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

ninetailedfoxmanchi · 7 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 · 6 months ago

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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 · 2 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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nemesyaaa · 4 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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dusk-legion-diplomacy · 1 month ago

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Dark New World

After several hours of being viced between mountainous foothills, the pass began to open up. The larger and higher mountains of the Deoro climbed into the sky, their peaks snow-capped, trailing further than the horizon. The procession stretched across the pass with the bishop and his honor guard taking up the lead, beginning to descend into the valley where Alta Torrezon lay.

The great city had large stone walls that bristled with weaponry set into its towers. Even from a distance, the golden armor of the many paladins manning the walls glinted off the midday sun. Outside of the walls were crowds of hundreds gathered as close to them as they could get. Humans, all of them. Refugees fleeing less secure areas in wake of the First Night.

The city itself had large cathedrals within, their large towers and steeples marking them against the clustered buildings in the northern side of the city. One great cathedral dominated the heart of Alta Torrezon, a massive emblem of the Dusk Rose marking its highest pinnacle. The southern portion of Alta Torrezon was less built, with more open roads and pavilions visible. All around the walls of the city, at each of the three main highways that led in and out, there were gathered throngs of refugees. Paladins were seen among them as well as priests, and once the procession neared closer, it became evident that they were doing their best to hand out supplies and benedictions.

"Reminds me of the invasion," Arturo muttered to himself. Here he had come, hoping to return in triumph, but this homecoming felt... bitter.

He tried to shake the feelings off, looking back to his companions in the cart and sweeping out an arm.

"Alta Torrezon. She's seen better days, as has her people, but we are finally here," he said. The procession was halted before they could get to the gates. Arturo watched as the bishop dismounted in order to speak with the guards at the gates. Lazaro sighed softly.

"It's worse than I thought," he muttered. "All of our progress..."

"We'll get it back again." Arturo gripped the reigns of the horses a bit tighter. "We just need to get this bastard dealt with. We'll find a way."

@azzie-beastbinder | @obscura-omenseeker | @warrior-of-tol-angata | @normal-innistradi | @shouldbeamarshalvazante

#planar posting #ixalan posting #paladin posting #priest posting

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malvoile · 3 months ago

Text

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.

follow @sandpoet for updates & notifications.

#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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vestaignis · 7 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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paceprompting · 4 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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universefcb · 12 days 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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tieronecrush · 1 year ago

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🎃 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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tw1l1te · 1 year ago

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𝖋𝖆𝖑𝖘𝖊 𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖔- 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖗𝖊𝖊

Author's note: Sorry this one's a bit short! Finals and work are killing me :<

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You sigh heavily once you shut the door, the interaction leaving you more stressed out than before. You could already sense the dynamic you were going to have with them, however long they ended up staying in the village or being involved in your life.

You were beneath them.

You could sense it, the way some of them almost looked down at you, judging you by the information you gave them. But, frankly, you didn’t care. This is your era, not theirs, so you were going to fulfill whatever purpose you had your way.

You walk through the path that lead deeper into the woods, eyeing the cottage on the edge of the forest. It was already getting dark out, the sky a dark shade of periwinkle.

Walking up to the door, you knock lightly calling out to the woman inside, “Impa? You there?”

“Y/n! Come in, come in!”

You opened the door to find Impa hunched over a map in front of her small fireplace. Closing the door behind you, you walk up to her to see what exactly she was looking at.

“Heard some family has come to see you.”

“They’re not my family. I’m not even remotely related to them.”

“Your spirit says otherwise. Have you told them?”

“Yes. Well, the important parts at least.”

“Lying will just end up making things worse for you, Y/n.”

“I didn’t technically lie. They just happened to not ask certain things.”

“I see.”

You both stay quiet for a moment, basking in the embers of the small fire. Fire was a necessity in this day and age, considering how you almost never feel warm enough now, regardless of how many layers or how many fires you have. Impa stands up, setting the map down on a nearby stool.

“Care for some tea? It’s spiced, so it’ll warm you up some more.”

“Sure, I'd like that.”

She hands you a carved cup full of tea, the rivulets of steam dancing on the surface of the liquid. Blowing at the tea, you take a small sip, the warm drink soothing your throat and warming your chest.

“It’s good, Impa, thank you.”

She nods in thanks, sitting back down on her chair. Her face looks worried, though you anticipate her discussing what’s on her mind.

“Y/n there’s activity at the Northern edge of the forest. Presumably, followers of Hylia have found our encampment and want to gain access into our underground archives south of the village. I’ve already communicated with Arden and the others. It’s best you leave at dawn in order to cut them off. We can’t risk any discovery, not now.”

