your crew… you’d stay away.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away.

But his expression shifts. That reverence dims, not into fear, but something heavier. More dangerous. More determined.

“I’ve never done what’s best for me,” he says quietly. “And I’ve never once regretted it.”

His hand loosens, but only slightly.

“You still think you’re the storm,” he adds. “But Pyra… I’ve weathered worse seas than you.”

Your breath catches.

Because part of you wants to believe him.

Part of you wants to fall into the safety of his certainty. Wants to believe he could carry the weight of you without sinking beneath it.

But you know better.

You shake your head and step out of his release, severing the fragile line that had stretched between you.

“No,” you say, voice low but clear. “You don’t understand. You couldn’t.”

He opens his mouth, but you cut him off before he can try.

“Why do you think the Fang removed all traces of me from existence?” Your words come steady now, each one a nail hammered into truth. “Why would they go to such depths to keep a girl concealed from the world?”

You keep your gaze on him – not cold, but unwavering. A challenge. A confession. A warning.

“I’m not some secret weapon they misplaced. I’m the mistake they were afraid to name.”

The silence that falls isn’t empty. It’s thick. Charged.

Hongjoong looks at you like he wants to ask a hundred questions, but understands that now isn’t the time for any of them.

Instead, he decides to ask only one. Quiet. Careful.

“What did they do to you?”

And for the first time, something cracks.

But not enough to break.

You blink once, slowly, forcing the flood back behind your eyes.

“That’s not the question you should be asking.”

His brow furrows. “Then what is?”

You take a slow breath. Let it burn on the way out.

“What I’ll do to you… if you don’t stop looking at me like that.”

Like you’re worth saving.

Like you belong here.

Like you haven’t already made the choice that will damn you both.

The silence between you stretches, heavy with words unsaid, when the sound of boot-steps suddenly pierces it – rushed, echoing off the corridor walls. Not measured like before. Urgent.

Seonghwa.

You both register it at once. Hongjoong tenses, jaw tight, but doesn’t step away.

The door swings open, unannounced. Seonghwa storms in, breath sharp, gaze immediately locking onto the two of you. His captain, and their captor, far too close.

His eyes narrow.

“There you are,” he snaps, storm barely restrained in his voice. “What in god’s name are you doing down here?”

Hongjoong straightens slowly but doesn’t flinch. “I had to make sure she was safe.”

“Safe?” Seonghwa strides fully into the room, eyes flicking between you both. “We were attacked. You vanished mid-battle, Hongjoong. Do you have any idea what that did to the crew? To morale?”

“I knew she was the target,” Hongjoong says, flatly. “I couldn’t risk—”

“You’re the captain.” Seonghwa’s voice rises, then levels again with cold, deliberate clarity. “You don’t get to vanish when your crew need you.”

He pauses, chest rising and falling with the restraint of a man who has fought too many battles for someone else’s recklessness.

Then, quieter, his gaze shifts to you.

“They came looking for her, didn’t they?”

You don’t answer. Neither does Hongjoong.

But Seonghwa is no fool. He sees the way your hands are still shaking slightly. The way blood stains your cuffs, Hongjoong. His eyes narrow further.

“You fought them.” he says slowly.

Still, silence.

Hongjoong finally exhales, brushing a hand over his face. “She saved my life.”

Seonghwa stares at him. Then at you. Something shifts in his expression – still sharp, still distrusting, but more cautious now. Measured.

“You,” he points a long, slender finger towards you “Should not need to be saving anyone.”

The Quartermaster turns to you now. “I am not sure what kind of game you’re playing, but saving him does not erase the fact that you were them not long ago.”

He turns back to Hongjoong. “You will need to decide soon, Captain. What you are willing to risk. I cannot keep making justifications for your reckless behaviour.”

His words hang thick in the air. A warning.

Then he’s gone – leaving the door half-ajar, and the echo of the war still rattling the bones of the ship.

You and Hongjoong remain, a breath between storms.

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paceprompting · 7 months ago

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it's raining plastic santas...i mean, men

written for ‘cabin’ and ‘lights’ wc: 1000 # | steddie | rated: g | cw: no archive warnings apply | tags: secret relationship, sweet fluff, Hopper's cabin, Christmas decorating

@steddieholidaydrabbles & @steddiemas

Eddie lost track of Steve and Lucas sometime after morning hot chocolate.

El and Max had pulled him into decorating the inside of Hopper’s cabin, from garlands on the banister to a fire-hazard level of lights draping fabric along the walls. He mainly served as the guy to stand on a chair and possibly fall off while being ordered around by two teenagers.

The three kids at the cabin were the only ones they could convince to come a day ahead to get the cabin ready for a Christmas sleepover. Nobody was off in California and no watching over their shoulder for demonic animals or freaky, psychokinetic assholes. They really only wanted to get away from the miles on construction running through Hawkins—and Hopper had offered up his cabin as solace.

Of course, Steve was recruited as babysitter and chauffeur. And Eddie had been in the living room—for no particular reason—when Steve got the call, so he wasn’t going to be left out.

He realized halfway through pinning his fifth drapery-whatever that El could literally move things with her mind, and when he pointed it out, the girls just cackled at him.

“You know what?” Eddie jumped onto the floor from his chair. “I’m taking a smoke break.”

“Edddiiiee,” Max bemoaned, from her very uncomfortable spot laid out in the armchair. She had only stopped directing him from up close when her arms ached from her crutches. “The decorations…”

He laid the armful of fabric they’d shoved at him on Max’s lap, tapping the top of the pile. “It’s so fun, you should give it a try, Red. I’m going to go make sure your boyfriend hasn’t toppled off the roof into a snowbank.”

Max stared at him, mouth in a straight line.

“If you must,” she huffed.

Eddie scrunched his nose at her, since she hated having her hair ruffled, and she rolled her eyes in return.

He took the win and made his way outside.

Max wasn’t the only one with a boyfriend traipsing around on the damn roof.

Eddie shuddered as he stepped outside, his leather jacket not enough against the cold of northern Indiana. Tucking his arms against his chest, Eddie trekked out into the two inches of snow in his combat boots.

As he stepped off the porch, he shouted, “Sinclair! Harrington! What are we doing?”

“Shit!”

And that was all the warning he got before Santa came tumbling out of the sky and crashed into the snow right at his feet.

Perhaps he shouldn’t shout at the people dealing with the heavy decorations.

With a dignified squawk, Eddie leapt sideways into the snow. He landed on his side, freezing cold immediately bleeding through his sleeve. He stared at the red and white monstrosity that had nearly brained him—two-feet tall and round, the plastic shone in the sun.

Santa’s pink-cheeked face smiled creepily at him.

“You dead?”

Eddie craned his neck up toward the roof to find Lucas’ head tentatively peering over the edge. The multi-colored lights underneath his hands flashed, reflecting the light back on his face. One of the white wire reindeers stood securely beside him.

“Not yet,” he muttered, sticking his hands into the snow to stand. As he got to his feet, Steve came into view, standing far behind Lucas with a strained smile.

He waved bashfully as Eddie scowled.

“You two done?” he called.

Lucas eyed the fallen Santa and shrugged. “I guess so. Steve?”

“Let’s take a break. The girls will probably want us to move stuff around.” Steve and Lucas nodded their agreement, and Steve headed toward the ladder on the far side of the cabin. Lucas took the more direct route, holding tight onto the edge of the mall and then throwing his feet over.

Before Eddie could run over and try to steady him, Lucas dropped to the ground on both feet, completely steady and unbothered, brushing stray snow off his jacket as he headed back inside.

Ridiculous jocks.

His own didn’t give Eddie a heart attack, appearing from the side of the cabin without throwing himself at gravity, hands tucked into his thick winter jacket, head ducked as he watched his step.

“You owe me,” Eddie said when Steve stopped in front of him. “For the near assault with a deadly Santa.”

Steve laughed. “It weighs like six pounds.”

“Thus a worse tragedy it would have been,” Eddie said with a wave of his hand.

No one was aside with them, so Steve sauntered a bit closer, his back to the cabin windows. Eddie raised his brows as Steve’s body warmth radiated a bit onto him, and being theatrically upset with Steve was a lot easier when he didn’t also want to kiss him.

When he it used to be that he couldn’t kiss him.

Steve bit at his bottom lip, his big brown eyes glistening with mischief that was normally Eddie’s forte.

“So, you don’t want me to hang some mistletoe above the bed?” he asked with a teasing lilt.

He and Steve were watching the cabin tonight, while the kids had a regular holiday dinner with their families before heading to the cabin. They already had loose plans for their night alone in the master bedroom.

“I didn’t say that,” Eddie quickly corrected, narrowing his eyes as he tried to devise a proper penance for Steve’s rooftop shenanigans. “But we’re trying the handcuffs tonight.”

“Oh no,” Steve fake-gasped. “What will I do at the mercy of Eddie Munson?”

“I leave you waiting in anticipation, Harrington,” Eddie replied easily.

Steve blushed, even though that wasn’t even close to the craziest thing they’d tried in bed. He always blushed, and then absolutely ruined Eddie for anyone else, over and over.

He’d lucked out, getting to have Steve.

He thought he just might keep him.

“You did a good job, though. Just what this place needed,” he said, leaning into Steve’s shoulder for a long moment—until he heard the trampling of teenage footsteps coming to interrupt.

#steddie #steve harrington x eddie munson #steddie fic #steddie microfic #steddie fanfic #steddie drabble #secret relationship #fluff

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im-so-tired-sorry · 2 months ago

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Tasi’s Lake

fantasy!Katsuki Bakugo x gn!reader

i will always save you part II // part I here

an: request by @ashthesalamipiece. again this is based off the kiribaku fantasy series by Yuzuya on yt! but, like the last part , this will primarily be bakugo x reader, kirishima is here for wingman vibes and moral support. lowley created my own lore because i can lmao and the ending kinda sucks. hope ya'll enjoy!

w/c: 3.5K // masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Whew, now look at that view!" Kirishima gawks at the sight of your new camping location.

You had been travelling all day through thick forests and great plains. Ever since you started traveling for the day, the first couple hours were by foot, and after having a quick lunch of rations, Kirishima shifted into his dragon form to fly you three until the sun began to set. That's where you landed now, in the middle of a forest; nearby in the trees where you placed your feet back on the ground, was a clearing.

In the center of this opening, was a shimmering blue lake. Trees surrounded the perimeter of the area and the clearing of the leaves exposed the pink and yellow sky, showing off birds making their way back home for the night. The edges of the water held various greenery, flowers, and a tall species of grass that resembled bamboo. But instead of having short ended leaves at the top, the shoots held thick vines that drapped down, and somehow, the vines over lapped the other plants and trees surronding them. Even then, the roof of vines couldn't prevent the last bit of sunlight from reflecting off the light blue water, that some how glowed within the shadows as well.

