#a fate that befell me

[6sp1ral6]

adam and lawrence were created to be haunted by eachother

[aniron48]

friends were a fate that befell me

“What’s the film, then?” Bond asks, resigned. “And how did you know I would have a DVD player?” “Lucky guess,” Eve says, at the same time as Q offers, “Takes a relic to own a relic.” Bond sighs, and Tanner intervenes. “It’s Steel Magnolias,” he says. “Have you seen it?” “I can’t say that I have. Comedy or tragedy?” “Yes,” Q says, and that’s all anyone will tell him before the screen fills with the opening credits, and the camera pans to a young Daryl Hannah walking down the street.

My first creation for MI6 Café 007 Fest 2023! This fic is for @anyawen, who suggested the prompt lyric "friends were a fate that befell me" from the song "Dinner & Diatribes" by Hozier.

Trigger warning for grief and discussion of both M's death and losing an (adult) child, if these are things you need to treat tenderly right now.

I can't believe I'm saying this, but spoiler warning for Steel Magnolias, I guess, even though it came out in 1989.

You can read on ao3, or here, below the cut.

It’s two weeks to the day since Skyfall went up in flames when Tanner, Eve, and Q knock on the door of Bond’s new flat. It’s still so empty that their voices echo as they push inside, all talking at once.

“—figured you wouldn’t be doing anything—“

“Anyway, Q picked the movie, I hope you—“

“—told them you wouldn’t have any good snacks, so I’ve brought an assortment.”

They shuck off their jackets and leave them piled unceremoniously on Bond’s floor, revealing a ludicrous assortment of casual wear. Tanner is clad in navy joggers and a worn grey sweatshirt with the name of his university across the chest, and Moneypenny and Q are wearing pyjama separates. Eve’s are a respectable emerald green silk with white piping, while Q’s appear to have a Fair Isle print, but on closer inspection, reveal a pattern of snowflakes interspersed with the TARDIS from Doctor Who.

“What,” Bond says finally, over the din, “is all this?”

The three of them exchange significant glances until Eve gives in and answers.

“It’s been a bloody terrible two weeks,” she says. “And we thought you might like some company.”

She’s only half right. It has indisputably been a bloody terrible two weeks, but company is the last thing Bond needs. He’d been intending to spend the evening much as he had the last several before it: waiting to be sent back into the field, replaying the events leading up to M’s death to decipher when it all went wrong, and drinking until he was able to fall asleep. 

“So you decided I needed a pyjama party with someone who shot me, someone who helped sell off my old flat, and someone who still has spots?” He says instead. It’s not so much that his hackles are up, as that he’s certain theirs ought to be. It’s a slippery slope from whatever this is to forgiveness, and from forgiveness to trust, and he’s just proven with spectacular aplomb exactly why trusting him is a bad idea.

But Q just looks at him over the rim of his glasses. “I see you’ve still only got the one joke, 007. You might consider another.”

And then he’s making himself at home on Bond’s expensive, uncomfortable leather couch, with Moneypenny on the other end. She hands Tanner a pillow and he sits on the floor with it, leaning back against her legs. Bond is forced to squeeze between Q and Moneypenny, but instead of shifting away, they both lean in even further. Moneypenny has produced a pair of fuzzy blankets from somewhere, and they settle in as if they are here to stay.

It’s ridiculous, is what it is. He needs neither comfort nor coddling; he has lived long enough without either that their sudden appearance registers somewhere in his hypothalamus as equal parts bewilderment and threat. It would be best, now that he’s officially back from either Turkey or the dead, depending on how one looks at it, to reestablish some boundaries. This is not the kind of fraternization he is wont to engage in. But he’s hemmed in by his colleagues and their soft pyjamas and their ridiculous blankets, and James Bond, the man who once escaped from a locked ice chest in the back of a burning train plummeting down a mountain pass in Kazakhstan, decides that he is effectively trapped, and may as well stay where he is.

“What’s the film, then?” Bond asks, resigned. “And how did you know I would have a DVD player?”

“Lucky guess,” Eve says, at the same time as Q offers, “Takes a relic to own a relic.”

Bond sighs, and Tanner intervenes. “It’s Steel Magnolias,” he says. “Have you seen it?”

“I can’t say that I have. Comedy or tragedy?”

“Yes,” Q says, and that’s all anyone will tell him before the screen fills with the opening credits, and the camera pans to a young Daryl Hannah walking down the street.

Bond has not exactly made a habit of watching films about the American South in the 1980s, so he’s not sure what to expect. He’s taken in by the banter and the witticisms and Dolly Parton’s sky-high hairdo, and thus, despite Q’s earlier comment, he is unprepared when the film takes a turn for the tragic. Even so, he can admit that Sally Field is masterful playing M’Lynn Eatenton as she mourns her daughter, taking a scene from heartbreaking to hilarious and back again as her friends gather around her to help her grieve. It is nothing short of wrenching in its raw humanity. Q and Moneypenny are both openly weeping as they watch, holding each other’s hands through it in a way that would be sweet were they not further infringing on Bond’s personal space by doing so across his lap. Tanner is dabbing manfully at his eyes with a napkin, his wine gums and Stella forgotten beside him on the floor. Bond swallows. The back of his throat feels tight. He must be getting a cold.

“I just sat there. I just held Shelby's hand,” M’Lynn is saying onscreen, “There was no noise, no tremble, just peace. Oh god. I realize as a woman how lucky I am. I was there when that wonderful creature drifted into my life and I was there when she drifted out. It was the most precious moment of my life.”

It is nothing at all like when M died. He was holding her when she died, yes, but the similarity ends there. Though it was quiet in the chapel, too, he supposes, the explosions and the guns all gone silent. It was quiet enough that Bond heard the moment she stopped breathing. 

He absolutely would never have called her a wonderful creature, or anything approximating it. Anything approaching an honest sobriquet would be unrepeatable, the sort of thing that was banned on the BBC. And yet he understands, deep in whatever is left of his soul, what M’Lynn means when she says it was precious, to be there at the end, knows what it means to have inhabited a moment that is profuse with grief and horror and regret, and yet somehow limned with the holy: to have been there, to have been alive together, and then alive alone, as she left all of it behind. To know that part of him is in that moment, still, and maybe always will be.

Bond clears his throat, then looks around. Tanner is at the wrong angle to see his face, and Moneypenny and Q are very pointedly not looking at him, and there is nowhere, he realizes, that will be safer than this uncomfortable couch in his empty flat, surrounded by elite members of Britain’s intelligence services who are nonetheless willing to pretend that he’s crying over M’Lynn Eatenton mourning her daughter’s death. He clears his throat once more, and lets the tears come.

There is no drastic sea change, after, once the film has ended and he has seen Q and Moneypenny and Tanner and their bags of snacks out of his flat. He doesn’t stop drinking or replaying what went wrong or seeing Skyfall in his uneasy dreams. He doesn’t suddenly join Q and Moneypenny for their boozy brunches or agree to watch a match with Tanner down at the pub. But from time to time, when they meet in the halls of MI6, Tanner will say, “My COLORS are BLUSH and BASHFUL” in the worst approximation of a Southern accent that Bond has ever heard, and when Bond walks into Q Branch without all of his gear, Q will sigh and say, “If he’s trying to drive me crazy, it’s too late” in a surprisingly accurate one. What he feels in those moments isn’t exactly peace, he doesn’t think, but it is the closest he has come in a long, long time.