You stare at the tea in your hands as she tells you this, already in the process of formulating what you need to bring and what tactics you should use.

“It’s also best if you travel by foot to avoid any technology tracking or excessive noise, especially with Hylians. You and I both know they have better hearing than most.”

You know what she was hinting at with that statement: an accident that had occured during your travels a couple years ago.

She scootches up to you, hands on her knees.

“We both know we want to avoid conflict and move towards a peaceful future. We can’t do that if our entire village is massacred and stripped bare of records and families. I’m sorry I have to ask you again, you know I can’t promise it’ll end anytime soon.”

You smile sadly at her, nodding at her words.

“I know. I’ve come to terms with that for the most part. I just… hate having to get rid of her servants, knowing they can be saved from her manipulation and control.”

She nods, reaching for your hands. Despite years of training and combat, her hands felt so comforting and warm. Something you’d never expect from an old, hardened woman.

Sighing, you place the tea down, looking at Impa.

“I better go. I promised the… ancestors I’d find them a place to rest for the night. I’ll converse with the rest of the team before tomorrow to make sure we’re well prepared.”

You take a pause, walking towards the door. Looking back, you whisper,

“Thank you, Impa.”

You made a straight bee line back to the main camp, hands balled into fists to contain your nerves. You couldn’t wait, all of you needed to leave now.

Hylia’s followers were unpredictable, and you knew that if you didn’t leave soon, the camp would be dead by dawn.

You finally see the main cabin in view, panting lightly from trekking in the snow. Pushing the door open, you immediately start looking for Colin, Arden, Dusk and the others. The heroes could find their own damn house, they were more than capable of that.

Speaking of, you could feel their eyes on you, no doubt curious as to why you were in such a rush. Time and Wars were already standing up, making you curse under your breath. Finally spotting them in the far corner of the room, you walk over.

“Arden, we need to leave.”

“What? Why? Impa gave orders to leave at dawn-”

“You don’t know them like I do, Arden. They’re fucking unpredictable, their going to kill everyone here if we don’t move now.”

“Who is?” Wars asks, a few feet behind you. You jump slightly from the unexpected presence, recomposing yourself quickly.

“No one. Just nightly patrol.”

Arden gives you the look, which you just glare at him. Now was not the time to invite new recruits.

“We could use their help, Link.”

“No, we couldn’t. They’re staying here.”

Wars scoffs, settling a hand on his hip, “Says who?”

You look him dead in the eye, already tired of rambling with everyone. You throw up your arms in defeat, wanting to get this over with.

“Fine, fine. You lot can come but you follow my lead, got it? I don’t want any casualties tonight.”

He nods, satisfied with your answer. He relays it to the others, some of them looking less passionate than others, but agreed upon nonetheless.

Turning back to Arden, you mutter “Meet me at my place in half an hour, we leave in an hour. Finish up here and get whatever you need, I’ll make sure the others are equipped and ready.”

He nods, the others agreeing alongside him. The plan was set.

You start speed-walking towards the entrance, not waiting around for the men to follow you. You had shit you needed to get done.

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#linked universe x reader #linked universe au #yandere linked universe #yandere linked universe x reader #linked universe #false hero au

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talonabraxas · 2 months ago

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Anu - Mesopotamian God and Sky Father Talon Abraxas

The Sumerian god of the sky and head deity and ruler of the highest realm, Anu was the child of Ansar and Kisar, the very first set of gods and descendants of primordial beings. Anu was known as the father of the 50 great gods, and ruler of the stars and the spirits. Anu, Enlil and Enki were the trinity that ruled over the heavens, the earth and the seas. Anu is sometimes referred to as “An”. “An” translates from the Sumerian language as “high one” and the name Anu eventually became synonymous with “god”.

Origin

Sumer was the southern region of ancient Mesopotamia, considered the cradle of civilization. Today, the area forms part of the countries of Iraq and Kuwait. Sumer means “land of the civilized kings” in Akkadian, the language of northern Mesopotamia. When the gods initially gave humans the gifts required for cultivating a society, the first city of Eridu was created in the region of Sumer. It was here that order and civilization originated.

Records of Anu date back to at least 3,000 B.C., making him one of the oldest of the gods. Originally known as “An”, he was later called Anu by the Akkadians who were the rulers of Mesopotamia after their conquest of Sumer. In the stories of Mesopotamian mythology, the earth was separated from heaven at the beginning of time.

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styllwaters · 2 years ago

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Primarily airborne sophonts hailing from the low-gravity planet of Hanidias, the Arrows are one of the oldest species in the Zhagaviit Galactic Community.