"Is there something in the water that's making it glow?"

"Mmm, it might be glimmer fish?"

"Glimmer fish?"

"Yeah, they're these bioluminescent fish that inhabit a lot of northern waters. They can be eaten raw, which is a plus if you're in a rush, but they taste really salty, no matter what or how you cook them. That's why people prefer to know them by how they give off this light-bluish shine at night. If there's a lot of them, it will probably shine the whole lake!"

"Shitty scales! Help me set up the tent. Traveller, you start setting up the fire." Bakugo ordered as he dropped his bags by a tree.

Bakugo glances at you, which makes you instinctively grow a sheepish smile and nod, acknowledging your orders from him. He nods back as a faint pink dusts his face.

"Can we take a dip? I bet the water would be nice for a little plunge." Kirishima asks as he fastens one end of the tent to the ground.

"Won't the water be colder by the time the Sun goes down?" You ask as you pile various sticks and twigs. "I don't know about you but I'm not trying to take an ice bath."

"It won't cool."

"Huh? And how do you know?"

"Deku told me about it after one of his adventures. Described it just like this, with the foliage and the lake in the center." He straps the last rope of the tent down.

"How come it doesnt cool down?" You finish setting up the sticks in an efficient manner as the other two sit to join you. The Sun is slowly dipping past the tree line as Krishima breaths a flame into the pile.

"How come you gotta know?" Bakugo grumbles as he sits by the fire.

"Humor me." You respond dryly, but as Bakugo raises a glare at you, your blank expression turns into a smirk. Bakugo sighs.

"Well, back when the world was just created, the gods freely roamed and lived on this planet whenever they needed or wanted. One of the gods, the one who held power over bodies of water, was Atlo. He's known for building the environments in the oceans so that thier ecosystems could grow. He controlled the tides and gave forests like these the lakes they needed as a source for the animals that live here. He was stubborn and held a sense of pride when it came to his work. He never let anyone decide his actions or how he should use his power. Until..."

There's a silence.

"Until what? What?" Kirishima was holding his knees, leaning towards Bakugo as he waited in anticipation. You chuckled at his impatience but found yourself also with the curiousity and wanting to know what happened next.

"Until he met Tasi." A small gasp was heard escaping Kirishima's lips. You were fairly certain Kirishima didn't know who Tasi was either.

"Tasi was part of the first of humans to be created. Their village had begun settling down, and while exploring the woods, they ran into Atlo. It's said that they're interactions started off very awkwardly, as they both lived within the forest. But as they continued to see each other, Tasi gained the courage to approach Atlo, which was... odd for him. For a human to be so confident towards a god like himself; to treat him like an equal.

"At first it pissed him off. He didn't even know this human and the idea of them thinking they could rank up to him was insulting. But Tasi insisted on being friends. Even when Atlo threw hurtful, verbal jabs at the human, they never let up anything less than kind. As they continued to interact and talk, Atlo warmed up to Tasi. They foreged and hunted together, and in their spare time, Atlo would tell a library full of stories about him and the gods, while Tasi painted various scenes. They were eventually inseperable."

Bakugo looks over to you, and there's a glimpse of saddness.

"What happened?" You ask worridly, a fear of a tragic ending rattling the heart in your ribcage.

"The gods were ordered to retreat. To live in their own heavens while humans and all other races lived down here. Atlo resisted this. He was determined to stay and to live here with Tasi. This opposition caused him to ascend up to the heavens to fight the other gods that were enforcing this command. But when it was eventually revealed that his reasoning to stay was for a human? The kings had no hesitation to smite Tasi down. Not only as a punishment for Atlo's stubbornness and defiance, but to warn the inhabitants of the land about what happens when their gods arent respected.

"To add to the blow, they banished Atlo from the heavens, forcing him to live out his wish without his incentive to stay in the first place. Before they could revoke his mortality, Atlo established this lake. Filled with the warmest water that never ices despite the coldest winters, much like Tasi's kindness that never dimmed despite the god's initial bitterness. Once mortalized, Atlo would spend the rest of his days here, mourning the death of his friend caused by his own selfishness. The legend has been passed around and simplified to highlight Atlo's downfall for defying the gods, but this... this area is known to be titled ‘Tasi's lake’. Some people don’t realize that the two are connected until they hear the truth of the story. "

You sat there with an open jaw and a heavy heart. You always thought the expectation of a bad ending would be worse then it actually happening; in this case, you were wrong. No sound can be heard from any of you. The only things that can be heard are the subtle crackle of the fire and the soft chirping of crickets. That is until Kirishima speaks up.

"Were they lovers? Tasi and Atlo?"

The question set you back, flustered at the idea of these two characters having a more intimate connection; if the inference was correct, it would make the story more tragic. Bakugo only shrugs as he sighs, leaning back onto his arms. "No one is really sure. It's a common theory amoungst new listeners of the tale, but in general sharings of the story, they're just depicted as friends."

The silence is back, but only until the rumbling of Kirishima's stomach can be heard. You and Bakugo chuckle as the dragon's face lights up in embarrassment. "Shut up. I'm gonna go grab some food. Anybody want rations?"

"I'll have a bite."

"I'll pass."

You and Kirishima pause as you get up from your seating. "Bakugo? You're not gonna eat?"

"Nah." Bakugo gets up as well, but instead of heading for the tent, he heads for the water. "I'm gonna go for a swim."

As he walks, he starts stripping down, and you can't help take a glance at his back muscles before shyly and respectfully looking away. With a flushed face, you speed walk past Kirishima to the tent to grab your travel rations.

As you hand some food over to the dragon, Kirishima speaks up, “You gonna take a dip? Or are you gonna tell me what happened between you and Bakugo last night?” Kirishima wiggles his eyebrows, a smile tuning his tone.

“Nothing crazy happened! It’s just…” You trail off, not sure if you should be totally honest. You’re worried that a change in dynamic between you and Bakugo would not only affect your relationship with him, but also with Kirishima. You never want him to feel left out of the group, and you don’t want his connection with Bakugo to possibly split. But you know that not being honest to the dragon would be worse than the potential of making him feel like a third wheel. You take a bite of the piece of bread you’ve been holding, and when you swallow, you continue your answer,

“We… we kissed.”

A gasp leaves Kirishima’s mouth as he clenches onto half of the dried meat he’s been eating.

“I KNEW IT-“ You shush him as to not have Bakugo hear, and Kirishima quickly quiets down, “I knew it I knew it I knew it!!!”

“Yeah, yeah, just… keep it to yourself for now. We haven’t talked about it since it happened and I don’t want to pressure him in any way.” You finish your bread and begin your portion of dried meat.

“I promise I won’t say anything about it. Not until you guys are ready.” Kirishima gobbles down the last bit of his dinner and cleans himself.

“Thank you.” It’s all you can muster as you munch on the last bits of your rations and also dust any crumbs off of you. In the moment, you couldn’t find an immediate way to show your gratitude for being so understanding and patient. You step into the tent to change out of your garment into the swimming clothes you were gifted by your companions. It still amazes you, even in lowering temperatures, how the pair can undress and swim in water with nothing on. In this case, the constant warm water was an advantage. You leave your belongings and clothes by your bed roll and you unzip your way out of the tent.

“Gonna go swim now?”

You nod, looking towards the lake where Bakugo has submerged himself in the water, running his hands through his hair and washing off any dirt that clung to his skin.

“Well then, have fun. Best not to keep your Atlo waiting, Tasi.” Kirishima sends you a smirk and a teasing wink, avoiding your hand from smacking him before hiding in the tent.

There's a nervous tremble in your knees as you walked to the lake. Confrontation about such a vulnerable subject was nerve-wraking enough; it didn't help that the wind that would breeze through the trees was biting at your skin. Once you reach the shore of the water, you look out to see Bakugo cleaning one of this necklaces. Most of his torso was above the water, and the limelight of the moon highlighted the arches of his biceps, but the shine of the glimmer fish emphasized the color of his eyes.

You dipped a toe in to test the water, and the warm and inviting sensation threw you off the initial frigid expectations you had. Even the subtle movement alerted Bakugo to look up and see you. You freeze, posed--a deer in crosshair. Bakugo chuckles, rolling his eyes and going back to his necklace. "Hop in, it's actually kind of nice."

You begin to walk into the water, careful not to slip on the rocks you were stepping on. The water was as warm as a hot spring and the sand at the bottom guided you deeper, right by where Bakugo was reapplying his necklace to the collection on his neck.

“I’m not gonna lie, I didn’t think the water would actually hold up to the legend.” Bakugo rolls his eyes again.

“Yeah, it’s almost as if I wasn’t lying.”

“I didn’t say you were, it’s just hard to believe a guy who can’t properly wash dirt off his face.”

Bakugo begins to run his hands all over his face before you laugh to yourself. “Here.” You reach up, and wipe off the spot on his forehead by his hairline that had caught some dust. You rub the spot and gently run your hand down his face, over his temple, and down towards his jaw, where your fingers eventually linger. You look up to Bakugo’s red eyes on yours, glancing all around your face, but they always land back on your eyes.

“I uh… I got it-“

Before you can joke about receiving a proper thank you, Bakugo cups his hands around your face and smashes his lips onto yours. The intensity of the kiss almost had you slip on the sand under the water, but gripping his forearms allowed you to regain your balance.

Throughout your travelling of the day, you had considered the idea that Bakugo had only mirrored your intentions; that maybe the timing of it all was the spark of a short fused flame. But you immediately think back to last night, how when he decided to kiss you back, he showed you the same passion he exhibits now. You now realize that action was not performed due to the heat of the moment. He had thought about how he felt about you before, and that was his chance to show it. Just as he does now. Last night was not the spark, it was the oxygen to fuel the small flame that had already been lit.

His lips were inviting, lingered with the taste of the sweet fruit you had picked that morning and had been snacking on while traveling by foot. They were harsh with hunger but delicate with wary, not wanting to rush the passion that came with running the risk of your rejection. But you didn't reject him. You ran your hands up his neck, pulling him closer to share your need for his lips as well. The need for the sensation of feelings reciprocated. Of his touch, his thoughts, his emotions, his heart. Leaning in to deepen the kiss just to experience... him.

Eventually, the desire for one another became too overwhelming; the temperature of the lake did not help with the heating of your warmed up face and body. At one point, you knew you were getting overheated. You pulled away, slightly gasping for the air that was stolen from your lungs. He moves his arms down to wrap around your waist and lets your foreheads connect, letting you breathe for the moment.

You didn't speak for a while. You didn't feel the need to. You both just stood there in the middle of the water, having each other. You rubbed the back of his neck and the subtle sway of the water entranced you both to follow the movement too. You were grateful the luminosity of the fish allowed you to actually see him; to see his face completely relaxed and his eyes closed. You chuckle, causing him to open his eyes to glare at you.