In memory of N and P. Every moment with you was precious.

[iniziare]

Re-tag drop: Yelan

[kitwilsonsass]

one functional braincell. one. a single one.

[fakirchan]

I'm sorry to everyone for all of that

[pankracy]

fuck you tumblr honestly I wouldn't normally watch 1670 but I DO want in on all the fun. gahhhhhhhhhhhhh.

[shut-up-danny-kun]

Look at this wikipedia article and tell me..

[orchideae]

Tag drop (2/2): Muse/Dynamics

[thorns-ofthe-thistle]

Your Friends are a Fate that Befell Me . [Self para]

In which Thistle returns to Elfhame to learn more information regarding his betrothal and the Darling family...[takes place: February 5, 2023]

[tw -- none]

[wardrobe]

... ... ...

The Elfhame High Court glittered in front of Thistle, catching the silver moonlight along its high glass walls. It had been a very long time since they had been here. They would not say, generally, that they had missed it, but there was a familiarity that could not be denied as they merged with the rest of the crowds making their way into the gardens for the festivities.

... ... ...

[link here]

[pillowspace]

(Just a quick ramble with major ISAT spoilers)

You know those AUs where Loop winds up getting dragged along by Siffrin to join the party in the end? And you know those AUs where another character loops instead of Siffrin?

A thought that always fascinates me when it comes to AUs where another character is looping with canon Loop as their guide is what kind of relationship Loop would have with Siffrin, and vice versa. What would meeting Loop be like for Siffrin? Like, this is very different circumstances from canon. They don't have the loops in common, and if Loop wouldn't be hiding their identity when joining the party, then there's no time for Siffrin to warm up to their company before knowing the truth.

You're leading a semi-normal life, then all of a sudden one of your friends turns out to have been trapped in a time loop, and they go, "so I don't mean to alarm you, but I've grown very attached to a version of yourself that befell the worst possible fate that you yourself very narrowly avoided without even knowing it. You'll see yourself in their habits, but what they've gone through (what YOU could have gone through with one single mistake) has changed them. Anyway, say hi :)" How unsettling is that? What would either of them feel looking each other in the eyes for the first time, when Loop had likely never enjoyed looking at Siffrin during the loops? What would be their first time navigating a conversation, about anything at all? After a couple months, what of their dynamic then? I just wonder about it sometimes. What it's like to meet your best/worst case scenario self, not having gone through any of it together, and not having to depend on each other. There's no need to act all pleasant and lie because Loop's not here to help him, and Loop's presumably already in their tired healing stage with the party member who had looped, so they're already past their most bitter stage (not to say that they aren't bitter). Loop and Siffrin just kind of... exist within the same space is all. What's that like, I'm so intensely curious about it

[maxknightley]

low-key ways to tell someone "hey, I noticed you've been princessposting a lot lately. are you looking for any royal guards rn, because I've been on some knight errant shit ever since that Terrible Fate befell my sworn liege, and though the birdsong is beautiful and the stars plentiful and the campfire warm it's really starting to wear on me. we can keep it casual though if you want I'm not trying to put you in a weird position"?

[justanerdy-gal]

"Do You Resent Me?" (Astarion x Tav)

-> pairing: Astarion x Tav -> content: fluff/angst -> summary: In which Tav wonders whether Astarion resents her for convincing him to choose to reject the Black Mass ritual and not Ascend. Full of angsty fluff.

-> notes: The finished version of the WIP I posted yesterday. Astarion & Tav draws all the angst and cheesy fluff out of me 🥹

——————

“Do you resent me?”

Astarion looks up, wearily, from the corner of the Elfsong Tavern room that they had been staying in for some time now.

“Darling….what would I have to resent you for…?”

You slowly walk over to his corner of the room, and sit beside him on the edge of the bed. You observe him as he turns his gaze over to the hands in his lap.

“It…just feels like…you may have made your choice because of…me.”

Astarion turns his head to look back at you, betraying nothing in those crimson eyes at the moment, but listening.

“If I wasn’t around….you would have been free to make the choice you always wanted,” you continued, your eyes glassing over as you ponder the thoughts that have been plaguing you since the moment Astarion made his choice in the Szarr palace.

“The freedom that you always craved… did I take that away from you?”

Astarion’s eyes widened as you made your declaration.

“You… think it wasn’t the right choice?”

“Not that,” you tried to clarify. “Maybe… maybe I don’t know what the right choice is. But what mattered is… your choice.”

“You trusted me. You trusted me with a choice that, in the end, goes back centuries…” your voice starts to shake. “A choice with consequences you must live with for…eternity.” You look up at him as tears finally threaten to pour from your eyes. “What right did I have, to ask you to sacrifice yourself to the shadows?”

Astarion stares at you as he ponders your statement. He looks away from you as he stares at the cracked, drying paint on the wall of the old room.

“I think about it every minute, every moment.” Astarion speaks slowly, softly. “I think about the colours of the city. The warmth of the rays at dawn, beckoning me towards the next day. I think about the sanguine hunger I have suffered for over 200 years, and how I could be free from that pain. Free from all limitations. And how that will never be now… once the parasite is destroyed.”

You look up at him in despair as your body threatens to let out a sob.

“And I think about… how it would never be enough.”

It was your turn for your eyes to widen. His gaze had softened as his fingers move to entwine in your own.

“I see the colours through your eyes, through the stories that you tell me of your adventures. I feel the warmth through your skin as you lay beside me every night.”

“And your blood can sate me better than any power can.” You giggle as he smirks, softly wiping the tears from your eyes.

“Before you, before this nautiloid fiasco … I had no reason to want anything else but freedom and power. I only lived to escape what I was. I had everything to gain. And nothing to lose. So ofcourse, this Ascension seemed like an obvious choice.”

“But everything changed,” Astarion said breathily. “From the moment you wormed your way into my heart…you became a complication that I never expected. Suddenly, I had everything to lose.”

“I would have stayed,” you say thickly.

“I know you would,” Astarion says sadly, “but would you have been happy?”

“I probably would have been happy…happier than I was, for sure.” Astarion stares distantly at the wall as he speaks. “But where would that happiness end? What would sate me, if my happiness was dependent on power? I would have to take more, control more, be more…it is surely the fate that befell Cazador, that befalls all with power…more power than they know what to do with.” Astarion winces as he utters his late master’s name. “The need for power, for control, can never be sated. It would never be enough. Nothing would ever be enough.”

“But you, with me, here? That is enough. You are enough. We are enough.”

You pause as you ponder his words for a moment.

“Am I?” you whisper weakly as you stare at your entwined hands.

You feel the chill of his hands as they move up to hold your face tightly, and tilts your head up to look at him. The intensity in his eyes at that moment was like nothing you’ve ever seen on him before.

“Listen to me,” he says firmly, staring fiercely into your eyes, as if he was speaking through to your soul. “There is nothing in the world that I wouldn’t sacrifice to remain here by your side. You are my eternity. My mad love. Besides,” Astarion smiles as he stares into your eyes. “I still think it was the right choice, regardless. If I could go back and do it all over again, I’d make the same choice. Every time.”