___

Introducing Arrows officially! These guys are the revised version of my older spec bio species, the Angelum. They've since undergone a lot of changes. Further information below!

Before I begin, I would like to make some things clear. A lot of the lore in the old Angelum info post is now irrelevant. Here are the revisions:

The Sacrazoa, Thronalia and Seraphae subtypes do not exist. Additionally, there is no 'Original Angelum'.

Previously I stated that the entirety of the population was genetically modified, but I've retconned this to only a select few individuals.

The only Genizix-touched Arrows are the Higher Arrows, which I will delve into later.

Lifepods do not exist.

Rather than communicate telepathically, the Arrows communicate with chemical signalling/pheromones.

Now that that's out of the way, time for some fresh new lore!

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Arrows spend a good amount of time floating in the air. They possess a specialised 'gas bladder' which they can inflate and deflate to control their position, slightly similar to how a fish controls its buoyancy in the water.

They do not have the same level of agility as a bird or other winged creatures, their lack of powered flight making them significantly slower. However, they can change direction, dive quickly, land, and often take advantage of air currents and wind to increase speed.

Arrows feed on floating 'aeroplankton' which thrive in the atmosphere of their planet. Concentrations of these microscopic lifeforms are farmed in enormous quantities. Arrow's feeding tendrils are typically only deployed when they are eating; the aeroplankton is absorbed into the tendrils and nutrients are transported upwards to the main hub. However, they can also be deployed for courtship displays (especially for the males) and dancing.

Arrows, in the past, were the target of many predators. They were mainly concerned with attacks from other smaller, faster, flying organisms. To combat this, their five eyes aided in a wide peripheral vision enabling them to spot trouble quickly. In addition, they evolved countershading in order to camouflage with the dark sea below and the cloudy sky above. Males sport a more contrasting palette, clearly outlining them against the sky, but those who were able to survive indicated a viable choice for a mate.

Nowadays, with safer areas, infrastructure and impressive technology, predators are no longer a threat.

There are four main ethnic groups on Hanidias; namely Cursors, Needles, Indicators and Darts. Cursors and Needles mainly reside in the skies above the open ocean and cliff sides. Indicators make their home in the icy Northern and Southern poles, and Darts above the brackish river water further inland. However, all Arrows are very widespread.

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This is just an introductory post - there's still a lot to say about these fellas - but i'll leave it there for now. As always, asks are welcome!

#vivere 44 #speculative evolution #speculative biology #spec evo #spec bio #aliens #arrows #art #my art #xenobiology #xenofiction #i've had this in my drafts for like 2 weeks

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luteddecoction · 8 months ago

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Okay, I have a theory. I think I know how Niko is going to be rescued in S2 of Dead Boy Detectives

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I don't know if the #DeadBoyDetectives writing team did some research on Canadian folklore before they came over to film and that somewhat became some sort of source in their writing to add some extra elements to the story; but bet they did because there 𝘐𝘚 a Canadian Inuit legend that 𝘥𝘦𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘺 could connect to the open ending of Episode 8: 'The Case of the Hungry Snake'

And please do correct me if I’m wrong: According to the Canadian Constitution there are 3 primary groups of Indigenous people. These being the Inuit, the Métis and the First Nations. Each of them having their own legends and fair amount of local stories to share. The Inuit are mostly located on the Northern regions of Canada. The Métis live amongst the Metropolitan areas while the First Nations are situated on the Northwestern territories.

I’m going to focus on a very particular folklore tale from the Northern territories of the Inuit here, which revolves around whistling at night. Out of all the world-wide folklore tales about night time whistling I find this one to be the least scary. This Inuit legend says that if you whistle at night time you will risk calling the spirits of the Northern Lights to come down and swipe you up to carry you elsewhere into the sky. And 𝘛𝘏𝘐𝘚 is where I think that Canadian Folklore connects with Dead Boy Detectives and Niko’s potential rescue in S2. They leave us with the image of Niko sitting inside an igloo right by the Dandelion Sprites. And we get to see the Northern Lights shining 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 right above them.

The Northern Lights could by the sky’s path for the boys to connect with wherever Niko’s at (this being the Neitherlands in the comics).

In the comics, we see Charles going into the Neitherlands to help Rosa. And in order to achieve this he enters into a half-living, half-dead state by merging back with his bones. I highly doubt that Netflix will take this route if Netflix!Charles is the one ending up going after Niko to parallel his comic version. I think that if they do go with the parallels, they will achieve this by linking in the Inuit folklore. The boys will probably be adventuring out at night time and Charles will start whistling. It’s at this point in which he will probably end up being swiped up and end up somewhere nearby where Niko’s potentially at.