"What?"

"I don't think I ever saw you so... soft."

"Tch... gods forbid I try to relax every once in a while."

"I'm just sayin', it's dark, in the middle of the woods, we're naked and vulnerable. And you know Kirishima is so long gone in sleep, we're practically alone out here."

Bakugo moves his head away and gives you a questioning look. "Ya paranoid or something?"

"No need to be, I know you'll always save me." You send him a teasing grin as you echo the words he shared with you last night. He rolls his eyes for the third time since being in the water, subtly trying to scan the outskirts of the woods to catch anything that can be lurking or watching. You sigh to yourself, slightly pushing away to create some distance.

"So... what happens now?" Your chest fills with tension as it does when you know you're about to enter a serious conversation. Bakugo diverts his eyes from your surroundings back to you. "What do you mean?"

"Well... we obviously have feelings for one another. But this whole journey is... to get me back home. So... what do we do? Pretend they don't exist to lower the blow of the inevitable goodbye? Embrace them and only spend the next couple months we have with each other? Not to mention, what about Kirishima? I dont' want to risk him feeling excluded and having that tarnish your bond with him-"

"Hey." Bakugo places his hands towards the small of your back and pulls you in as you were before. "Sure we only have months, but we also have the better half of a year. We don't need to think of all the what-ifs tonight. We can take it slow. Just... do what feels right, for us. Who knows, maybe we can figure something out; maybe there's a way for you going home to not be so... permenant. And I wouldn't worry about shitty scales, I think he already feels like more of a wing man."

"That's a good pun."

"Shut up." You laugh, and it causes Bakugo to smile. He places his forehead back on yours and you hum in your smile. A gust of wind passes by, leaving a trail of goosebumps and shivers along your torso above the water. Bakugo feels your cold trembling and places his hands along your spine, using his explosive magic to slightly heat up his hands. Ironically, the sudden warmth and physical touch sends a deeper, more internal shiver down your spine.

“We’ll… take it slow.” You repeat to yourself.

“We have time. We’ll figure it out.” He rubs your back, consoling any doubts you had.

“Here.” Bakugo lets go and starts cleaning off any dirt or dust that hadn’t already been washed off by the water. Funny enough, he rubs a spot on your forehead to clean off. He then lets his fingers glide down your face, the way you had done to him. His hand falls down to under your chin, and he guides you into another kiss. This one is soft and gentle and quick but it still didn’t fail to warm up your face. It also coated Bakugo’s face in a light pink hue.

“We should head in. It’s getting late.”

“The fire is still lit so maybe heating up some meat will do you some good while we dry off. You should eat before we head to bed.”

“Tch, look at you. Stressing about us, making sure i’m fed. You must really like me.” He teases as he helps you up the slippery rocks out of the water.

“Yeah, gods forbid I do.” You say, sending him a shove as he puts a lower layer of clothes on.

You sit by the fire together as Bakugo eats his rations, telling you various stories that have occurred throughout the history of Sultera. Well-known adventures, kingdom dramas caused by small, mundane events, stories of the gods and how the mutation of the deadliest fruit was created based off a single joke. It was all entertaining.

Bakugo finishes his meal and heads back to the tent as you volunteer to put out the fire. Before heading in, he gives you one kiss on the forehead and leans his own against yours for a moment. With that, he bids you a goodnight and heads in the tent for the night.

Now alone, you silently gush over the romantic scene you had experienced in the lake. You admit that you still have some doubts, worrying about the timing and technicalities of it all. But then you think about Bakugo’s words, and his touch, and his softness that he felt comfortable enough exposing to you. That vulnerability solidifying the fact that he was yours, and you were his. You know he would protect you no matter what; no matter the physical situation or emotional circumstance. You know that if it came to it, you would stand up to the gods for him, even if you knew you had to go home and stay for good.

Thoughts in mind, you finish putting out the fire and climb into the tent. Both dragon and prince are fast asleep, and you make an effort not to wake them as you grab your clothes and step outside to change. Once dressed, you lay in the tent in the open space between them and settle in for the night.

Your heart raced as you dreamed of what was to come, but Bakugo unconsciously wrapping his arm around you guided your dreams into one of security and love.

#bakugo headcanons #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugo katuski #bakugou katsuki #bakugou katuski x reader #bnha bakugo katsuki #bnha eijiro kirishima #katsuki bakugo #kiribaku x reader #kiribaku x y/n #kiribaku fantasy #fantasy series yuzuya #fantasy au #bhna bakugou #katsuki bakugou #mha bakugou #bakugou x reader

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nancyheart11 · 2 months ago

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Hotsprings are just what the doctor ordered

Twilight always felt more at ease when they were in his era. He wasn’t sure what it was in the air, but when he was in any time other than his own; there was a feeling like he didn’t quite fit in itching at his bones. The latest doorway they followed the shadow through led them to Twilight’s time, the deep gorges surrounding Kakariko distinctive enough to give him a pretty good idea of where they were.

They made their way to the town the next morning, having to stop and camp since they arrived well past sunset. The sight of open gates and even some bustle amongst the townspeople set Twilight at ease, since it was a sign there wasn’t any immediate disaster happening. With that established, the group stopped at the Goron by the side of the road selling potion, then got more bombs before heading over to the sanctuary, hoping Renado would have information for them.

“Link! It’s a relief to see you right now. Monsters have been gathering in numbers not seen since the invasion.” Renado’s face was shadowed with stress that hadn’t been there the last time he visited.

Twilight nodded, not surprised to hear this was happening but glad there was information to be had so he wasn’t stuck going in circles. There were three groups of monsters gathering it seemed, all about equidistant from the town. Dodongos, fire keese, chus, and strange frog-like creatures which spit fire were gathering within the Goron mines. When Sky perked up at the description of the frog-like creatures, Twilight figured it would be a long day, since monsters he wasn’t familiar with were involved. Then he heard about bokoblins, Deku babas, and a strange horse-lion-like creature gathering on Kakariko’s side of North Hyrule Field. And in the South Field, guay, kargarocks, and araflos seemed to be gathering.

Renado asked if they had booked rooms in the Elde Inn for the night, and upon finding out they hadn’t stopped by yet, left to make arrangements, dodging any talk of payment with his calm, quiet refusal to talk about it until they gave in and went back to planning out how to deal with the monsters. Sky said the creatures new to Twilight in the mines were called froaks. Legend pulled out his ice rod and called first shot at the fire monsters, Four and Warriors both opting to join in with Legend’s group. Wild insisted he be in charge of the Lynel on the northern field portion and Hyrule was quick to join him, with Wind joining in after learning that the northern field was the biggest battlefield of the three. Twilight reminded him not to hurt vital infrastructure, but winked after to let him know he wouldn’t complain about a little burnt grass.

Which left Sky, Time and himself to tackle the southern field portion. They agreed to meet back at the town when they were finished and split off so they weren’t burning daylight. Twilight left Epona in the inn’s stable, making sure to give her a sugarcube before he left, since she clearly deserved a treat for dealing with the others in the group. They moved on past the narrow canyon opening that acted as a bottleneck into and out of the town, and soon arrived in Southern Hyrule Field.

“So, how many rupees ya wanna bet we can be done first?” Twilight threw his arms back behind his head at the words, wondering if the others would take the bait.

Time and Sky didn’t answer with words, but the sudden gleam he could see in both their eyes told him they were in on the game. With that said, they soon figured out a system where Time would use his hookshot and Twilight his boomerang to bring down airborne enemies for Sky to unleash that glowy sword beam on. With this method of taking down half a dozen in a shot, they’d finished by lunch time and were making their way back to Kakariko, Twilight being able to delightedly point out places he’d found a golden bug or two along the way to Sky, who’d gotten out a ridiculously huge bug net.They entered town and the sounds of the sacred spring gave Twilight an idea.

“Say, have either of you fellas ever been to a hot spring?” He could feel a smile trying tug at his list and stubbornly kept it at bay.

Time’s eye lit up, and his ears perked ever so slightly, while Sky put a finger to his chin, thinking for a moment.

“Is that like a hot bath?”

Twilight grinned at the confusion radiating from the Skyloftian knight. “You, my friend, are about to be in for a treat.”

“So Kakariko has hot springs in your time? That’s a far cry from what they had in my day, and I haven’t had a chance to visit hot springs since my return to Hyrule.”

“You’re probably thinking of old Kakariko— wait what do you mean return to Hyrule?”

Time simply smiled in that purposefully frustrating way of his, choosing to act like a skull kid and say nothing else on the matter. But Twilight couldn’t bring himself to be angry, not when they had hot springs to enjoy!

They walked into the Elde Inn and the innkeeper perked up upon seeing Twilight, letting him know that the top floor was theirs for the night and Renado had already taken care of it. Twilight asked about towels and was told they were waiting in the rooms. He took his companions upstairs and they chose a room to drop their stuff inside, each of them stripping down to just pants and grabbing a towel on the way out. Quick rinses to get off the remaining monster blood and grime were done at the indoor bath area.They got to the dirt path outside the inn that lead to the hot spring up top and Twilight couldn’t help the grin that split his face at the prospect of getting to spend some quality time in the delightful spring, sharing the relaxing experience with his ancestor, and particularly at watching Sky’s reaction.

They finally made it to the shallow dip that made up the inn’s hot springs. The Gorons that usually spent the day in the hotspring were nowhere to be found. The stones that curved and sloped gently from years of people sitting on them looked oh so inviting, and oh there was a layer of gravel lining the bottom of the spring, that was new. He shucked his pants off, setting them in a pile by his towel, before eagerly stepping into the water, knowing it was going to be warm and yet still a little surprised at just how warm the water was. He began walking across the bottom of the pool, finding the shifting gravel under his bare feet felt strangely soft in the hot water, the sensation new and not unwelcome.

“C’mon in! The water’s perfect.”

Time was already putting his neatly folded towel and pants off to the side, making his way into the water, closing his eye and sighing in appreciation as he did so. “Oh how I’ve missed this. Getting to soak these bones is quite the unexpected treat.”

Twilight beamed at his ancestor though his eye was still closed, happy that his suggestion was going over well, then turned to look at Sky, who was staring at the pool with wide eyes.

“Woah! There's steam coming off the water! It’s so hard to get that at the academy. Karene always uses all the hot water.” despite his grumbles Sky now had a smile on his face as he cautiously dipped a toe in the water, letting out a little gasp of surprise at the temperature, before slowly shuffling into the water a little bit at a time, stopping between each gradual descent.

As for himself, Twilight found the spot on the ledge where the shadows from the surrounding cliffs fell juuuust so, leaving him able to lean back, with his arms on the side behind him, sunshine pooling over the bit of his chest not in the water, yet his face staying in cool shadow. He let a sigh of contentment leave him once he settled. This was a welcome change from the constant fights and stress and secrets. Here, he could simply let his worries melt away for a bit, sharing this small treat with people he couldn’t help but admire after the time they’d spent in battle together.