Astarion’s words cause the tears that you were holding back to creep up to the surface, as your body begins to wrack with heavy sobs, as you let out the doubt and fear that you have been holding since you both learned that the Ascension was a thing – since you have contemplated that potential decision every minute of every day, since the moment Astarion asked you to help him, and you convinced him to give away that power, to save those souls, to save himself. Astarion pulls your head to his chest and holds you tightly as you shake against him.

“My darling, why do you weep? Don’t sell yourself so short. No one else has a heart like you. You’re the only one,” Astarion whispers into your ear.

“I love you,” you declare into his shirt, tears still staining the soft, white material.

“I love you too,” Astarion says, leaning backward, pulling you down with him until he was laying on his back, with your head resting on his chest, hands softly caressing your hair. “I can’t imagine another way I would want to spend the rest of my days, my love. I’m not afraid – not anymore. And especially not of our future.”

And that is how you both fell asleep, with the two of you in eachother’s arms and your dreams of the future in eachother’s hearts.

——————

My AO3 and Twitter 🙂

MASTERLIST

[damneddamsy]

second sight | cregan stark x oc (part iii)

a/n: on today's episode of Stark Fluff, resident kook Claere visits the Wall and witnesses Northern justice, and lovestruck Cregan tries to learn Valyrian and gets jealous of the Crows

Summer snow in the heart of the North was a season of unyielding cold, where the land itself seemed to freeze beneath a heavy mantle of snow. The sky hung low and grey, reluctant to grant even a sliver of sun, while the wind howled through the stone walls of Winterfell, a biting reminder that the North held no mercy. Amidst the deepening frost, something warmer had begun to take root between Cregan and Claere Stark—an affection borne not of grand gestures, but of small, intimate exchanges that spoke louder than words.

For all her quietude and mystery, the Lady of Winterfell was in no way lacking in depth when it came to reciprocating care for her husband. She offered him a token of her trust, a fragment of her homeland—an elegant Valyrian steel dagger, its hilt wrapped in dragonhide, studded in jade, smelted from the ancient jewellery passed down from her grandsire, the king. She placed it into his hands one evening, her eyes averted, as though the act was more personal than she could bear.

"For your protection," she had said to him.

Concealing his astonishment, Cregan weighed the weapon between his hands and gave the dagger a twirl, deliberately exaggerated, flipping it neatly in the air and catching it with ease.

"A fine gift, princess. For my protection, is it?" Cregan asked, letting his tone take on a mischievous lilt. “But what if I prick my finger on it? Will that not cut me down faster than any enemy blade?"

Her eyes barely twitched, the ghost of a smile, though she quickly composed herself. "'Tis a poor fate to befell the Warden of the North."

Cregan grinned, clearly not deterred. "Ah, but think of it, princess. The songs they’d sing. The tales they'd spread. ‘Here lies Cregan Stark—felled not by sword or spear, but by his own sweet wife’s kindness.’"

He flourished the dagger once more, this time pretending to struggle with the spin, catching it just before it slipped from his hand. Claere’s eyes flickered, the faintest hint of something like amusement crossing her face, though it vanished almost as quickly as it came.

Cregan's grin widened as he gave the dagger one final twirl, his eyes sparkling with mischief. In a sudden, fluid motion, using her distraction as his upper hand, he reached out, grabbing Claere by the waist. Before she could react, he spun her around with stunning grace, pulling her close and setting the blade gently against her side.

Claere's violet eyes widened, not in fear, but in something far more difficult to decipher—curiosity, perhaps, or a faint tremor of excitement. The blade hovered against her ribs, cool and sharp, though Cregan wielded it with such care it felt more like a caress than a threat. The space between them had all but disappeared, the heat of his body pressing against hers.

“If anyone here requires protection,” he teasingly murmured, his breath warm against her ear, “it’s you. Not me.”

Her gaze stayed steady, unfazed, though the faintest flutter in her breath betrayed her. He never realized that her silvern hair was perfumed, a sweetness he could not pinpoint, maddening. Her posture remained unmoving and composed, slender hands grasping at his blade-bearing forearm.

“You think me vulnerable when I command the greatest strength in Westeros,” she finally said, her voice as calm as ever, though there was a hint of challenge beneath her tone.

He leaned in closer, the edge of the dagger still digging into her snug bodice. “Unless you mean to run to your dragon like a scalded little cat, princess. You cannot always hide behind your beast.”

Her lips parted as if to speak, but the words seemed to catch in her throat, her breath shallowing in the shared tension of the moment. The fire crackled softly in the background, the room growing still as Cregan’s grip on her waist tightened ever so slightly. How he was sorely tempted to close the last of the stretch between hem, to let his lips brush against the softness of hers until the cold North cannot separate them.

“And what of you, my lord?” she asked.

"What of me?" he breathed out.

"Can I run to you instead?"

His breath caught, and for a moment, the bravado melted away. He lifted the dagger, its hilt resting gently beneath her chin as he tilted her face to meet his gaze. His eyes, so often hard and stern, softened as he took in the sight of her, so close, so strangely unknowable.

“Always,” he promised, his voice barely audible.

It was said that the dagger gleamed proudly upon his sword belt the very next day, brandishing his gilded Valyrian glory like the dragonlords themselves had left their mark on him—no less intriguing than the woman he had married. It was a turn for the better in the northern lord. A man once shaped by duty and honour, hardened by the unforgiving land he ruled, Cregan knew how to lead, how to fight, how to protect. But Claere, with her violet eyes and sweet secrets, had changed him in ways not easily seen. She hadn’t softened him or drawn him from his duties—no, she had subtly unravelled him, like a thread pulled from tightly woven cloth.

Where once his thoughts had been consumed by Winterfell and its people, now they often lingered on her. And in thinking of her, he had begun to find a balance—between the weight of his responsibilities and the stirrings of something far more dangerous: the pull of his heart.

One cold morning, Cregan was in the yard, overseeing the training of new recruits, the frost-covered ground crunching underfoot, when the call came from a council member.

"A raven from Castle Black, my lord," the maester said, holding out the sealed scroll.

His brows were drawn in concern, and that alone set Cregan’s teeth on edge. Taking the letter, he broke the black wax seal with the direwolf sigil, his eyes scanning the missive. He read swiftly, his face hardening with each line.

"A matter concerning the Lord Commander?" He folded the letter and faced the concerned maester. "A dispute among the men, perhaps. He says something is amiss."

"Might you take Lady Stark with you to the Wall?" the maester suggested, hesitant.

"To the Wall..." he muttered, his thoughts reeling.

The idea of taking Claere to such a desolate, dangerous place—so far removed from Winterfell, from everything familiar—felt like madness. He couldn't picture her, with her quiet reserve and mysterious nature, fitting in among the men of the Night's Watch.

His jaw tensed further. His tone was sharp, almost defensive. "What use would she have there?"

But the maester held firm. "Lady Stark has already decided to fly her dragon beyond the Wall to hunt," he said, his voice measured, though a hint of concern lingered. "It may be wise for you to accompany her. The timing is fortuitous, my lord."

Cregan sighed, his chest tight. He had known for days now that this moment was coming, that Claere’s choice was set in stone. That beast had been restless for weeks. And Claere herself was determined to venture north, beyond the Wall, to hunt in the frozen wastes.

"It is inevitable," Cregan said quietly, more to himself than the maester.

His eyes darkened as the dragon's immense shadow soared above their heads just then, buffeting out a terrible gust over the castle, Claere riding high on Luna's back, disappearing into the clouds. He didn’t have a choice. This was unavoidable.