I know that the bear talisman is important and it must have some sort of key part to play. If it belonged to Mick's shop then, there must be a good use to it. I just can't exactly pinpoint 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵. To finish this thread, I want to link a poem written by Kate Tuthill titled: "Labrador in Winter". (which I'm guessing refers to the Aurora Borealis that happen strongly in Labrador Newfoundland).

I couldn't find the full poem but only pieces of it

#dead boy detectives #dbda #niko sasaki #dbd theories #dbd #let Charles whistle and ride night-sky rainbows

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fairysluna · 2 years ago

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what lives in the dark.

In the middle of the Godswood of Winterfell lives a creature that appears at midnight with the full moon, but you and your boyfriend were too stubborn to believe it.

MASTERLIST

PAIRING – Werewolf!Cregan Stark x Fem!Reader.

TAGS/TW – smut (breeding/creampie, p in v, cunninglus, size kink, squirting, and praise), dubcon/noncon, infidelity(?, hunter/pray dynamics, lowborn!reader, feral!cregan. if something is missing pls let me know!!

AUTHOR'S NOTE – so, this story contains a bit of omegaverse dynamics bc Cregan is a werewolf, but only basic aspects like the rut and knotting. It took me a while to write this actually, but i hope you all enjoy it!! also, thanks to my beautiful wifey @targbarbie for being my beta reader, love you to the moon and to saturn🤍

WORD COUNT – 4.792

GENERAL TAG LIST – @borikenlove @melsunshine @clairacassidy @satansdarlin @aelora-a @cullenswife @ilikeitbetterangsty @jvpit3rs

FEEDBACK , SHARES AND COMMENTS ARE ALWAYS WELCOME!

"I'm starting to regret this."

Your voice came out as a whisper, almost being silenced by the sounds of the nightlife of the Godswood. The darkness surrounding you was scary enough to spook away to the bravest of men, and yet your lover decided that it was worth the try. You were barely able to see the stars in the sky, for the trees did not allow you to have a clear view. The moonlight was dim, the only thing that helped you to see was the candles on your hands.

"Just a few more rounds and we'll get back home," your lover promised, holding your hand and guiding you deeper into the woods.

A quick look at him was all you needed to start to feel unsure, not safe. He was not tall, one or two inches taller than you, his body was slim and skinny, and he certainly was not the greatest of fighters. He was the son of a stableman, the closest thing to battle he had experienced was when a horse almost kicked his gut. And yet, he believed to be brave and strong enough to submerge into the darkness of the woods.

Even when the whispers say that every full moon, a howling creature appears. The northerns usually hide in the safety of their homes when this time of the month arrives, but there you were, following your lover into the craziest thing you have done in your life. Oh, how stupid you were.

"My love, I don't think this is a good idea," you insisted, already being paranoid with the whistling sound of the wind, "this is not safe, please, let's just go home."

He didn't listen, so you froze in your place. Once he realized you were not moving, he turned around and pressed his lips with disapproval, almost looking mad at you for stopping his adventure, but you were not going to bend, you wanted to go back. Your instinct was yelling for you to turn around and run.

"I want to go home," you said sternly, firmly expressing your annoyance and slight fear.

"Love-"

"No," you interrupted him, "it's enough. This is stupidly dangerous, I don't want to do this anymore, I want to-"

His lips pressed against yours, silencing you as he pushed you against a tree. His hands went to your rear, cupping your arse and stealing a small gasp from your mouth. You squirmed under his touch, accidentally brushing your thigh against him and causing a moan to slip out of his lips.

Almost immediately, you pushed him away.

"Stop this!" you grunted, "what are you doing?"

"Trying to calm you down, that's what I'm doing," he said with a smirk, and you could not help but to roll your eyes as he came closer to your lips once again.

"I want to go home," you demanded.

"I want to make you mine," he muttered, going to attack your lips once again.

His hands cupped your face in order to retain your position between his body and the tree behind you. You moved your face, and with a single push you managed to get him away from you. He groaned, angry and upset, but you decided to ignore his furrowed expression as you turned around and started to walk away.

"Wait!" you heard him yelling, but you didn't stop, "My love, please, wait!"

"I'm going home with or without you," you answered, keeping your pace steady and firm.

"You can get lost, the Godswood is too big!"

"I'll find the way out," you assured him.

You didn't turn around, but you knew he was walking right behind you because you were able to hear the leaves cracking under his shoes. Your breath became unsteady as you started to get slightly tired of walking, and you couldn't find the weirwood tree that would make you know you were going in the right direction.