There was a swish next to him in the water, and he peeked from under his lashes to find Sky settling in next to him, still wiggling his hands in the water as though he could barely believe that this entire pool was delightfully warm and would continue to remain so. Time had adopted a similar position to Twilight, though he’d simply turned his head so that his good eye was facing away from the sun, his prominent nose probably helping to offer shade from the angle he was at. Twilight laughed a little internally at the thought, then shifted to be a little deeper in the water, letting the warmth and weightless feeling wash away even his thoughts.

—

The sun moved in the sky, a breeze came and went, and the sunlight was in Twilight’s face now, yet he didn’t move because his current position was so comfortable. Then a shadow crossed his vision, along with the sounds of leather tapping on stone.

He looked up, only to meet the scowling face of Legend. Sky was snoring softly next to him, head slumped against the stone behind them. He lifted an arm that felt as though it was filled with Chu jelly, giving Legend a lazy wave.

“Really! That’s all you have to say after leaving us to do all the work, Rancher?”

He could practically see the steam pouring out of Legend’s ears. He quirked a quizzical brow in response.

“We’ve been fighting stupid monster reinforcements all day! And we finally get back only to find out you’ve been up here relaxing for hours!”

“T’wern’t any reinforcem’ts in the group we ‘ad,” Twilight forced out past sleepy lips.

Legend got red in the face, his foot tapping faster and faster in irritation, before he seemed to deflate, and Twilight’s mind couldn’t help comparing him to a bunny who had flopped over after his stomping didn’t get him more food.

“Why don’t you shower off an’ come join us, vet?”

Legend paused, then nearly ran back down the stone path towards the inn, and soon enough there was a fourth body sliding into the water, Legend’s hair pulled back into a small tail to keep it from touching the liquidr.

Soon enough there were nine boys in the hotspring, all too tired from a day of protecting the kingdom they held dear to talk, but enjoying the break and the presence of the others all the same.

Twilight heaved an internal sigh and pulled himself away from the sweet call of the water, toweling off and putting on pants, moving towards the inn to see about getting dinner sorted, so that Wild would be able to take a break as well.

#nan writes #linked universe #lu twilight #lu sky #lu time #they have a nice day at the hotsprings #that's it that's the fic #based on how much I enjoyed my grad trip last week #hope this brings people a smile

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tieronecrush · 2 years ago

Text

🎃 trick or treat 🎃

summary: it's halloween and joel's taking your girls trick-or-treating with you in a family costume. feeling uncomfortable in his clothes and his skin, he's on edge most of the evening but does his best to disguise it in order to not spoil the fun. back at home, when his girls lightheartedly tease him about everything he already thought about himself, you're sure to end the night showing joel exactly how you feel about him and his body.

wc: 10k (oops?)

warnings: established relationship/married, canon divergent (no outbreak, ellie & sarah are both his kids, sort of obscure with if they're both his bio kids/your kids - basically y'all are a cute lil family either way! also joel is ~40, no age mentioned for reader!), halloween, family/group costumes, DOMESTIC JOEL!!!, fluff, body insecurities, age insecurities, joel has minor sensory issues?, his kids poke fun at him, sensitive joel, SMUT. it kind of is a thing for the basically the second half, descriptions of joel's body, tummy & thigh worship, oral (m receiving), cowboy rule (for a costume), unprotected piv, lowkey sub!joel for a lil bit, reader is "giving cunt" according to bestie el, then quickly gets back to dom!joel as he gets his confidence back, joel gets that strength in an adrenaline rush that moms get lifting cars off babies but his is for chasing a nut, also, dirty talk!

a/n: my contribution to spooky season, basically at the buzzer lol. this started with me thinking how cute it would be for joel to dress up and go trick-or-treating with his kids, and ended with wanting to s*** his d*** big time. anyways, enjoy my version of halloween with joel, and thank you to @kiwisbell for screaming about this scenario with me and as always a big thanks to my sweet, sweet girlfriend @northernbluess for beta-ing!!!!

Brought on much later than the northern states, fall in Texas is not quite an impactful sight. The one thing that can’t be beaten though is the Texas sun; shining across expansive horizons all times of year, temperatures of the light shifting with the seasons. Orange evening sun stretches across the sky and seeps down in between the leaves speckled with changing colors while Joel’s truck coasts down the neighborhood street. Kids retreat from running around in the road when his car approaches, returning right back to their gameplay when he’s through. Half are dressed up, a medley mix of witches, zombies, vampires, Power Rangers, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Disney Princesses, and countless outfits that he has no idea what they’re referencing.

Fibrous, white faux spiderwebs litter the front porches of the houses lining the street, Jack-O-Lanterns carved and lit up stack on the stairs or create a path along the front walkways. Some of the pumpkins’ faces are wrinkly and sagging, signs of overeagerness from when the fall season started earlier this month. A handful of scarecrows find themselves pitched in the middle of yards with hay spilling out of them, and some of the houses have turned out an expense to get those motion-sensor decorations — the ones really intended to scare the kids that will be unleashed on the neighborhood to trick-or-treat this evening.

Rolling to a stop as he turns into the asphalt driveway, throwing the truck in park, he sits in the cab for a still moment, staring at the signs of life scattered around his family’s house. Four pumpkins, gutted and showing off their faces, a family feud that reached a compromise when it was decided that yes, they would carve pumpkins but no, they would not sit to rot on the front porch all month long; the corn stalks wrapped around the posts of the porch, tied with burlap twine and arranged with sprigs of fall foliage; pots of colorful mums framing the path up to the house, carefully selected by your eye and less delicately planted in their terracotta vessels by Joel’s hands.

Aside from the seasonal decorations, the usual markings of the Miller family were easily spotted: chalk drawings on the shared sidewalk in front of the yard and along the driveway, replaced every weekend by Sarah once the old was washed or worn away; Ellie’s bike discarded on the front lawn, small tire tracks digging up the grass, no matter how many times Joel and you have asked her to put it away when she’s done; the porch swing that Joel built for you, swaying in the breeze and now unoccupied — unusual for the evening routine around the time that Joel comes home from work. He’s normally greeted by his girls, not merely their artifacts. But tonight is a different night, much busier than the slow, molasses life Joel gets to enjoy in the colder weather.

Gathering his lunch bag from the bench seat and bunching up his jacket in the same hand, Joel climbs out of the car and walks into the open garage, leaving his tools behind in the flatbed to be dealt with tomorrow morning. Passing your parked car, he shakes his head with a subtle smile as he closes the driver’s side door of your SUV left open. He can picture you now, running around after picking the girls up from school, mental space occupied by getting everything and everyone together to make it out the door before the sun went down completely.

There’s a trail of evidence to support his musings: a lonesome plastic bag filled with groceries left on top of the car, Sarah’s purple jacket looped through the handle of the garage fridge, probably left behind after she went looking for a juice, and Ellie’s army green backpack tossed on the ground in front of the shoe racks lining the wall next to the door. None of that would fly had you been your usual focused self — more often than not, you’re the parent to put their foot down and keep the girls in line while Joel is the total pushover.

Along his way inside, he picks up all the left-behind items, balancing everything in his hands while he steps into the mudroom. Ellie’s backpack gets shoved into her designated cubby, and Sarah’s jacket gets wrapped on a hook screwed into the wall as Joel kicks off his work boots. After depositing his own belongings in their spots, lunch bag in his cubby and jacket on the hook next to Sarah’s, he grabs his boots in one hand, leaning out the doorway to place them on top of the shoe rack. Closing the door behind him, he picks up the singular bag of groceries left on top of your SUV and pads across the tile further into the house. Immediately, he’s embraced by the warmth radiating from the kitchen, the smells of tomatoes, onions, garlic, and more wafting into his nose causing a smile to stretch across his face and his stomach to rumble.

Every year that he’s known you, without fail, you use Halloween night as an excuse to cook up your family-favorite chili recipe. Sure, it doesn’t get too cold for October in Texas, but damn, does he look forward to the night every year simply for a bowl of it. Laboring over the prep and slow-cooking it all day long, anyone who tries it can taste the care in each bite; like a warm blanket wrapped around his shoulders that lasts with him for the entire evening spent outside with the kids.

The pleas of his stomach lead him straight into the kitchen, his smile growing wider when he sees you standing over the kitchen counter, affixing a sheriff badge to the cow print vest laid out in front of you. He strides over to your side, resting his palm on your lower back and swiping his thumb against the material of your shirt while he leans in to press a kiss to the top of your head, drinking in your scent and feeling the ache of missing you all day. Losing focus from your task, you turn toward him with a bright smile, a quiet sigh leaving your lips, and your shoulders relaxing from their tensed position. Wordlessly, he folds forward, catching your lips in a lingering kiss. Heat pushes against his chest through his denim shirt, your hands skating from his pecs, up and across his shoulders, and down his arms to rest on his biceps. The motions raise goosebumps in their wake, trailing down his spine with a tepid drip.

Joel steals another kiss before he stands up straight again, voice rasping from yelling over powerful tools all day and volume low to keep the semblance of a private moment between the two of you for as long as possible; anything louder would expose his arrival, bombarding him with questions and conflicts to resolve between his daughters.

“Hey, baby.” He greets you with one fleeting kiss pressed to your forehead, hand at your lower back now rubbing side to side, fingers carefully lifting the fabric and pressing the tips of them into your deliciously soft skin.

Turning back to the vest, you drop your hands from his arms not before giving them a gentle squeeze, “Hi, Joel. Good day?”

He shrugs, unable to step away from you just yet, “It was fine — much better now. And I take it yours has been a busy one?”

Joel holds up the plastic bag of groceries with two fingers, one corner of his mouth lifting in a teasing smirk. His hip pops out as he leans against the counter, the smirk turning into a smile when you grimace. His heartbeat skips when your laugh fills his ears, the sound still exciting him after all these years, and you stand over the bag to take a peek inside.

“S’all good. Non-perishables.” It’s Joel’s turn to laugh, shaking his head with a breathy chuckle as he places the bag on the counter, unloading its contents into the pantry while you go about recapping your day for him.

In the midst of you speaking, the tumble of footsteps down the stairs draws his attention away, eyes focusing on the open threshold that leads from the living room into the kitchen. As the quickened steps grow closer, Joel turns to you and holds up three fingers, counting down with them. When he lowers his last finger, a mop of curly hair, a bouncing ponytail, and a whirlwind of chaos disrupts the initial peace of his return home.

“Hi girls, how was today?” he starts before a cacophony of noise fills the kitchen. Skidding to a stop in front of him, he exchanges a look with you before facing his daughters, already overwhelmed with their two voices talking over the other.