"Then we shall go together," he relented at last, his voice low.

X

The wind was biting as they rode north on their harrowing three-week journey to the Wall, their hot breaths visible in the morning air. Cregan rode beside Claere, their horses galloping in sync while the guards followed at a deferent distance. She had abandoned any appeals to ride in the warmth of a wheelhouse or even take to the skies on her dragon and fly ahead, preferring instead the unforgiving saddle at his side, in the cold. Though no one had questioned it, Cregan alone understood the motive behind her choice.

She wanted to be here—with him. The stillness between them was comfortable, the cold air nipping at their faces, only broken by the rhythmic sound of hooves crunching through the frozen ground. Cregan’s heart warmed beneath his layers of fur, his eyes briefly catching hers before returning to the path ahead. She wouldn’t ask for more, but in choosing the saddle, she had said enough.

It was not something Claere would ever say aloud, nor would she offer explanations, but he knew. Subtly her gaze lingered on him longer than necessary or the way she matched his horse's trot, never too far ahead or behind—there was charming purpose.

Claere tilted her head, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. "You’re pronouncing it wrong again," she murmured, her tone soft but teasing.

"It was practically an echo," he defended.

"Say it again."

Cregan huffed, a grin twitching at the corners of his mouth as he tried to repeat the phrase she had just taught him. Never in his life did he imagine he’d be learning High Valyrian on the way to Castle Black.

"Ānogar hen... zouldrīzes," he said, his Northern accent weighing down the syllables.

"Gentler. High Valyrian is spoken like silk, not iron. Here—" Her voice dipped into that fluid, irresistible cadence as she repeated the word. "Zaldrīzes."

He looked at her, taking in the way her wind-tousled hair framed her face, the subtle curve of her lips as they formed words from a language older than his line. She was still a mystery to him, but moments like this—when her guard was down, and they shared something as simple as language—felt like a step closer to understanding her.

"Ānogar hen zaldrīzes," he repeated, mimicking her softer tone this time, coming closer to her lilting precision.

"Much better," she nodded, her lips curving ever so slightly, the closest thing to a laugh he had coaxed from her in days. She had a way of teaching him that made it feel like time slowed, patient and unhurried, as though there were no wars, no winters to come.

Cregan shook his head, a quiet chuckle escaping him. "What the hell am I even saying?"

"Blood of the dragon," she replied simply.

He leaned in closer, his breath fogging in the cold air. "Go on. Teach me something more than that, something to certainly impress my fussy lady wife."

Claere’s cheeks pinkened slightly, though whether from his words or the cold he couldn’t tell. Her gaze lingered on his, the briefest flicker of mischief in those violet eyes as she seemed to consider his request.

"Sōnar māzis," she said at last.

"Sōnar māzis," he repeated, his Northern tongue struggling with the softer syllables, but he managed it with a proud grin. "And what might that mean, then? Did you just tell me to fuck off?"

Her faint smile deepened, her eyes glinting as she glanced at him beneath her hood. "Winter is coming."

Cregan raised an eyebrow, a hearty laugh bubbling out of him. "Impudence. So you’re teaching me my own words now?"

Her lips twitched, her gaze betraying a rare hint of humour. "I am only fulfilling my lord husband’s request."

"Well, your lord valzȳrys appreciates your patience," he said, the High Valyrian word for ‘husband’ falling from his lips with surprising ease.

Claere’s eyes twinkled with quiet amusement as she looked down, biting the inside of her cheek, though the smile lingered.

Cregan couldn't help but feel lighter. Even in the gruelling cold, the relentless wind cutting at their faces, there was a gaiety to these moments with her that made the journey easier to bear.

The road stretched endlessly before them, each night colder than the last. They stayed in small inns along the way as shelter—meagre tents were no place for a princess to stay in—tough dwellings where the air reeked of smoke and old ale, where the beds were too hard, and the cold seemed to seep into the shallow bones despite the hearths. Cregan had taken to having his men lock their chambers from the outside, an order issued firmly. It was not the home Claere knew, not Winterfell, not the strange, lonely halls where she roamed at night without restraint, eyes glazed, her body moving with a will of its own as if pulled by unseen strings.

And tonight was no different.

Cregan awoke to the soft thud of her knuckles rapping against the door, over and over again. The sound was soft at first, a gentle request. Please. He opened his eyes to the dim glow of the dying fire in the hearth, the familiar chill pressing against his skin despite the furs piled atop him. Please go. The knocking continued, persistent but hollow, as if she was beckoning something beyond the wood.

He sat up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. Claere stood at the door, her silver hair tangled and tousled, her form almost wraithlike in the half-light of the room. She knocked again, her hand trembling. Please.

“Claere,” Cregan’s voice was hoarse from sleep as he swung his legs out of bed and rose to his feet. Again, and again, he thought in exhaustion.

She didn’t respond, didn’t even acknowledge him. She was lost in a dream. Her other hand rested on the door, her body swaying slightly as she mumbled something beneath her breath. It was a strange, disjointed whisper—words too faint for him to catch fully but they held an omen, a warning. He heard fragments.

The long night… shadows in the woods… they're coming...

His heart clenched, pity creeping up his spine. He hated to see her like this, trapped in some half-waking nightmare, her mind far away from him, from this place.

“Claere, come back to bed,” he called again, his voice softer as he crossed the room. When he reached her, he gently took hold of her hand, guiding it away from the door. She didn’t resist, but her eyes never fully opened, her lips still moving with broken words.

“It's coming for us, the cold dark,” she hummed a dire tune beneath her breath. “There is no light to flee to, no light.” Her voice trailed off, then her head lolled against his shoulder. "I need to see..."

Cregan’s grip on her tightened, his breath catching in his throat. There was always a touch of the uncanny about her, her Valyrian blood threading through her dreams like unclear rivers. The North held many ancient stories, and none of them were comforting. He feared these dreams were more than just the ramblings of a disturbed mind, feared she spoke of things deeper, older than he could understand. But he couldn’t let her drift further into the dream’s grip. Not here. Not now.

“Come, love,” he murmured, pulling her gently from the door and leading her back to the bed. His voice was calm, though his heart was pounding. “You’re safe here. There's no darkness. You're with me."

She didn’t oppose but obeyed him, her feet dragging slightly on the wooden floor as he guided her to sit on the edge of the bed. Her hands still trembled, her gaze distant as she continued to hum to herself.

“Winter takes them all. Ice… shadows in the snow… a frozen fire…”

Cregan sat beside her, his hands brushing the wild hair from her face. He forced a smile, blowing into her cold hands to warm them up between his. “The Long Night is far from us. You’ll see no shadows here. Only me.”

She was still caught in the web of her dreams, but his voice seemed to calm her. Slowly, her murmurs quieted, her head dipping forward into his chest as fatigue took hold. Cregan coaxed her softly, laying her back against the furs, tucking her in as if she were a child, her slender body looking far too fragile against the rails of the hard bed.

He sat there for a moment longer, watching her sleep, her breathing finally steadying. The firelight flickered nearby, casting long shadows over her pale face. His mind was far from at ease. Claere was no stranger to abnormal dreams, \but the words words she had spoken rattled him, more than he wanted to admit. It was as if the North itself whispered through her, the gravity of ancient things pressing down on her small frame.