Trying to look at the sky to see if the star could help you with your orientation, you realize that the crown of the abundant trees were covering almost the whole sky, leaving you with nothing that showed you where you were going. You cursed yourself on the low, losing your pride and turning around to finally face your lover and ask him to guide you through the forest.

But he wasn't there. No one was, actually. As soon as you turned around, you were able to hear a movement in the trees and bushes, and the only thing in front of you was darkness. The candle in your hand was soon to be extinct, for the wax was already fully melting in the cup. You started to feel genuine and pure fear, you were alone, in the woods during the full moon. Nothing good will come out of this, of that you were certain.

The sudden movement of the trees put you on alert. You swallowed hard as your body tensed, stiff as a rock. You tried to remain quiet, thinking that perhaps if the thing that was out there did not hear you then you would be safe. Your shaky breath became a bit too loud for your liking as you slowly started to move backwards, resisting the imminent urge to run away.

And then you saw it, two yellowish spheres that were seen hiding behind a tree not so far from you. Your lower lip trembled, and when you heard it grunting, you knew you should run.

The candle, the only thing that provided you with light, fell from your hand and was turned off by the traces of snow in the ground. You were staring at it, and it was staring right back at you. You could recognize a tall and big shape, almost too big to be human… no man you have known was that tall, and that's how you knew you were in the presence of the frightening beast the northern tales tell you about.

You saw it move, and before it could come out from its hiding spot, you found yourself running away, completely blinded by the darkness surrounding you, and the panic and adrenaline of the moment. Your hands were grasping your skirts, lifting them up so it was easier for you to move between bushes and branches.

It was almost impossible for you to know whether you were going for the right path or not. The adrenaline of the moment led you where your instinct would take you, and with a bit of luck, you managed to arrive at the center of the Godswood, where the Weirwood Tree was standing. Its fallen red leaves were decorating the white snow, and you finally were able to see beyond your own hands.

You looked up, and the stars were shining bright, the moon giving you the light you needed to realize where you were standing. You fell to your knees in front of the carved face, and you started to pray for your safety, cursing the name of your lover who had no remorse in leaving you to go by yourself.

You noticed you were crying once you touched your face and felt your soaked cheeks. Whines and cries were heard in the quietness of the night, your body shaking with fear as you were looking at your surroundings like a paranoid.

The sound of a branch being stepped on was heard, and your eyes quickly saw the tall frame of a man. You felt relief, a weight taken off your shoulders as you stood up and sighed. He walked slowly, getting closer to you, and once he was close enough you were able to identify him as Lord Stark.

A tall, handsome man that you had the chance to meet a few times around Winterfell; now you were seeing him as your salvation from the terror that was starting to consume you.

Of course the panic in your mind did not allow you to notice his bright yellow eyes.

"Lord Stark," you breathlessly said, standing up to face him. His tall frame in front of you, your eyes looking up at his face. "What a relief…"

He remained silent, your eyes kept wandering around going from his face to your surroundings just to make sure the thing didn't follow you to that place. Once he reached your side, you felt some sense of calmness and peace.

"We need to go back, I intended to go back but I got lost in my way and I couldn't- this is not safe, we must go now!"

You saw his shoulders move as he took a deep breath and his intense haze was on you, examining your body from head to toe. Suddenly, your demeanor changed, and the feeling of safety was no longer there. Your body tensed, staring at his eyes only to notice the color of them, and how big his pupils were.

Then, you knew you were fucked.

In a pathetic attempt to run away, you tried to turn around, but big hands wrapped your waist and placed you against the tree. His body pressed against you, and you sensed his scent; he smelled of wet dirt and sweat, but there were still traces of his cologne in his skin; a sign that there was still a man behind those predatory eyes.

"My Lord-"

"Your smell…" he interrupts your whines, tears falling down your cheeks once again. His voice came out as low and raspy, almost in an animalistic tone that made you freeze with fear, "I could smell you from miles away, sweet doe." His nose buried in the crook of your neck, you whimpered, closing your eyes, "so inviting, so tempting… so arousing."

His tongue traveled in your soft skin, leaving a trace of saliva on you, causing chills down your spine. Your lower lip shook as you took a deep breath. Soon you were able to feel his teeth brushing against your neck, biting gently without the intention of leaving marks behind; he just wanted to taste your sweetness. But, of course, that was not enough for him.

"I wonder how you taste," he purred, his fingers collected some of the tears that had fallen down your warm face before he licked them out of his digits. A groan escaped from his lips, his eyes were closed, that tiny, little taste from you sent him over the edge. "I bet you are so sweet… your scent tells me you are."