“Dad, Dad, Sarah said—”

“Dad, Ellie’s saying that I said—”

Holding his hands up, he flicks his eyes between his two girls. Sarah, the older of the two at eleven years old, stands in front of him with her arms crossed and brow furrowed — a look he is all too familiar with, the similarities between him and her emphasized with her annoyance. Ellie, your youngest, stands with her fists clenched at her sides, her mouth twisted up in frustration and the same furrowed brow as her sister. She looks so much more like you at the moment, only a nine-year-old version, calling back on times Joel can remember of you giving him that very look.

However, with their tempers, there’s no doubt that they’re his kids.

Dropping his hands back to his sides, he rolls his shoulders and takes a deep breath before addressing them.

“So, what’s going on now?” he asks, brows raising and head tilting when the girls each take a sharp inhale, about to speak over each other again, “One at a time. Ellie.”

Sarah rolls her eyes at her younger sister being called upon first, expectantly looking at her sister with annoyance still painting her face. Ellie shoots her a smug look before turning back to Joel, drawing a pout onto her lips to sell her story. He can’t say it doesn’t work for a second, it always will with these two and they know it, but with a quick glance in your direction, he sees you turned away from your task, watching the drama from the sidelines. Mustering the strength to stand his ground against the sweetness of his girls, he clears his throat and listens with his best poker face as Ellie begins explaining.

“Sarah said she wouldn’t trade all her Skittles for my Three Musketeers even though she knows I hate Three Musketeers and she said last week when we were getting our costumes that she would—”

“I never said that, Dad! She’s lying—” Sarah gestures with her hands as if to physically point out the obvious falsehoods in Ellie’s story. Spiraling back out of the fleeting control he had over the situation, the kids get riled up again, yelling over each other, and inching closer. The dad-instincts kick in and he grabs one of each of their shoulders, separating the two of them and turning them to face him again as he puts on what you affectionately call his ‘no-bullshit’ voice.

“Okay, okay, okay! Enough arguin’ about candy that you don’t even have yet. Ellie, you don’t even know if a single house is gonna give ya Three Musketeers, and you don’t even know if Sarah is gonna get any Skittles. Save the trade negotiations for tonight or tomorrow morning. ‘Sides, you gotta pay the Dad Tax before either of y’all get to trade around your pickings.”

“What?”

“No way!”

Joel smiles, waving his pointer finger between his daughters with a single nod of his head. “See? Something y’all can agree on. Now go get washed up for dinner and plot how you can hide your candy from me and Mom.”

As quickly as they came in, they rush right back out, this time a united force scheming against their parents. Joel huffs out a breathy laugh, shaking his head to himself as he turns back to face you. Met with a growing smile, you unravel your arms crossed in front of your chest to pick up the vest from the counter.

“Nice conflict resolution there, hon. Now I won’t see a single piece of candy.” You throw a pout at him, bottom lip jutting out as he steps over to you, one hand splaying on your hip and thumb rubbing languid circles.

“Don’t worry, baby, I think I know every single one of their hiding spots from how many times they had to move their candy last year. They won’t even notice anything's gone.” With a quick wink, he leans in for a kiss, short and sweet. Standing up straight, the smile on your face mirrors his, your left index finger reaching up to fit into the valley of his dimple.

“Are we bad parents to be scheming how to steal from our children?” you question, biting back a laugh.

“I think that’s just part of parenting, darlin’.”

The laugh you held back escapes you, rolling your eyes playfully at his facetious answer; the vest in your hands catches his eyes again, and he sighs to himself as he holds a hand out for it.

“So you really did find a cow print vest for me? How lucky.” Sarcasm coats his tone and you lift the material, depositing it in his open palm.

“It is lucky, isn’t it? I think you’re going to look great in your costume. Got all the perfect parts, plus you can wear your own jeans and boots. Economical.”

“You sure you need me for this group costume?”

“Joel. You’re literally one of the main characters from the damn movie. And the girls really want you to dress up and take them trick-or-treating. Plus it’s probably going to be one of, if not the last year that we get to do all this as a family. Our kids are growing up.”

“Don’t remind me, means m’getting older too,” he grumbles under his breath, eyes falling to the fabric in his hand.

It’s true what they say about having kids: the days are long, but the years are short.

At times, Joel wishes he could pull each hair out of his head instead of dealing with the shit his kids bring to him sometimes — “Dad, I got called into the principal’s office.” “Dad, I threw a softball and broke the window.” “That’s so unfair, Dad! Why do you have to be so mean?” It’s easy to get lost in the mess that is his family, but it’s a mess he loves. It feels like it was only yesterday that he was becoming a father when Sarah was born, getting a grasp on the whole thing and then Ellie came along. What he would do without you there by his side, he doesn’t have a clue.

Like flipping through a scrapbook, he can remember every year prior for his girls. In a flash, they’ve grown from dressing up as princesses and unicorns — a dragon for Ellie — to being Spy Kids and vampires. His oldest is verging on becoming a teenager, and if he knows his daughters, he knows that once Sarah quits dressing up each year, when she asks to go to her friends’ houses instead of spending the night with Mom and Dad, Ellie will want to do the same as her older sister, always looking up to her despite their differences.

There’s only so much more time for his kids to be kids, even if they may always feel like the tiny baby girls he held in his arms. All he wants to do is to protect them, keep them under his eye as long as he can, but he can hear your voice prying his grasp away from them, encouraging him to let them grow, let them experience the world as he got to do when he was younger. You’ll remind him that you were a teenage girl once, reassuring him that they’re always going to need him. He knows it’s all going to sneak up on him; one day, he’s going to pull into the driveway and notice the lack of chalk drawings. He might even be happy at first about Ellie’s bike being put away, but when he goes into the garage to work on some of his projects, he’ll notice the smallest bit of dust on it from disuse.

Stepping away from him to shuffle across the kitchen, you reach on your tiptoes to pull out four bowls from the cabinet. Joel steps over behind you, a hand on your back as he intercepts your movements, grabbing the ceramic dishes and handing them to you.

Like a shadow, he follows behind you as you walk over to the pot filled with dinner, eagerly watching over your shoulder with his chest pressed against your back and hands on your waist as you lift the lift. Aromas waft with the steam rising, the delectably rich dish slowly bubbling as it finishes melding altogether. It smells like home, always the mark of the changing of the seasons in the Miller household, and one of the little traditions that he so appreciates you creating for your family. Just like the way you make crinkle cookies and still sign presents from Santa at Christmas, despite the fact that your daughters found out about that a couple of years ago from a yappy kid at school.

Joel was very close to driving over to his house and letting his parents know how he felt about their kid murdering the magic of Christmas for his girls.

All he can hope is that these little traditions continue even when the girls are grown up; the four of you gathering around the table for your annual chili dinner before they head off to hang out with friends and you two are left to watch cheesy Halloween movies and hand out candy to children that remind you of your daughters.

With another deep breath, warmth surrounds him. Joel’s lips find the spot just under your ear, kissing gently before he rests his chin on your shoulder, “Smells so good, baby. Have I told you how much I love you?”

A breathy, incredulous laugh falls from your lips as you stir the pot’s contents around, your smile sticking around as you counter, “You’re only saying that ‘cause I’m feeding you.”

A dramatic, exaggerated gasp sharply inhales into his lungs, standing up straight and patting his hands on your sides, “Absolutely not, darlin’. I love you all the time—”

“But especially when I feed you,” you finish, turning out of his arms to grab the stack of bowls. He stops your motions by wrapping his arms around your waist, feeling the press of you against his torso and relishing in the heat of your body against his. Curling up like a cat in the sun, he nudges his nose against your hairline, peppering kisses along the contours of your face.

In between kisses, he says word by word, over and over, “I. Love. You. My. Beautiful. Wonderful. Incredible. Wife.”

“Alright, alright! Gosh, you’re clingy,” you tease, leaning back to look into his eyes with a playful glint in your eye and a smirk held tight in your lips, “I love you too, my beautiful, wonderful, incredible husband.”

Your free hand smooshes his cheeks together and tugs him down gently to exchange a tender kiss. It ends much too soon for Joel, him chasing your lips and pouting when you turn away to start serving up dinner.

“Better go tell the girls dinner’s ready before they’ve finished plotting how to stow away candy in the floorboards.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he answers, punctuating the conversation with a cheeky smack to your ass, scampering away quickly before you can pretend to scold him.

Tugging at the material across his stomach, Joel combs his eyes over his reflection in the mirror of your en-suite bathroom. Rolling his shoulders back, the fabric of the yellow and red plaid flannel pulled taut, lifting the hem a couple of inches and showing off the skin of his softened tummy. Dark curls of hair litter the center of the sliver of skin, trailing down under the waist of his dark wash jeans. He doesn’t bother tucking the shirt in, giving himself the breathing room of the few inches at the hem. Fingers grip the thick fabric, sharply pulling it back down to lay over his jeans again.

Picking up the cow-print vest you were adorned with the plastic gold Sheriff badge downstairs in the kitchen, he’s taken back to a few weeks ago at the Halloween store.

You and he had opted to spend Saturday morning taking Sarah and Ellie to pick out their costumes for the holiday, letting them run free until they decided on a shared costume for once. Sarah quickly picked out her size in the Jessie costume, and all of the family agreed to be different characters from the Toy Story movie.

Ellie wandered the aisles, searching for the perfect combinations to create her ideal costume, which was, of course, the mechanical spider toy with the baby doll head that the kid Sid builds in the film. She returns to where Joel is standing with you, staring at the walls of costumes to find something for the both of you; he looks down at his youngest, jumping minutely when he’s faced with a mutilated baby doll mask, shiny plastic reflecting him in the surface.

“Ellie. You can’t be the creepy baby doll,” he sighs, hand falling to his hip as he rests his weight on it, the other leg stepping out while he slowly shakes his head.

Tipping the mask up to the top of her head, Ellie stomps her feet, shoulders falling and head leaning back as she groans in complaint, “Why not, Dad?” She draws out his parental title, kicking the toe of her shoe against the buffed tiles of the storefront that remains empty eleven out of twelve months of the year.

“You’re gonna scare the little kids, and it’ll be your mom and I who are dealing with the angry parents.”

Ellie huffs out a breath, reaching up to snatch the mask off, turning on the heel of her sneaker, and stomping off to go find another costume. Turning his attention back to you at his side, he notices a cheeky smile on your face as you find your size in a woman’s Buzz Lightyear costume.

“What? What are you laughin’ at?” he questions, his lips tugging up in a grin.

“Oh, nothing. Jus’ that you told our daughter she can’t be the creepy baby doll 'cause you’d be the one scared of her.” A laugh takes over the end of your sentence, a flash of your bright smile widening his own.

“Did not. It’s ‘cause we’d have a bunch of crying little kids and judging parents to deal with.”

“Sure, honey, sure. It’s okay if you’re scared.”