Cregan ran a hand through his hair, sighing heavily. He despised this; containing her whims. But this was not home, these were unfamiliar lands, and the cold could swallow her whole if she were not mindful.

“Dreamy girl,” he whispered through a grin, though she was fast asleep. Wielding her languor, he leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead, feeling the coldness of her smooth skin seep into his lips. He didn't want to pull away.

As they pressed on toward Castle Black, the weather only worsened—snow thickening, the path harder to tread. Their cloaks grew heavy with frost, and the icy air stung their skin. Yet through it all, Luna soared overhead, a silver cloud against the wintry sky, watchful and protective of her rider, as though even the beast understood that this journey required more than just fire and flight.

They rode side by side, close enough that their knees sometimes brushed, the subtle connection grounding Cregan as the world grew ever colder around them. Claere’s quiet presence had a way of making the stinging chill seem less wild, the wind less cruel.

At long last, after what felt like an eternity of braving the elements, the morbid outline of the Wall's ghost castles loomed ahead, the long gears of steel clanks running along the centre of the Wall that gleamed blue and crystalline in the sunlight. The miles-long, forbidding structure stood in stark contrast to the frozen wilderness, and Cregan felt a sense of grim duty settling over him once more. This was truly the edge of the world, and the sharp air seemed to echo that truth.

As they entered the courtyard through the hoisted gates, the Lord Commander, a grizzled, weathered man with a face lined by years of winter and duty, stepped off the barracks to greet them. His eyes landed on Cregan first, but they quickly shifted to Claere, widening in surprise. He had not expected to see her here. A Targaryen princess at the Wall was a rare enough sight, one they had not welcomed for ages, let alone the Lady of Winterfell. The presence of a woman, especially one so reserved and strange, stirred an undercurrent of whispers among the black-clad men watching from the shadows of the courtyard.

"Lord Stark," the Lord Commander greeted, his voice rough with age and the weight of command. His eyes darted again to Claere, his brows furrowing. "Princess… a surprise, indeed. Welcome to Castle Black."

"It's Lady Stark," Cregan corrected forthwith.

Claere remained the epitome of composure, her expression abstruse as ever, her violet eyes scanning the walls, the men, and the bleak surroundings. She was more out of place here than at Winterfell—there were no other women, and the Night’s Watch had not hosted nobility in quite some time, especially not one so mysterious, so… unflinchingly Targaryen.

Cregan alighted his horse, extending his hands to her waist in support, though Claere barely needed it. Her movements were nimble and deliberate. She landed beside him in a sweep of skirts, her gaze lingering on the Lord Commander for a moment before she offered him a slight curtsey.

"She is here to hunt beyond the Wall," Cregan explained, his tone casual though there was an unmistakable note of pride in his voice. "Her dragon will keep us company until our stay has ended."

The Lord Commander's lips tightened, his gaze flicking uneasily from Claere to the sky, where Luna circled like a silvern omen, roaring out deafening growls.

His gruff voice followed soon. "Aye, quite the companion. But, Lord Stark..." He hesitated, leaning closer, his voice dropping to a whisper, careful to keep out of Claere's earshot. "Taking a lady beyond the Wall, especially one unversed in the perils—it’s no place for her. Even my rangers can’t ensure her safety, with or without us. The risk is too great."

Cregan caught the underlying doubt, the old-fashioned notion that a woman, no matter her bloodline, had no business in the wilds. His jaw tightened, his grey eyes hard.

"My lady wife's mount is the White Dread," Cregan said evenly. "A dragon nigh as fierce as the one who scorched Harrenhal. Tell me again if you think she needs your rangers to protect her."

He stepped closer, his voice low and steady, but with the authority of the King in the North. "The decision is made. The Night's Watch may govern its own, but remember—these are Stark lands. These are my people. And my house honours the strength of all its kin."

The Lord Commander bristled but said nothing, merely nodding curtly. He understood the threatening significance of Cregan’s words—that the authority of House Stark in the North was conclusive, and any further protest would be taken as a challenge.

Cregan held his steely gaze for a beat longer before turning back to Claere, his hand relaxing protectively on the hilt of his sword. Luna’s shadow passed overhead again, a loud reminder of the strength she came bearing.

Claere remained silent, her attention focused elsewhere, though she could feel the stares around her. Cregan moved closer to her, his hand brushing her tensed spine in a modest gesture of reassurance, and though she didn’t react outwardly, he sensed that she took some comfort in it.

"Come along," he murmured to her.

As they made their way through the courtyard, the Night’s Watchmen continued to steal glances at Claere, awed and sceptical. But she walked beside Cregan with her peace, head held high as if she were oblivious to their scrutiny. He was accustomed to seeing this, it was the armoured expression she bore at home as well.

For all the severity of the journey and the stony welcome of the Wall, their moments only worsened. The Lord Commander had led them through the frozen courtyard, past the rookery, into another training square, towards a group of scruffy, tired men bound at the wrists. The air hung uneasily with tension as the three accused were lined up, their heads bowed beneath the weight of their crimes.

“They were caught plotting desertion into the wildling lands,” the Lord Commander grumbled to Cregan, his breath clouding in the cold air. “The punishment is death. We serve justice swiftly here, my lord, as you know.”

Cregan nodded, though his thoughts immediately drifted to Claere, who stood quietly by his side, her gaze already fixed on the bound men in the yard. She was observant, her violet eyes missing nothing, but Cregan wondered how she would react to what was about to unfold. Being a Targaryen, she was no stranger to violence—King’s Landing had certainly shown her enough of that—but this was different. The North demanded a harsher brand of justice, one that came without the pomp and ceremony of the South. Here, the punishment was raw and prompt.

His stomach tightened at the thought of her watching him carry out a beheading, especially so soon after arriving. But this was the North, and this was the way of things.

The Lord Commander’s eyes slid toward Claere, his tone lowering, a trace of something biting in his words. “You ought to carry it out soon enough. Thought it wise to inform you, seeing as you’ve brought your lady wife.”

There was an edge to his voice that didn’t go unnoticed by Cregan. The man was testing him—his pride clearly still stung from their earlier exchange—and now he was trying to make a point as if to say, You think she’s up to the task? Let her see the real cruelties of the world you boast of.

Cregan’s jaw tightened. He wouldn’t allow Claere to be disgraced in this way, nor would he let her be forced into witnessing something she wasn’t prepared for. But now that the challenge had been laid out, she could not very well step aside. It was a calculated slight, designed to unsettle them both.

Claere, however, made no indication that she had picked up on the tension. Her composure remained unshaken, her eyes briefly meeting Cregan’s before flicking back to the prisoners.

“The sentence will be carried out. We will see justice here tonight,” Cregan announced firmly, his voice collected, though a flicker of dread ran through him.

He glanced at Claere once more, his heart hammering beneath his furs. The Lord Commander might have forced his hand, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t protect her where he could.

The men to be executed were brought forth, their faces hollow with fear and resignation. The bound prisoners knelt before the chopping block, their breaths coming in fast, ragged puffs. The yard was eerily silent, all their dreading regards turning to Cregan as he stepped toward them.

But before he took his place to offer the verdict, Cregan turned back to Claere. There was a moment of hesitation in his gaze as he approached her, brushing a gloved hand across her arm in a subtle gesture. She turned her head slightly, her violet eyes meeting his in quiet question.