"P-please…" You pointlessly begged him, feeling his hands going down to reach your skirts and starting to lift it up. You could've ran away, but you were frozen in that position; back against the holy tree, and your chest pressed against his.

"How dare you ask me to stop?" He scoffed, "you've been spreading the smell of your arousal around the woods, and you expect me to control myself and let you go?" He clicked his tongue, his fingers slipping between your legs until he reached your warmth. He hummed, delighted to feel some of your slick covering his thick, big fingers. "I usually hold myself back, but you have made it impossible… I'm acting as if I'm going through my rut, but in reality it's all you." He spoke, grunting as he leaned impossibly closer and his finger played with your sensitive bud. "You wanted this, did you not? You came here because you knew I was going to be here-"

"No… no, I didn't know, please!" You cried out, whimpering in the low as he rubbed his raspy fingertips against you, "I- I didn't-"

"Sh, sh…" he silenced you, his free hand wrapping around your neck as he pulled back and led you to the ground. He forced you to kneel, squeezing your throat in a subtle but demanding way, and you were too scared to even dare to go against his wishes. "You are a terrible liar, my sweet doe."

Somehow you ended up laying in the ground, your body on top of a bed of fallen leaves covered by the traces that the snow had left in them. Your back soon was wet because of the melting snow, and a cold shiver ran down your spine. Cregan forced you to spread your legs, positioning himself between them as he towered your body with his. He leaned closer and harshly bit your lip; the gesture was so careless that it made you cry out loud. However, there was no point in screaming, you were too far to be heard by someone from the town. Your only option was to close your eyes, pray and cry in silence until everything was over.

His big hands grabbed the back of your knees and forced them against your chest. The cold breeze smacked against your bare cunt and you whined due the sensation. Inevitably, you clenched your walls and he was able to perceive it, his bright, yellow eyes sparkled with the sight as he sighed. A smug smirk appeared on face, giving him a wicked look on his devilish features; such a view made you feel fear once again, but also made you sense some familiar feeling in your gut.

"Oh, fuck-" he said, shifting his position until his face was right in front lf your cunt. "Look at this… so fucking pretty."

He moved his hands, one of them was big –and strong– enough to hold your legs up. His free hand went to your folds, spreading them without shame as he took a closer look. He managed to see your little clit, already getting swollen for the stimulation he was providing you, and your hole… so eager and desperate to be filled up by him. He leaned even closer, his nose almost brushing against your pearl. He took a deep breath.

"Gods be good," he moaned. His mouth dropped open as he panted, his heavy breathing smacking against your wetness. Your hips twitched and you hiccuped, not even sure of what you were feeling at that moment, "just let me have a taste of you before I knot you."

Before you realized, his both hands were on your arse, his thumbs spreading your lips as his thick, warm and raspy tongue lapped onto your soaking cunt. Your eyes rolled to the back of your hand almost immediately as you tried to move away from him, but his hands were too strong and you could barely shake under his frame.

He had absolutely no shame in devouring you. His saliva dripping from his tongue and slipping down your arse as he moaned and whined against your sensitive skin. You tasted so fucking good, better than any other sweet or desert he had ever eaten before. Your soft whimpers and cries were edging him to the point where his mind felt numb with pleasure and lust. He could not help but feel the pleasuring pain growing inside his pants to such an extent that he started to cry out of the ache.

Your hands were on his hair, doing actions that did not have a clear intention; you were pulling it to keep him away from you, but at the same time, your hips could not stop following his hungry mouth. It is as if your body was asking for something you cannot quite comprehend, your lover has never pleasured in this way before… Cregan was the first person who dared to kiss such a private part of your body. It felt different, and it felt so fucking good.

Soon, your legs were wrapped around his head as he pulled your hips up. His mouth sucking on your clit and slurping your juices, your moans becoming as loud as screams. Your mind confused with the overwhelming sensation your body was experiencing, completely numb as a response for the unbeknownst feeling growing inside your belly.

Stammering, mumbling and cries were the only thing that left your mouth, for you were unable to put words together to form coherent sentences that express whatever you were feeling at the moment. It was completely new, you were feeling fire running through your veins that intensified with each movement of his skilful tongue against your folds. You felt your skin burning, sweat covering your shape as you kept struggling to move; your chest moving fastly, your nails digging in his skull, and your hips humping his face.

You melted under his arms as a sudden feeling washed you over with such an intensity that your vision became blurry. Black spots appeared in your eyes as you gasped loudly, you felt a certain relief followed by wet sounds that made Cregan whine even louder than you. His tongue collected all of your cum, seizing the sweet taste of your release as you were too numb to even realize what had just happened.