Stepping closer to you, he pinches your side playfully, wrapping an arm around your waist to tug you against his side. He presses a kiss to the top of your head, speaking softly, “Know me too well, baby…”

Your free hand pats his chest affectionately and you unravel from his hold. Joel takes your hand before you get far, intertwining your fingers together while you both shuffle along the wall of costumes. The plastic bags shine, displaying cartoonish outfits of various characters. The exaggerated smiles of the models give him the heebie-jeebies, shuddering his shoulders at the thought that any grown person would be that excited to wear itchy polyester once before letting it collect dust in their closet and giving it away before next Halloween.

Halting in front of the costume you were looking for Joel, you bend down to flick through the sizes, your lips pulling together in a thoughtful pucker. Standing back up straight next to him, your teeth toy your bottom lip left to right, eyes scanning for any other options before you turn toward him.

“Can’t find what you’re lookin’ for, baby?”

With a shrug, you respond, “They have the costume the girls wanted you to wear, but they don’t have your size. Think I can find some stuff at the thrift store or TJ Maxx or online to make the costume up if that’s okay—”

“Whatever you need to do. S’fine.”

“I’m sorry, hon, but you don’t need to worry about it, I’ll find everything.”

“Said s’fine, darlin’. Don’t even need to dress up, really.” A small seed of shame is planted in his gut, insecurity watering it and causing it to grow, branching off to tangled in his chest. Comfort eases him out of the spiral when your hands find his chest, rubbing softly and tilting your head to meet his gaze with pure affection.

“Still gotta dress up with us, hon. Who’s gonna be the Woody to my Buzz if it isn’t you? Can’t dress up as one half of the best friend duo without my best friend,” you grin, standing on your toes to catch his lips in a gentle kiss, which ends too soon for his taste despite being in the middle of the shop.

Vest shrugged onto his shoulder, and he gives himself another once over in his full outfit, the same insecurity from a few weeks ago pouring down to cultivate his shame. He doesn’t look the same as he did when he met you, even the same as he did last year. Graying hair and salt and pepper beard, lines next to his eyes and across his forehead, only deepened when he furrows his brow at the look of him in his costume.

He looks ridiculous.

Better to get this night over with, let his girls enjoy themselves, and attempt to forget his discomfort in the outfit. Picking up his cheap cowboy hat that arrived in the mail earlier that week, he avoids another look in the mirror before he slips out of the bathroom, eyes focused on the toes of his boots while he walks out the door of your bedroom, past the full-length mirror next to your closet and the small round one on your vanity.

No need to foul his mood and spoil the fun. It’s for his girls.

The screams and laughter of children echo into the deepening night sky, the street bright from the lamps lining it along with porch lights staying on, open garage doors, all signaling a welcoming to the trick-or-treaters to come and grab their haul from each vast bowl or cauldron of candy.

Blurs of costume cross below Joel’s sightline as he walks hand-in-hand with you, kids running around blindly, the safety of such a crowd in the small neighborhood blanketing them with trust that they’ll be able to find their way home wherever they end up. Sarah and Ellie are ten paces ahead, moving quickly and efficiently to “maximize their candy collection”. Ellie’s words, after she presented her hand-drawn map of their neighborhood and the one across the main road, highlighting which houses are notorious for King Size treats and noting which ones give out toothbrushes or nothing at all.

The collar of his flannel is tightened around his neck from the string of his chestnut cowboy hat. Pulled down to rest on his clavicle, the body of the hat swings against his back as he walks, only adorning the top of his head for a few photos that you insisted on dragging out the tripod and self-timer for in the middle of the living room. He took the rest of the photos you wanted, maybe a bit too eagerly getting out of the frame and relaxing the slightest bit behind the camera. Photo evidence of how laughable he looks does not need to exist en masse. With a sigh, he reaches a hand up to tug the string down for what feels like the tenth time in thirty minutes of walking, relief felt for a few seconds before it slides back up to the base of his throat, flipping up the collar of his shirt with it.

Denim from his dark wash bootcut jeans starts to dig into his hips, roughening the skin there from his strides and their inch-too-small size from the year prior. These were deemed his “nice” jeans, per your request, only pulled out a handful of times a year for occasions that he was meant to look nicer than his raggedy Levi’s, covered in spots from paint, wood stain, oil, or dirt, the fraying, white strings hanging from the hems and ripping when caught under his step — all the signs of his day-to-day life. What he’s comfortable in.

These — these are not comfortable, not worn in enough to feel buttery against his skin, and not returning to his size even after washing and line drying. These are stiff, formed to his skin and resisting a tightness with each swing of his legs. The fresh material rubs against his bare skin underneath, the waist of his boxers falling an inch or two down to create the perfect space for the waistband to chafe. He’s tempted to pause the two of you walking along, long enough to tuck in the material of the flannel, but quickly decides against it when he thinks about the exaggeration of his stomach with the form-fitting, tucked shirt stretched over it.

Occupied in his thoughts, he barely notices that you've slowed down until you come to a stop at the end of a driveway, two streets over from your own home, waiting as your daughters wait in line for their packaged sugar.

You hold onto his bicep with your opposite hand, leaning your weight against his side. Like a weighted blanket, in the interim of a hug from you, he takes on the change to his equilibrium, relishing in the comforting press of your body against him. Easing away his anxieties and his insecurities that, of course, had to be present for this wholesome, once-a-year family night; he rests his chin on your head, breathing in the smell of your rosemary and mint shampoo, tingling his nostrils and drinking down the scent he’s so familiar with.

His focus draws to Sarah, hair in a French braid pulled away from her face and cherry red cowboy hat on her head, and Ellie, lime green face paint that she insisted on and an antenna sticking up from the top of her head and exaggerated, pointed green ears all attached to the same headband. The two of them are near the front of the queue for candy at this particular house, the process a bit more involved with a haunted graveyard required to pass through to earn your sweet reward.

All she’d been saying the whole night since getting dressed had been “The claaaaaw!” or “I have been chosen!”. She screams the latter in the face of a teenager who pops out from a bush to scare her, completely unphased as she sneaks past him, grabbing a handful of candy for her and Sarah, running back down the path with her older sister before they pause to distribute the goods.

Joel lifts your joined hands, hooking his arm over your shoulder and laying your arm across your chest as he gathers you closer.

“So how many cavities do you think we’ll be paying for ‘cause of tonight’s candy haul?” he wonders aloud, a smile ticking up the side of his mouth when you giggle at his joke. It never gets old, being able to make you laugh, and it’s like a weed whacker to the strangling vines of his insecurities growing tightly in his chest. A looseness that gives him the chance for a deep breath, gratitude wilting the branches as he studies the grin on your face, the admiration twinkling in your eyes.

“Probably should be callin’ the dentist to see if they have a two-for-one discount.” It’s his turn to laugh at your response, tautening his arm around your shoulders to tow you closer to him, your head tilting back as you swing your front toward him. Joel bends his neck, pecking your lips with a smile before he looks back toward his daughters walking back to the two of you.

Annoyance thumbs the bruise of shame, driving his frustrations higher; his hand reaches up again with a huff, yanking the string away from his neck, “Thing’s like a damn noose…”

“Jus’ take it off, hon, I’ll carry it for you,” you sweetly suggest, swinging your joined hands between your bodies.

“But, you got it for me…” he mumbles guiltily, a worry in his voice over your potential irritation with him. Ever the masochist, Joel argues with you, not wanting to disappoint. He knew he should have just kept his mouth shut—

Pausing in your steps, you hang behind him long enough to snatch the hat off his back, releasing it from around his neck and depositing it on your head in one smooth movement. Taking his hand again, you continue, unphased by his complaints and happy to hold onto the new accessory.

At the next house, the two of you wait at the end of the driveway for the girls; Joel taps the side of his pointer finger on the brim as you look up at him, a cheeky smile growing on his face as a thought distracts from his festering doubts. His voice lowers, rasping as he speaks only to you, attempting to disguise the conversation from all the people milling about.

“Y’know, there are consequences for stealing a cowboy’s hat, baby.” Wetting his lips with the quick swipe of his tongue, his hands drift to your waist, fingers stretching to skim the top of your ass, dangerously close to grabbing a handful in front of everyone.

“M’well aware of those consequences, cowboy. Why d’you think I took it?” You shoot him a wink that goes straight down below the belt, a brazen flash of mischief in your eyes, the reflections of yellow lamplight lighting them up further.

Gripping his biceps, your nimble fingers squeeze gently while your thumbs rub massaging circles into his slightly flexed muscles. A nearly inaudible hum of a moan rolls from your chest, one of his hands gathering the polyester material of your dress tightly at the sound. Beckoning him to fold forward with one look, he molds his lips to yours in a supple kiss. It lasts only the length of an inhale, drinking in the taste of your lips before your warmth is fleeting, hands patting his chest in a signal to wrap it up.

He grumbles, irritation heating under his collar as he itches to get home and for the night to be over, now for more than one reason. You laugh softly at his annoyed pout, poking his chest as you tease, “What? Mad ‘cause you got a snake in your boot?”

“More like in my jeans…” he mumbles under his breath, loud enough for you to hear and playfully jab his arm, shaking your head as you breathe out a chuckle from your nose.

“Nice, Miller. In a costume for a kid’s movie no less.”

He matches your laugh, shrugging when you turn in his arms, back to him as you await your daughters to make their way back to the both of you. His arms drape around your hips, tugging you into his chest to press against him comfortably, the plush-filled wings of your costume padding you against his torso. Lips find your ear, chin resting on your shoulder as he responds, “What’s the saying from the movie? To infinity and beyond? Reckon that’s where I’ll be takin’ you by the end of tonight.”

“Joel!” you attempted to chide, your laughter exposing your real feelings over the suggestive comment, laying your arms over his. The girls walk toward the two of you, and he takes a second to press an open-mouth kiss to your neck, nipping at your skin before unfurling himself from you. A light smack on the side of your ass is the punctuation to the teasing, Joel standing up straight and taking your hand.

“Giddy-up, partner,” he murmurs before turning his attention to Sarah and Ellie, overly excited and completely calm. “Whatcha y’all get this time? Anything good?”

They answer over each other and he nods along, corralling them to start to walk to the next house, “Alright, mission accomplished at this house. Onto the next, we gotta get this wagon a-movin’! Only got another hour in me, girls.”

Protests whine against his announcement and your daughters start to walk faster, determined to complete their hit-list for the houses with the good stuff. You laugh to yourself, shaking your head as Joel looks over at you, feigning innocence.

“What? Got a bad back, bein’ out in the cold makes it worse.”