Without a word, he nodded toward his men, issuing a silent command. They understood him immediately. Two of his loyal lads stepped forward, their movements discreet, and gently led Claere a few paces away. Not far, but enough that her line of sight would be slightly obscured.

She didn’t protest, but she didn’t look away either. Her gaze remained focused, though Cregan could sense her tense scrutiny. She wasn’t afraid, that much was certain, but he wondered what she truly thought of the disparity between the judicious world of her ancestors and the brutal pragmatism of the North.

With one final glance toward her, Cregan turned his attention back to the condemned men, snivelling out pleas of mercy. Of words to be sent to their families.

His voice rang out over the yard, presiding over the murmuring men of the Night's Watch, commanding and final.

“Let it be known that your brothers have been found guilty of desertion and treason. By the laws of the North, and by the vows they swore, their lives are forfeit.” He inhaled a sharp breath, addressing the doomed men now. "I, Cregan of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, sentence you to die."

The greatsword, Ice, glinted in the faint light of the yard, ready to deliver the mandate. Cregan lifted it high, the significance of the act pressing on him as it always did. He had done this plenty of times before. This was justice, and justice had to be done, but knowing that Claere was nearby, even out of his sight, made it feel different this time. He couldn’t explain why, but the feeling sat with him, solemn as Ice in his hands.

With a swift, practised stroke, the sword came down three times—with no leave—and the courtyard returned to its stern silence. Blood had strewed a good foot onto the frost, lifeless heads toppling and rolling off the blocks.

Cregan exhaled a long one, the tension slowly bleeding from his shoulders. He would have to shrug it off once again, take it like a king. Soon, the men's lopped bodies were gathered up to be torched in a lonesome procession.

When he looked up, he saw Claere watching him. Though she had been pulled back, her violet eyes lingered on him, as if mulling over what she had seen. He couldn’t tell if she approved or not, but in her inscrutable way, she didn’t seem disturbed. She simply was—a stillness in the storm.

After a moment, she gave him a slight, affirming nod, a gesture so small yet somehow momentous. Whatever had transpired between them, it had not shocked her.

But Cregan’s thoughts dimmed as he glimpsed the Lord Commander, who gave him a thin-lipped smirk of approval. He had gotten what he wanted, though it left a bitter taste in Cregan’s mouth.

As he sheathed Ice, his fingers brushed the Valyrian dagger Claere had gifted him. Soon her own gentle touch replaced it, having come to his side, sensing his apprehension.

"I apologize for what you had to bear witness," he said, cautious and quiet. "Did you look away?"

She shook her head in a silent response. A miserable sigh escaped him, proven right.

Yet when she risked a glance up at him, her gaze was calm, not a trace of concern there. "Your apologies go in vain, my lord. Justice is the same, no matter where it is served."

He hovered his hand near her cheek, aching to touch her, to find solace in her presence. But just as quickly, he fisted and dropped it. His hands, stained with blood and burdened with the affliction of the life taken, had no right to reach for her. Not now. Not when the bloodstained steel still lingered in his grip.

"Go," he muttered, stepping aside to make room for her. "Get warm. The captain will see you to your lodging."

Claere lingered for a heartbeat, her gaze fixed on him, wariness flickering in her eyes. But without a word, she complied, turning away and heading towards the wooden barracks, her form disappearing into the shadows of the dimming day.

X

The morning was bitterly cold, the early rays of sun barely cutting through the thick frost clinging to the stone walls. Inside the mess hall, Cregan sat at a long wooden table, surrounded by his guard and the timeworn members of the Night’s Watch. Plates of thick, greasy meat and stale bread were passed around, the clink of mugs and the low murmur of conversation filling the room.

Cregan stared at his plate, sleepless thoughts drifting back to the bloodshed of the night before. After that, Claere had been inconsolable, more jittery than usual, her sleep broken by quiet mumbles that filled their chamber, moaning and somnambulating once again, striking at the bolted door.

The Wall—its archaic, frozen weight bearing down on them—seemed to beckon her. It ground at her spirit, pulled at her, leaving him helpless beside her. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the cold, endless stretch beyond was reaching for her, trying to draw her into its depths. All he could do was watch.

He had watched over her, lain awake, unable to rest. Every time she cringed and whimpered, he reached out, touched her face, and soothed her back to silence. But it was no use. Even in sleep, she was not at peace. All his strength meant nothing before her, not when the battle was in her mind.

The meal before him—charred meat, stale bread—was untouched. He speared a piece absentmindedly, his gaze fixed on the door. The hall grew quieter as Claere entered as if answered upon his call, her presence commanding the room in a way only royalty could.

She moved with an effortless grace, her dragonrider’s leathers of red and gold clinging to her like a second skin, a vivid flame against the bleakness of Castle Black. She was a fire in the heart of ice, a sight too bright for this grey, cold place.

It gnawed at him, the way they looked at her. Vows or not, they were still men—tempted, starving. He saw it in their eyes, the way they shifted, attempting not to stare but failing. Claere was unlike anything they had ever seen, no Northman’s daughter draped in modest furs or woollen layers. She was a dragon, forged in fire and blood, a queen among crows.

He hated it. Hated how they dared to want what was his. A furious wish flickered in him then. Let them see her as she truly was, as he sometimes did—the unnatural, quiet woman who spoke to shadows and sang her cruel songs. Let them think this radiant, untouchable creature mad. Better that than desire. Better fear than the thought they could ever have her.

He turned back to his plate, though the food had lost all appeal. His hands itched with the urge to reach for her, to pull her closer, claim her in a way that would leave no doubt in their minds. But he restrained himself.

She approached Cregan, her path instinctual. Without a word, she sat beside him, her hand reaching for a piece of bread—the only food she could stomach amongst the heavy, greasy fare. As she tore a small piece, a slight grimace creased at her brows. It drove all those farcical feelings of envy right out of his mind.

"Luna causing you too much trouble?" he asked, trying to make his tone light. He carefully unhusked a boiled egg and placed it beside her bread, pushing his little glass of goat's milk before her.

She poked her knife at the egg, as though she was too drained to even slice the egg herself. "I was too wearied to ride her this morning."

Cregan’s eyes flicked over Claere, her words lingering as they sat in the dim hall. He could feel her taut exhaustion, even if she masked it beneath her calm demeanour.

He felt a knot twist tighter in his chest. "You barely slept last night, and neither did I."

"Unfamiliar country," she reasoned.

He sighed, grazing his hand over her warm cheek and hair. Her sleeplessness was clear in the pallor of her cheeks, the faint circles under her eyes.

"I admire your resolve endlessly. There's no need to compel yourself, princess; and certainly no need to go chasing shadows and omens. It's not worth it."

Her eyes flickered—barely—but the ghost of a smile touched her lips, fleeting and strange. "You sound like her."

"Who?"

"My delirious mother."

He exhaled hard, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice. "I fear losing you to whatever it is that rips at your mind. Past here, is a vast unknown. The world is dangerous enough without stepping into places best left forgotten."

Claere looked at him, her violet eyes undisturbed but faint. She was quiet for a moment as if considering her response carefully before she cut into the untouched egg on her plate.

"I am quite fine with danger, my lord. I have faced plenty under the guise of my uncles." Her words were barely louder than a breath, but there was a firmness there.