"Your cunt is so fucking wet right now," he growled. His tone made you wake up from the cloud of ecstasy you were in. It was lower, barely human. An animalistic demeanor was seen on his predatory eyes as he examined your shaky body under him. Your juices and the traces of his saliva made his chin glistened under the moonlight, such an obscene view to witness, so sinful, so shameful. "You pretend you don't like this but look at you, you came so fucking hard on my mouth, sweet doe… I want to drink from this cunt forever."

He let go of you just so his hands would reach his pants. You held your weight over your shoulders and while you looked at him struggling to get rid of the bothering fabric, you saw the perfect opportunity to attempt an escape. A stupid action, that's certain.

Your shaky legs were not much helpful as you turned to crawl away from him. Your knees being scratched by the branches on the floor as you cried your way out of that place. A big hand was wrapped around your ankle and dragged you backwards until you felt his hardened cock hitting your arse cheeks. His hands fell at each side of your hips and you cried at the impact as your arms failed to keep your body up.

Soon he grabbed a fist of your hair and pulled you back until his mouth was beside your ear. You felt his length between your folds, and he slowly started to rub against you, your poor, abused clit throbbed due to this action and a moan left your lips. You were able to perceive his anger in his heavy breathing as he tightened his grip in your hair, your head falling backwards until it was against his shoulder.

"Don't you dare to do that again," he whispered in your ear, his voice growling, so raspy that it did not even feel human anymore. "Don't make me hurt you, sweet doe."

You felt your nose itching as the tears started to escape from your eyes, though you were confused about the reason behind them. Pleasure, pain, fear. All emotions that overwhelmed your senses and confused your mind as Cregan's hands touched your body without shame at all. Such a devilish act had you wondering what you have done to deserve it, or if your lover will ever forgive you for this adulterous sin.

"I'm going to make you mine," he said, "I'm going to fill you with my cum and make you my mate and you will take it."

"P-please, no…" you mumbled, sobbing already as he kept fucking your thighs. "J-just let me- let me go, please."

"Why would I do that?" He asked, his words being followed by a moan, "I've tasted you already, my sweet thing… How am I supposed to let you go after I've become addicted to the way you taste? To the way your sweet cries beg me to keep going. Oh, my doe, you're asking me something completely impossible."

"I won't tell anyone, please… please, m-my lord-"

A loud chuckle was heard, echoing in the open space and causing you shivers down your spine. You soon felt his fat, thick head brushing against your drenching entrance and he slowly started to push inside of your tight walls. Your eyes widened as his thick cock spreaded your insides in such a painful way that made your mouth drop open for the intrusion.

"S-stop!" You yelped, trying to move your hips away, but his hips were impossibly strong, "It hurts! Please, stop!"

"Sh, sh… it's okay," he cooed, his voice shaking and unsteady, "just take it, doe, feel my cock spreading you open… Your cunt is so fucking tight."

"S-so big… Gods!" You cried out. "Please!"

"It's okay," he repeated, using the same tone as before. Hisses leaving his lips as he sinks deeper into you, "you need to get used to me, sweetling. I plan to fuck this little pussy every day from now on."

Your eyes clenched shut as he pushed harder until you were able to feel his heavy sack against your skin. Cregan pushed your head down until your cheek was pressed against the dried leaves in the ground. Your arse up in the air gave him the perfect view of your tight hole greedily receiving his cock. You would say it hurted you, but your cunt was taking him so well, eager for more.

He started to move, slowly at first, he wanted to make sure you were able to feel every inch of his pulsing cock, every vein in it. Your walls would squeeze him tightly, clenching around him everytime he would bury himself inside you. Your mouth remained open, and your eyes remained closed. He was filling you up so well.

The sound of your wetness was heard even when your moans were getting louder. It was such an obscene view, the way he would slowly pound against you just so he can watch how your creamy cunt left his length soaking with your juices. His eyes were fixated on that part of your body, bewitched by the scene, completely lost in the feeling and the rush of lust running through his veins. His big hands spreaded your arse cheeks just so he can have a better view; his animalistic side took over him as soon as he saw your tight hole greedily clenching, as if it was begging to be filled too.

His nails dug into the skin of your hips, and soon his thrust became harder. He kept the same velocity as before, just that now he made them deeper and stronger. You started to get used to the way he would move, the fact that he started slow made you adjust to his size and actually find some pleasure in his thrust. Your hands gripped the dirt under your body as you were desperately looking for something to hold on to. His pounding getting wilder with each passing second, as if he was growing desperate to feel you again as soon as he could.