Now back at home, the four of you are gathered in the living room, costumes all on still as you seek out the comfort and warmth of the soft furnishings and blankets. Joel lounges on the couch, you next to him, back leaning against his side while your legs stretch out on the rest of the sofa. Ellie and Sarah have taken to the floor in front of the coffee table, massive pillowcases dumped out and beginning to be sorted. Every so often, you or Joel get up with the sound of the doorbell, passing out candy to the dwindling number of trick-or-treaters. Eventually, the intrusion stops completely, the TV playing a bad, kitschy Halloween movie per the request of the girls.

They trade their earnings, and you and Joel steal on the sly, both from the bowl you were handing out and from Sarah and Ellie’s piles. Wrappers are strewn around the floor and across the surface of the coffee table, the sound of another torn open by the girls making you sigh and sit up.

Holding out your hand, you shake your head, beckoning for the treat with your fingers, “Okay, Ellie. No more candy. You’re not going to be able to go to sleep if you keep eating it now, it’s too late.”

Ellie whines, rolling her head back with a groan before pleading her case, “Please, Mom, just this last one! And then I’ll be done, promise. Please.”

Joel chuckles when she shoots you the same puppy dog eyes that he gives to you to get what he wants, knowing his smirk grows wider when you fold easily. Shooting your head over to him, you announce to the whole room, “No more candy for anyone. C’mon girls, put it all back in your bags.”

Calmness finds itself back in the room once all the complaints are lodged with you, the girls lying down to watch the movie while you continue to sit with Joel. Spaced out as he focuses on the film, his attention is grabbed when he hears the crinkle of wrappers and glances around to find all three of his girls indulging further.

With the remote from his lap, he pauses the movie, pouting as he exclaims, “Hey! What happened to not havin’ any more candy? If I can’t have anymore, y’all can’t either.”

Sneaking the last bite of her fun-size Snickers bar, Ellie giggles and shrugs, always the smart aleck, “Well, you are gettin’ a little pudgy, Dad, maybe less candy’ll help.”

Sarah and you giggle at her lighthearted teasing, and Joel waves it off with a breathy chuckle, leaning back against the cushions as Sarah chimes in with her jests, “Yeah, think you’re getting a little fluffy, Dad. Better to lay off now than at Christmastime with all Mom’s cookies.”

Joel attempts to defend himself from the teasing by threatening their candy supply, eager to end the conversation as the back of his neck heats up, “If m’already gettin’ pudgy then I guess that permits me to eat all your candy.”

They both are in a fit of giggles, continuing to tack on silly comments as Joel sits quietly on the couch, trying to mask the way the words worm their way in, feeding the shame and insecurity that was already festering in his chest from the last few weeks.

You roll your eyes, shaking your head with a smile as you laugh softly, “Alright, alright, enough. Think that’s the sign that it’s time for bed. C’mon, up up up.” Before standing, you pat Joel’s thigh and shoot him a carefully concerned look, but he wipes away your worry by sending you a warm smile back, laying his hand over yours and squeezing gently.

Joel stays downstairs to clean up, the girls both saying goodnight before you follow them upstairs to get them ready for bed. Gathering candy wrappers in his fists, he throws them away in the kitchen, stomach rolling as he replays the small comments from minutes ago. He knows it was teasing, all in good fun as it always is between his girls and you, but he can’t shake the heaviness inside of him, the hot prickles of shame when he passes by the mirror in the hallway on his way back to the living room.

The bowl of extra candy you were handing out gets placed back on the coffee table, his silly cowboy hat from the evening deposited on top of it to hide the contents. Not that he was going to eat anymore, he couldn’t stomach even the thought of anything else when all he could think about was how much he desperately wanted to shed his skin at that moment. Breathing shallows when he settles on the couch again, one of his hands pressing onto the left side of his chest and willing his heart to slow down, for his brain to silence itself.

The skin of his palm meets the scruff of his beard, scratching against the roughened, worked skin. Grays in his hair, salt and pepper beard, wrinkles on his forehead and at the side of his eyes, softened tummy from years of love and care, from an easy life with you.

He certainly isn’t the same Joel that you met all that time ago, that you fell in love with. Have you noticed the changes as much as he has?

He swears you haven’t aged a day; all the more beautiful with each passing day.

Light steps carry you back downstairs, the sound shaking Joel out of his thoughts as you swing around from the staircase and through the entrance to the living room. Joel relaxes on the couch, the same spot he was occupying before, only sinking further into the cushion, shifting to pull the fabric of his shirt away from his stomach. Glancing up at you, away from whatever was playing on the TV that did nothing to distract him from himself, he sends you a tight smile, stretching an arm over the back of the couch to welcome you in.

Accepting it, you sit next to him, curling up into his side with your legs under you, leaning against his frame with your comforting weight. Your hand rests on his chest, your head on his shoulder while you both watch the TV movie playing. Silence falls between the two of you, minutes passing by with only the noise from the speakers, the volume turned low so as not to disturb the kids upstairs.

Joel feels your hand move against his chest, curling up to leave your pointer finger extended, the pad of it skimming against his flannel. He ignores the feeling, figuring it’s you fidgeting as you do while you focus. The same thing as twirling your hair while you’re reading, tapping your foot as you cook.

But when your hand stairs to wander, his eyes flick down to watch its path, your gaze still facing forward and quiet. With your thumb and index finger, you work open the first button on his shirt, trailing down with the rest undone in your route. Slipping under the material, your cold hand presses against his chest, nails scraping against the skin there. With a sigh at the contact, Joel finally uses his hand to gently caress your chin, turning you to face him.

Low and rasping, he questions, “What are you doin’ exactly, darlin’?”

Innocently, you shrug, bottom lip bit down on while your touch moves lower again, skimming across his stomach and reaching the waistband of his jeans, “Well, I still have to face the consequences from stealin’ your hat, cowboy.”

Fingers dip below his belt line, toying with the elastic band of his boxers. Slipping away, he almost protests at the loss, biting his tongue when you move next to him, sitting up on your knees while both hands reach for the button and zipper of his jeans. When his button pops from its secure place, he warns with a breathy exhale, “Baby…”

“Mhm, yes, honey?” you reply, words trailing up at the end, feigning naivety. Through your lashes, you send him a pout, tongue poking out to dampen your plush lips that he stares at, his mouth parted with heavy breaths. His blood is rushing from his head, leaving him feeling light, as it all pumps to his cock, your delicate and teasing touches getting him half-hard.

Before you can tug down his zipper, you pause, taking your hands off of him; he holds back a whimper, the sound dying as a low hum in his throat.

“Don’t worry, baby, m’not done yet. Let’s go to our room, yeah?” Your voice is soothingly saccharine, an eager nod being his only response.

Shutting off the TV, you stand from the sofa and take his hand, snatching the cowboy hat from the coffee table before pulling him to stand and follow you across the main floor, down the hallway into your first-floor bedroom. Joel shuts the door behind him, your nod toward the handle serving as a reminder for him to flick the lock.

“Y’know, honey, you’re always showing me how you feel about me. I think it’s time we had a night that’s all about you…” He’s holding in a breath as you stalk closer to him, shaking his head as the back of his neck heats up.

“No, baby, you don’t—I don’t…” he stutters before trailing off, ashamed that he can’t think of any other excuse than the truth of why he does not want the attention on him tonight.

“You don’t…?” Running your hands across the expanse of his chest, he drops his shoulders in, curling around to make himself smaller, one foot stepping back but he doesn’t move from under your touch.

Shaking his head, he avoids your eyes, faintly confiding, “I don’t feel like I deserve it. I jus’, I’d rather give to you, baby.”

“Oh, Joel…you deserve it and more, honey. Why wouldn’t you?” Your fingers graze up, skating across his skin and carding into the hair at the nape of his neck.

“I’m not…not the same. I don’t look like who you fell in love with. Everything’s changing, catching up to me. Got gray hair and white in my beard and wrinkles and a beer belly startin’ and my back hurts all the time. M’not who I used to be but you—”

“Have changed, too. It’s not just you, Joel. Everything’s a little softer now, I’ve got wrinkles too. Found like four gray hairs yesterday and had a mild panic attack before I got into the shower. M’curvier and—”

“And you’re fucking beautiful, baby. You’re as beautiful, if not more beautiful than the day I met you.” He’s quick to defend your negative self-talk, his hands running delicately along the curves of your sides and around your lower back. Enveloping you in his arms, he presses your foreheads together, nose notched next to yours.

“That’s exactly how I feel about you, Joel. Don’t listen to us teasin’ you, especially me, ‘cause I wouldn’t change a thing about you…” As you tilt your head back, your nose grazes against his cheek, feeling a rush of heat from your breath as your lips hover over his, deliciously close to a kiss, “Can I show you what I think about you, honey?”

Joel nods, wordlessly waiting in anticipation; in the next breath, your lips crash into his, drinking him down deep while the hand at the back of his head tangles further into his hair and tugs. He moans, parted lips allowing you to lick into his mouth, whining at the taste of him before you push the flannel material from his shoulders, letting it drop to the floor as you continue to dominate the kiss.

Pressing your hands against his strong chest, you push him back with a step. Joel follows your lead, carefully moving backward, your tongue melding with his. All he can focus on is the taste of you — sweet, fruity, with the tang of citric acid from all the sour candies you stole from the bowl, the softest hint of chocolate as an aftertaste from his indulgences. The flavors of you coat his mouth, the scent of your perfume and shampoo mixing in his nose, and the feeling of your soft skin in his rough palms when he hikes up the skirt of your dress, grabbing a handful of your ass; it all stirs together, creating an intoxicating cocktail of you that he can seem to taste enough of. Joel’s legs hit the edge of the bed, and he’s being pulled away from your mouth with a pop when you ease him to sit down. Curiosity flashes in his mind, the sight of you over him with kiss-swollen lips growing the bulge in his undone jeans. Eager hands find your hips, grazing over to your ass as he looks up at you standing over him.

“Whatcha wanna do, beautiful?” His voice is lecherous as it comes out in a rasp, dripping with desire and a bit of wonder over what exactly you’re going to do with your night in control.

You shake your head at him, standing up straight and reaching for his hands, placing them at the hem of your dress, “Go ahead, baby. Take off as much as you want.”

His choice is obvious, tugging the fabric over your head with your help, a hand around your back yanking you to stand close, between his spread legs, while his fingers work open the clasp of your bra. Sitting back on his hands, he observes greedily as you let the straps fall down your arms, dropping the bra entirely onto the floor.

“These too?” Your thumbs hook into the waistline of your panties, doe-eyed and biting down on your body lip teasingly. Cotton-mouthed, Joel nods slowly, lips parted with shaking breath as you strip completely, sinking to your knees in front of him before he can reach out for a handful of your curves.