He would not have one bit of this. Cregan’s grip tightened on her hand, trying to ground her to the moment, to bring her back from whatever obscure force she felt. His gaze searched her face, looking for a way to persuade her otherwise.

"Please," he said; almost pleading. Would that not be a sight to behold, a begging Stark.

Her gaze lowered briefly, her fingers brushing his knuckles in a small, almost tentative movement.

“I know I’m not strong, not like you are,” she murmured, her voice meek, but unyielding. "But I must see what lies beyond. I feel it too keenly to ignore. It will not let me rest."

X

Cregan loomed atop the Wall, the winds cutting through his furs and coat of plates, but his intentions never wavered. His grey gaze tracked as Luna, immense and white against the grey sky, ascended higher and higher from the snowbound plains beyond Moletown.

He followed them, unblinking as Luna triumphantly soared overhead, without putting up much of a fight. The sheer size of her—vast leathery wings cutting through the air—was enough to make the ground beneath him tremble with an almost deafening rush of wind. He could almost sense her fire on his skin, a living furnace against the winter. Her wings stretched wide, casting a shadow that nearly engulfed this portion of the Wall whole, even the cold, old skeleton was dwarfed by her presence. The men around him were silent, awestruck, but Cregan’s focus was fixed solely on Claere. All he could think of was her—Claere, commanding that immense beast, a mere speck on its back, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, flying into the unknown, facing it all.

Until they became no more than a shadow against the vast expanse of the wilderness beyond. His jaw clenched, eyes squinting against the wind, every muscle tense.

"Perhaps it is best if we leave the vigil to the scouts, my lord," the captain suggested.

He tossed him a vague smile. "Aye, it would be."

The hours crawled on, the cold biting deeper as Cregan remained rooted to the lookout post, eyes fixed on the horizon. The guard and the Watchmen lingered nearby, wild and tense, but none dared to speak. The only sound was the occasional distant roar of Luna, carried on the wind like an augury. It was a sound that rattled through the Wall, but it gave no answers. Was she hunting? Fighting? In peril? Cregan could not tell. His mind conjured images of Claere lost in the belly of that icy void, surrounded by darkness from her dreams, beyond even the dragon's protection. His jaw clenched against the rising panic—he couldn't show it, not to his men, not to himself. Yet every minute stretched thin, a tightness growing in his chest as the sun slipped toward the horizon, casting the Wall in long, threatening shadows.

At last, as the sun bled into the sky, they finally saw it; both victorious rider and steed.

"Dragon!" someone yelled, out of the blue.

Cregan looked up from the little furnace that warmed his gloved hands, ardent grey eyes observing the skies.

Luna’s silver wings broke through the golden skies, finding the light, and cutting an immense curve against the darkening clouds. The dragon’s landing sent a gust of frigid wind over the Wall, roaring out a rattling growl, her claws digging deep into the ancient stone. Cregan exhaled out a visible gust of air, the breath he'd been holding in for a long time as Claere nimbly dismounted, scarcely before Luna was lighted. She moved without hesitation, her steps measured, calm—but her face was pale, and there was a strange detachment in her eyes.

Powerless to his dying reign, Cregan strode to her, his heart pounding, hands shaking as he drew her into his arms. The relief was almost agonising as it flooded him like some forgone part of him had clicked itself back into place. He caught her chin to press kisses wherever he managed; at her hair, nose, brows, and cheeks; even that did not sate him.

"Claere."

Her name was breath on his lips, but she remained still in his arms, her gaze distant, as if her body was here and her mind elsewhere. He grasped her tighter, embracing her empty face to his neck, unable to stop the trembling in his hands. She was safe, unharmed, but it felt like a hollow victory. Something was wrong.

“Nothing,” she whispered, so faint he would've missed it. “I saw no one. There was nothing.”

Cregan pulled back, searching her face. He had expected triumph, or maybe exhaustion—but not this. Her words hung between them, cold and hollow. Did she see something out there? Something too terrible to speak of? Or was it worse—was it the absence of anything that disturbed her?

“Nothing,” he echoed, unsure of what to say, but his voice trailed off as she finally met his gaze.

And then, softly, for the first time, between chattering lips and falling darkness, she spoke his name. Time and stars could've condensed into nothing, it could not stand to compare.

“Cregan,” she murmured, her voice fragile, her eyes unfocused. “I want to go back to Winterfell. I want to go home.”

The words struck him harder than any blade. She had never called it home before, never spoken his name with such tranquil verity. In all her shroud of menacing whispers and oddities, she was his. And now, in her own way, she was telling him that he was hers, that Winterfell was hers.

He cupped her face, his thumb brushing her cheek, overwhelmed with a fondness he had seldom regarded before.

“We’ll go home, love,” he promised, his voice hoarse.

But even as he held her, felt her warmth, a part of him sensed that whatever she had seen—or hadn’t seen—had shaken her deeply. Yet she had crossed the Wall and succeeded where her own ancestors had failed. Her name would go down in history, forever bound to the White Dread. But she seemed only depleted as if the cost of that victory mattered more than any glory could lift.

Claere leaned into him, following intuition, her face buried in his chest as if seeking solace from the emptiness she had found. The mysteries beyond the Wall had not revealed themselves to her, and now, all that was left was to return to the warmth of home. The closest to that was her husband.

He laid a kiss over her braids, holding her close, and whispering, "Let's go home."

X

omg i figured out taglists:

@pearldaisy , @thatkindofgurl , @theadharablack , @cherryheairt , @piper570

thank you for your sweet comments! there's more to come <3

[whatswrongwithblue]

Artowrk by inuhalfdemon

Series Masterlist

Summary:

He took her face between his clawed hands and kissed her, hard and quick.

“So now that I have you back,” as he spoke, his voice crackled and lowered several octaves, and the room darkened as he allowed his power to slip out just enough to make reality around them go fuzzy. “I’m not letting you go.”

In the 1950's, Alastor met the woman he would eventually marry but unfortunately his Radio Demon persona went for her soul rather than her hand. He has to learn what it means to love, and cherish, without possessing and he does. Their relationship is beautiful, strong, unbreakable . . . but he carries a dark secret through their marriage for decades until eventually he has to face the consequences of that secret and leave her, without warning, for seven years. He returns, finding her at the Hazbin Hotel, and has to convince her to forgive him, while being literally bound to secrecy, unable to tell her any of things he now is desperate to explain to her.

(This is a duel timeline fic, timestamps will be a the top of every chapter.)

TW: canon typical violence, language, character behavior. recreational drug use. body image issues. references to self harm. OC has ptsd from sexual trauma and spousal abuse - not from Alastor! cannibalism. gun violence. slow burn. alastor is an ass and alastor is also soft. the smut will eventually include: p&v, fingering, oral - both receiving. biting, scratching, blood play. occasional shadow tentacle and sex toy usage. Anal play. Nun Alastor makes an appearance later on. Breeding kinks - both Alastor and OC deal with breeding cycles. Touch adverse Alastor. Ace-spectrum Alastor.

Also available on AO3 .

Chapter 1 - The Pilot: Alastor returns to Hell. Basically the events of the Pilot, but rewritten with Mina present.

Part 1

Chapter 2 - Reflections. The short story of Mina's life and death.

Chapter 3 - Overture. Events of Episode 1 as well as what happened during the Extermination the day before.