You found yourself enjoying it, and feeling guilty about it… your lover was somewhere around the woods, wandering around the acres trying to discover something new. But then something happened, the mere thought of him finding you like this, with Cregan's cock buried in the deepest spot of your cunt, make you drool and clench around the man that was restlessly fucking you. Cregan hummed as your walls tightened around him, and that would only make him go faster.

"You finally are starting to enjoy this, aren't you, my doe?" he teased, squeezing the soft skin of your arse before slapping it, "I'm gonna make you my sweet little mate, darling, I'm never going to get tired of fucking this tiny little hole of yours."

"Mhm… I- I…" you intended to say something, but nothing would come out, he fucked you dumb.

"I'm going to breed you, sweet thing, I'll- fuck," he interrupted his words with a loud groan as he looked down, "I'll make sure to fill you up with my seed every fucking night until you're swollen with my pups."

The way he spoke to you, so shamelessly and unhinged, made you get even more aroused. The thought of being used by him once again stopped making you feel scared, and started to make you feel excited. Your mind sent you images of how good it would feel to have his load dripping from your cunt. But you were not supposed to be enjoying this, you were supposed to be scared, screaming out of fear, not pleasure. This was so wrong.

But it felt so fucking good.

"I will knot you, I will claim you as mine forever," he panted, fastening his pace to an animalistic speed. "I will claim this delicious cunt of yours every fucking night only to make you remember to whom you belong to."

"Yes…" you softly said, barely audible. But Cregan was able to hear it, and that only made him go harder, faster, deeper.

"Yes?" He chuckled, a moan escaping his lips soon after, "Say it."

You drooled under his touch, moaning uncontrollably loud as he kept moving without stopping any second. The sound of your bodies slapping against each other grew louder, both of you were consumed by the desire and lust that you did not care for anything anymore. Your mind went foggy again, and the same feeling was installed in your gut as you desperately tried to move your hips against his.

"Say it!" he repeated, thrusting harder. His sack smacking against your clit, adding more stimulation that made your legs shake.

"Please…" you managed to say, a thin, weak voice that was barely heard. "Oh! Gods, yes!"

"Look how desperate you are for my knot now, my sweet doe," he mockingly laughed, breathing heavily and grunting, "I knew you wanted this as much as I did."

"F-fill me…" you cried out, your cheek bruised with the movement against the rough dirt under you, "oh, yes! yes, please!"

"You're mine now, remember that, little one."

Those were his last words before he started to moan and groan as loud as you. His sweet and obscene sounds were making you wetter, your slick falling to the ground as you felt the head of his thick cock kissing your insides each time he would bury himself in you. He managed to find that sweet spot inside of you, and once his moans turned higher, you felt him stretching you even more.

You froze as you felt him spreading you so much that you thought it would rip you apart. The delicious mixture between the pain and pleasure made you come undone almost immediately; your cum gushing out of your cunt as your vision became blurry and your whole body shook. You soaked him completely, even staining your dress in the process. The pleasure was overwhelming, like flames wrapping your body and making it burn.

It became worse, because Cregan was too focused on searching for his own release that he did not realize how overstimulated you were. You bit your lip so hard that drops of blood fell down on it, Cregan's length going in and out of your abused cunt as rolled his eyes and gasped loudly.

Suddenly, you felt the warmth of his cum painting your walls as you mewled under him. Your hips were still twitching, your legs shaking, and your face soaked with tears of genuine pleasure. Cregan thrust a few times before his knot swelled so much that he was not able to move anymore. Your lower belly had a bump now, as strings of his release filled your insides. You felt so good.

"Take it all," he grunted, "you're mine now, you belong to me…"

He leaned over, leaving soft and careful kisses on your clothed back as his hands roamed around your trembling body. Your dress was still covering those parts of your body, but you were still able to feel how hot his skin was. He was burning, and you were melting in his arms. He started to whisper soft words, but some of them were almost impossible to understand. His soft touch was a big contrast to his prior actions, but you were not complaining.

"So good," he praised you, "so fucking good. You took me so well, such a good little girl you are."

"M-my lord…" you tiredly said, your eyes closing by themselves as a sudden tiredness washed over your body.

"Sh, don't say anything…" he cooed to you, "just go to sleep, my sweet doe, I'll keep you safe forever."

And for some reason, you believed him. The last thing you felt before passing out, was Cregan pulling out, and his seed quickly falling down from you.

Inevitably, and drunk by pleasure, you smiled.

#cregan x reader #cregan stark fanfic #cregan stark smut #cregan stark x you #cregan stark x reader #cregan stark #cregan stark x y/n #hotd x reader #hotd au #hotd smut #hotd #hotd fanfic #hotd x you #hotd x y/n #house stark #house of the dragon

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