He lets you work his jeans down to his thighs, his boxers following in their wake, his cock springing free against his bare stomach. You keep eye contact as you kneel in front of him, his keen stare unblinking as his tongue pokes out to wet his lips, the need to see every single one of your movements outweighing the drying of his eyes with his slow, infrequent blinking. Scooting to settle comfortably on your knees, you stand up straighter, gaining enough height to bend your head over his lap, lips meeting his soft tummy and hands gripping onto his thighs. Delicate kisses and ghosting touches on his skin raise goosebumps, a warm shudder trickling down his back at your tenderness.

“So handsome…” you whisper, grazing your teeth into the flesh of his torso, biting down to nip. “Y’know I think about doin’ this all the time, baby. Every time you take off your shirt, jus’ wanna sink my teeth into you.”

His cheeks heat with sincere attention, muscles in his abdomen flexing when you litter lovebites and heated, open-mouth kisses all over him, the gentle touches and desire to relax his anxieties slowly. The focus on your mouth drops to his thighs, turning your head to the side when you sit back on your haunches, licking a stripe up toward his aching cock, a quivering exhale from his mouth drawing your eyes to his face. A satisfied smile stretches across your face, kissing his inner thigh before mirroring the actions on the opposite side. His fingers curl into the duvet, gripping hard as your lips wander closer to where his stiff cock drips needily, throbbing for any kind of reprieve.

“You’re so pretty, baby. So strong, solid.” The sweet nothings tickle at the back of his neck, words that he’s sure you’ve spoken before, but at this moment, they raise his body temperature and lighten his head, the only thoughts being how much he needs you.

Standing on your knees again, you bend your neck over Joel’s lap, eyes flickering up to his face to look at him through your lashes. Your lips part, spit dribbling from your mouth and onto his waiting cock, the sensation making him hiss with urgency. One of your hands wraps around him and strokes slowly. He looks down at you with hooded eyes, mouth opening in a small gasp at the languid stimulation. One swipe of your thumb across his tip drags the beads of pre-cum from where they’re leaking, melting them into the mix of your saliva that lubricates your motions.

Searing needles pierce into his skin when you finally give in and press hot, open-mouthed kisses against the soft skin of his swollen length. Your thumb brushes against his tip again, another hiss of pleasure escaping from between his teeth. One of Joel’s hands finds the back of your head, tangling fingers into your hair. He doesn’t move to guide you, simply wanting to touch a part of you to ground himself.

Your free hand gently cups his balls as you press a featherlight kiss to the tip of his hard cock. A kitten-lick swipes up the fresh dribbles of pre-cum that have collected and Joel’s fingers tense against your strands. Humming satisfied with the reactions you’re drawing from him, he looks down at you meeting his gaze, feeling the splotches of redness growing across his cheeks and neck at the frustration of your light teasing. He groans out your name as your mouth works to tease him more, not having taken him fully in.

“Fucking hell, baby, quit teasin’, please.” Joel rasps as he watches your methodical seduction. He applies the smallest pressure against the back of your head when your lips finally wrap around just the tip of him, a moan of relief rolling from his chest.

Your eyes stay glued on his face, and he’s lost in the delicious warmth of your mouth, unabashed in every response that he’s having to your mouth working him. Starting a slow bob up and down, he moans at the weight of him on your tongue, saliva coating the underside of his cock as he feels you curl the muscle against every vein. With half of him with your mouth, your hand working what isn’t initially fitting inside. His noises grow louder and in quicker succession, hyperaware that his cheeks are likely visibly warm and eyes dark with a craving when he looks down at you again.

“Such a sweet girl. Look so pretty with my cock in your little mouth. Think you can take more, baby? Think I can fit in your throat?” You shift in your position slightly, thighs rubbing together and a chuckle rolls from his lips, smug in the need he’s drawing from you simply from enjoying his pleasure. A sigh exhales around him in your mouth as your thighs rub together to relieve some of your aches.

The rhythm of your head brings his cock deeper, his tip brushing the back of your throat. You swallow around him and it squeezes him just right, a loud moan rumbling from his chest, the reverberations sending aftershocks to the tips of his ears. At that point, he gets lost in the high feeling, his composure leaving him when his large hand at the back of your head pushes you down onto his cock, taking him down your throat further and causing you to gag. Tears spill from your eyes and spit drips from the sides of your mouth, the blow job quickly turning sloppy as Joel takes more control.

“Fucking hell, darlin’. Taking me so well on your own, being such a good girl for me,” he whines, heading tilting back as his eyes squeeze shut, shallow thrusts meeting the rhythm of your head. “Gonna fuckin’ come, baby, holy fuck, I—”

A moan around him gurgles to nothing when he thrusts again, hand tangled in your hair pulling you back until his tip rests against your lips, “Don’t wanna—please—” His words are lost on the tip of his tongue, pleasure hazing his mind as he searches for the plea he wants to make with you.

You giggle from your knees, swiping your fingers to wipe away the drool from the corners of your mouth, a satisfied smirk on your face. Bracing yourself on his thighs, you push yourself up, standing in between his legs while your hands find his shoulders, scraping your fingernails against the curve of them.

“You wanna come inside of me? Not my mouth? Is that what you were trying to say, baby?”

“Yes,” he exhales, relieved to find the word he needed, blinking open his eyes to look up at you. Your thumb skates across his bottom lip, holding onto his jaw as you study his features.

“I’ll give you whatever you want, Joel. Anything for my perfect, doting husband. D’you know how fucking good it makes me feel to make you feel good?” you question curiously, tilting his head as he lets you mold him whichever way you want. “Tell me how you deserve to have me like this. ‘Cause you’re so fucking good to me, tell me that you’re gonna let me fuck you, let me take your come inside of me.”

“Baby, I don’t think that—” he starts, palms pressing into the backs of your thighs as he looks up at you.

“Tell me, Joel. You said you wanted to be the one giving to me tonight. That’s what I want.” You use his earlier, shy request against his negative thoughts, and the intensity in your eyes bends him to your will.

“M’gonna let you have my cock, gonna let you fuck me and show me how much you love when I take care of you.” The words roll foreignly on his tongue, unconvincing coming from his mind to his mouth. You bend a knee, bringing it up to rest next to his thigh, nodding along to encourage him to continue, “I give you whatever I can give to you, and always gonna, baby. Now’s your turn to take care of me, right?”

“That’s right, honey. I should show you how much I appreciate you more often…you work so hard, give us exactly what we need, and provide for us. My big, strong man. You do so much for me, baby. Gonna show you how thankful I am for you, how grateful I am that you’re lettin’ me have this cock,” your words breathe hot against his ear, your other leg now straddling him on the bed, cunt hovering over his waiting cock. A hand leaves his shoulders, reaching between your stomachs to wrap around him, guiding him to your entrance. His breath catches in his throat when you ease down onto him, pushing through the wet seal of your slit.

Wet heat envelopes him, taking in a few inches of him; Joel groans under you, head falling forward onto your breasts, forehead pressed into your sticky skin. One hand tangles into his curls, dragging his head back to look into your eyes. Your hips start to move, adjusted to his size easily and taking more of his cock, letting it split you open inch-by-inch. His eyes wildly search yours, seeing the pleasure overtake your mind, lips parting to match his as you both breathe out shallow, hot breaths.

“Fuck, Joel, so fucking big…” you whine for the first time tonight and the sound goes straight to his cock, twitching him inside of you as his hips jerk up, giving you another inch. Lust clouds his mind, nodding confidently as you take him, desperate to feel your tight, dripping cunt around him entirely.

“I know, baby, I know. Should’ve let me get you ready. But I bet you like the stretch, like a lil’ bit of pain, huh?” he coos, arm snaking around you to hold you closer, your eyes fluttering closed above him as you nod languidly.

“Fuckin’ love it, makes it feel even better,” you whimper when his arm tugs you down further, only an inch or two away from him being fully sheathed.

“C’mon, be my good girl, baby. Show me how you sit on my cock.” He leans forward, bending you backward with his force and holding you tight, his lips attaching to the soft, velvety skin of your breasts and biting, “Gotta face your punishment for stealin’ my hat. Take a cowboy’s hat, gotta ride the cowboy, babygirl. I don’t make the rules.”

You giggle, eyes clearing as you’re pulled out of your cloud of pleasure, gripping onto his shoulders and holding eye contact as you finally sink completely down, burying Joel’s cock inside your soaked pussy. Moans echo in the room, bitten down before they get too loud, your hips immediately finding a quick, sloppy pace to chase your highs. The slick glide of your walls grip his cock lusciously, your flooding arousal coating his balls as thighs as you ride him. Little noises slip from your mouth, simmering the coals burning in the base of his gut as he feels the familiar bliss building.

“Is this what I’m supposed to be doin’, cowboy?” you wonder, hips continuing their pace and mouth twisting as you hide a smile. Joel is unashamed, a wide grin on his face as he unravels one arm from you, picking up the hat from the corner post of the bed, and setting it loosely on top of your head. Giggles erupt from the both of you, your pace faltering as the muscles in his stomach cramp from use.

Recovering from the interlude, your thighs rub against the outside of his as you bounce, nails digging into his shoulders as your rhythm picks back up, the slap of skin against skin the only noise save for your airy breaths that get shallower and shallower. Flames have ignited in his gut, licking inside and burning hotter and hotter the closer he gets. Nearly at the edge, he needs more, body taking over and lifting you with him as he stands, holding you up on his cock as he thrusts hard and quick into you, dripping for him and gripping him tight to keep yourself up while he fucks into you.

“Oh—fuck, Joel! Right there, m’gonna—oh!” Your desperate pleas in his ear pitch up as you moan, cunt tightening with a flutter around him as you come, soaking his dick as he continues his hard pace, selfishly chasing his high.

A growl rolls from his chest when you come, his fingernails biting into the flesh of your ass, the slap of his balls against your skin as they draw up. His eyes squeeze shut as he moans your name, the first rope of his come released into your cunt, smaller whimpers following in its wake as he fucks one, twice more, filling you up as deep as he can.

Limbs feeling heavy, he turns you both around, pulling you off of him and dropping you gently onto the mattress. He flops down next to you onto his stomach, blissfully out of it as you move to straddle his back, fingers working the knots and soothing the aches growing there after a long week of work, and a night spent corralling your kids.

The warm press of your body against his back makes him hum contently, your breasts at his shoulder blades as you lay on him, one of his hands reaching the rub his fingers softly against the outside of your thigh.

“You know I think you’re the most handsome, right, honey?” you ask with a hint of worry in your voice, barely above a whisper. He nods, rolling over to his back underneath you and meeting your eyes, brow furrowed with concern.

“I know, baby. Jus’ was feeling weird this whole week. You made it a lot better, though.” A knuckle nudges your cheek, and you take the hat off, Joel chuckling again as you throw it off to the side of the bed. Laying down on him again, he strokes your hair while you hug yourself to his torso, both your eyes and his fluttering shut with exhaustion, from tonight and life in general.

Before drifting off, Joel speaks up, cheekily asking, “So…can I wear this costume next year, too?”

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