Part 2

Chapter 4 - Terminally Dispelled. Mina arrives in Hell.

Chapter 5 - Radio Killed the Video Star. Events of Episode 2. Alastor is a simping show-off but still not good at processing emotions.

Part 3

Chapter 6 - Little Sunshine. - Mina's POV from the end of last chapter.

Chapter 7 - Ashes in My Wake. - Alastor handle's being smitten really, really badly.

Chapter 8 - Scrambled Eggs. - Alastor finds out someone has hurt his wife.

Part 4

Chapter 9 - Wretched and Joyful. - "First time" smut

Chapter 10 - Masquerade. - Events of Episode 4. Angst ahead!

Chapter 11 - Stitches. - Angst & post-fight make-up smut

Part 5

Chapter 12 - Drunk on Life. - extra fluff & smut

Chapter 13 - Dad Beat Dad. - Events of Episode 5 w/ smut.

Part 6 - Alastor in rut smut but also lots of dark themes. Please mind the tags of these chapters.

Chapter 14 - Welcome to Heaven.

Chapter 15 - Tainted.

Chapter 16 - Possessed.

Chapter 17 - The Prophetess vs. The Nun.

Chapter 18 - Welcome (Back) to Heaven.

Part 7

Chapter 19 - A Fate that Befell Him. - proposal & wedding day

Chapter 20 - The Silence in Between. - honeymoon smut

Chapter 21 - Hello Abaddon. - recruitment for the hotel battle

Chapter 22 - House on Fire - smut rather than dealing with feelings.

Everything below is finished, only unpublished because I need to proof read!

Part 8

Chapter 23 - Don't Take That Sinner From Me. - the day alastor left

Chapter 24 - Just Pretend. - have some more angst. as a treat.

Chapter 25 - A Place to Put Your Pain. - surprise! more smut

Chapter 26 - The Show Must Go On. - the battle

Bonus Chapters

Chapter 1 - The Library - bonus smut

Chapter 2 - Poppin' Molly - Alastor on drugs, enough said

[gay-dorito-dust]

Heyy hope you’re doing well!

Can I request a fem reader with Bi-Han and Kuai Liang? Reader is a highkey mischievous little shit and her favorite pastime is annoying the hell outta Bi-Han (Kuai Liang probably has to stop his brother from crucifying her lol)

Thanks!

Ngl this is extremely rubbish as idk where else to go with this in all honesty. 🦦

Regardless of how you had inserted yourself into the lives of brothers, Bi-Han and Kuai Liang, but one thing was definitive; you enjoyed being the thorn in Bi-Han’s side. From the deep furrow in his brow, the appearance of frown lines and the look of pure annoyance within his dark eyes that were usually in a perpetual state of fatigue in due to his duties of being Grandmaster, those were the highlight of your day. What wasn’t a highlight however was the aftermath where Bi-Han would chase after you throughout the Lin Kuei with an ice dagger.

Much like he was doing right now;

‘Y/n! When I find you, I swear I’ll make an example out of you for disrespecting the Grandmaster!’ Bi-Han shouted, running towards Kuai Liang, ice dagger in hand. ‘What have they done now brother?’ Kuai Liang asked even though he didn’t need to, his eyes drift to the top of his brothers’ head, where sat two pigtails tied with what looked like vibrant pink hello kitty hair ties. Kuai Liang had to try and stop himself from bursting out laughing at the ridiculous sight.

Bi-Han looked at his brother, unamused and annoyed that his hunt was interrupted. You couldn’t have gone far, that he knew for certain, but if there was one thing that Bi-Han has come to know about you was the fact that after pulling your pranks, you’d often seek out his brother for protection against his wrath. It had been your primary escape route in the past, so it made general sense to Bi-Han that you would try and utilise your only way to evade facing the consequences of your actions. ‘From your poor attempt of hiding your snickers, brother. I’m going to assume that you got a right good look what they did to me.’ Bi-Han grunted. ‘Now, where are they?’

Kuai Liang shrugged. ‘Haven’t seen them.’

‘Nows not the time for lies, Kuai Liang.’ Bi-Han warned.

‘I’m being serious Bi-Han, I haven’t seen them. But I’ve heard from some others that they’re with Tomas at the training grounds.’ Kuai Liang said and a brief moment of silence befell the brothers as they stared the other down. ‘You better hope that they’re with Tomas.’ Was all Bi-Han said before he ventured down the hallway, leaving Kuai Liang alone…or not because a voice from behind the younger brother spoke.

‘Is he gone?’

Kuai Liang sighed as he peered over his shoulder to look at you. ‘Yes he’s gone but reallly? Putting his hair into pigtails and hello kitty hair ties?’

‘Not my best work, I know, but I was bored and was running out of ideas and so I thought that the hair ties would be a nice touch.’ You shrugged as you stepped out from behind him, and breathing out a sigh of relief when you couldn’t see the cryomancer anywhere. ‘You can’t always keep doing this, I won’t always be here to shield you and if you’re not carful one day he’ll catch you in the act.’ Kuai Liang warned you, crossing his arms over his chest. He felt as though he’s had this conversation with you multiple times but it doesn’t seems as though his words have stuck with you; for it seemed that recently you were pranking Bi-Han just to tempt fate.

So needless to say that Kuai Liang couldn’t wait for the day where he’d get to say I told you so, would be a severe understatement. For as much as he loved you, it was only a matter of time before Bi-Han inevitably started taking methods in catching you faster.

‘Do you take me for a fool, Kuai Liang? There’s no way that Bi-Han could ever catch me in the act.’ You boasted with a smirk, having grown confident that whilst Bi-Han knew it was you, he had yet to actually catch you. ‘I’m far too slippery for him to catch! I’m gone before he even knows what hit him, and I mean that in both the literal and figurative sense.’

Kuai Liang raised his brows. ‘Oh really?’

‘Really.’ You stated confidently, your smile practically beaming.

‘Then who’s that behind you?’ Kuai Liang asked and immediately the air started to go cold and your smile dropped as slowly but surly you looked over your shoulder to see a murderous Bi-Han stood there, ice dagger still grasped tightly within his hand. ‘Hey Bi-Han.’ You swallowed thickly. ‘Did you do something different with your hair today? It looks nice, suits you even.’ You chuckled nervously as your hands began to sweat upon hearing Bi-Han growl out a single warning from behind his mask.

‘Run.’

‘Good idea.’ You replied swiftly before running off to find some place to hide as Bi-Han followed soon after. Kuai Liang gave it a couple of moments before then deciding to run after the pair of you to mediate the situation like he always did.

[astarionposting]

𝑽. 𝑫𝑰𝑵𝑵𝑬𝑹 & 𝑫𝑰𝑨𝑻𝑹𝑰𝑩𝑬𝑺 ⚸ Hozier

❝ The look of mischief in your eyes,

‎ㅤㅤㅤ‎Your friends are a fate that befell me,

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤhead is the talking type;

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤI'd suffer Hell if you'd tell me,

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤWhat you'd do to me tonight. ❞

𝑰 . 𝑰𝑰 . 𝑰𝑰𝑰 . 𝑰𝑽 . 𝑽 . 𝑽𝑰

I PROMISE the 6th part will not be a hozier or mitski song lol, i just like their music so much.... and the music video for this song is amazing when ur high ... but mitski and hozier are just always otherworldly when ur blasted out ur mind tbh