#born of fire and fury
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Born of Fire and Fury - a WIP snippet
This is a draft from my WIP that I couldn’t get out of my head all night and I had to write it down and put it somewhere.
“It’s cold.” Raena brought her arms around her own frame, tiny sparks of flames spitting forth from her fingertips to warm her pale skin. A quiet chuckle made her look up with a frown. “What?”
“Nothing,” Fenrir shook his head, a sly smile playing on his lips. “Just – a princess of fire and fury – cold. It’s amusing.”
“Perhaps I am cold because I stand in the presence of a prince of ice and stone.” Raena countered, smugness stretching lazily over her lips.
“In that case, perhaps I should go?” a tease. “I could not risk our future queen’s health.”
“Don’t you dare.” Raena shot a hand out, gripping the crushed velvet of Fenrir’s tunic to keep in place, despite him making no movements to move away from her. “Do not move even a single inch.”
Her fist softened, hand running up the material of the dark tunic to find the skin at the precipice of the tunic’s collar. Goosebumps formed under her fingertips. She brought him closer, close enough to feel the warmth of her skin.
“I have been thinking of you...” Fenrir admitted. “Truth be told, I’ve been able to think of little else.”
“And might you share these thoughts with me?” her lovely face was closer now, inching ever forward towards his. “It seems only right, since I am the subject of your thoughts.”
“Princess…”
Her hand crept higher, nails skirting the short hairs at the back of his neck. His flesh prickled in the wake of her fingertips. A sharp intake breath at the feel of her nails delicately scratching the sensitive skin behind his ear.
“Command me to go,” his voice was wretched, a forced croak from an impossibly dry throat. “Command it, and I shall obey.”
“And if I commanded you to stay?” her brow arched – a challenge. He had grown familiar with the particular fire in her eyes when they played their little game. But this time, he was sure to lose. “If I commanded you to get on your knees before me?”
Her fingers tangled in his hair and gripped tight, holding him hostage in her grip. He released a shaky breath. He could break free, if he truly wished to. But they both knew he had no desire to do so. He was at her mercy, her beck and call, as he had always been. Since the day they first met he was hers – he had belonged to her since the first moment.
“Princess –”
“Raena.” She interrupted. “You know my name – use it. Say my name Fenrir.”
“Raena…” he breathed the word like a prayer, his breath a mist in the cold air. When had they gotten so close? Had her lips always been a whisper away from his? A single movement would connect them, just one tilt of his chin and her lips would be on his. “We cannot.”
Her bright eyes darkened.
“You are promised to my brother.”
The fist in his hair tightened, causing momentary pain, before it slipped away entirely. She turned her body away from him, leaving him cold in her absence. She scowled over the battlements, hands curling over the chipped stone.
“I am promised to myself. I am no man’s belonging. Not yours, and certainly not his.”
“You are betrothed to my brother. And a Stormborne always puts duty before self. Isn’t that what you’re always telling me?”
She fixed him in her piercing gaze, the storm swirling in the depths of her iris dark and furious.
“I am sick of duty.” She spat. “I am sick of having my decisions made for me. I am tired of my life being lived for me. All my life I have put my duty before me – everything I have ever done has been for my duty! My duty to my house, my duty to my kingdom, my people, my father. What about my duty to myself? What about me? When do I get to make one decision for my wishes, for my desires?!”
She ripped the golden amulet from her neck, staring down at the embellished dragon glinting in the moonlight.
“Am I not allowed to be selfish for once in my life?!”
She hurled the amulet over the battlements, and they watched it fall into the inky blackness below. A distant splash as it landed in the river.
Fenrir gazed at her hands – gripping so tight her knuckles were a brilliant white, her nails digging into the ancient stone so hard blood was beginning to drop from her nailbeds, staining the stone. Droplets of water splashed onto her skin, and it was then that Fenrir realized they were tears.
His eyes found her face, twisted in despair, and his heart clenched painfully. He had never once seen Raena cry.
He came to stand closer to her once more, enveloping her hand in his, holding her fingers gently. His proximity seemed to calm her, the princess letting out a breath and relaxing her grip against the stone.
“I am, and will always be, yours.” He spoke. “In both body and spirit. That will never change, no matter the future before us.”
“It is not enough.” Her voice seemed too quiet now, deafening in its frailness.
“No.” he agreed heavily. “It won’t be. I can only be your knight – but he will be your king.”
“I do not want a king!” Raena ripped her hand out from under his, and suddenly both her hands were on his face, her brilliant eyes shining with tears and leaving him transfixed. “I want my prince…”
She brushed aside his hair, tucking the long strands behind his ears and keeping her hands firm. He could not move if he wanted to. A few stray tears spilled from her eyes, and Fenrir automatically reached up to brush them away.
“Please do not cry, my heart.” He lamented. “My love, don’t cry.”
It seemed his words broke the dam, and then she was in his arms, sobbing heartfelt tears into his chest. Wordlessly, he held her. Secure in his arms, she wept. She wept for all the years she had been denied this, for every curse brought forth against her name, for every present and future she was forced to live that wasn’t her own. And Fenrir said nothing – there was nothing that could be said. He let her cry and scream and pound her fists against him in her righteous and desperate fury. He stroked her tangled fiery hair in a never-ending cycle, and together they rode out the storm.
“Stay by my side.” She whispered. Her voice was husky now, exhaustion settling in, but it was no less beautiful to Fenrir. “Don’t leave me. Stay with me tonight.”
He let out a long breath, tucking his head against the crown of her head. “Yes.”
“Yes?”
“I could never deny you anything.” He said honestly.
She shifted against him, raising her head to look at him. Once again, her hands found their way into his hair, her nails pressing against his scalp in a way that made him shiver.
“Truly? Not anything?” she questioned.
“Anything.”
She smiled then, a soft, secretive smile. As if they were the only two souls left on earth. “And if I asked for your lips, would you give them?”
He returned her smile. “I would.”
“Kiss me then, Fenrir.”
And it was heaven on earth when their lips finally touched. All this time of waiting, of longing, of wanting, to bring them to the pinnacle of their desire, their control broken and forgotten by the wayside. Fenrir knew, that come what may, he could never regret this. He could never regret a single moment with Raena.
#wip#wip stuff#born of fire and fury#working title#still toying with the names#my work#Original Work#original characters#original fiction
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Left waiting, left wanting; why can't you see me
just imagine Sins Fate or Prayer [Banana Fish] playing & the text boxes flickering. Alma's symbolism goes so hard.
I'm on my hands & knees begging you to read the Alma Arc instead.
#dgm#d.gray-man#alma karma#eyestrain#i wanted to try smtg completely different bc its how I see Alma n I wanted to interpret that thru other uh. effects I guess!#n share some of the songs i think suit Alma's scorn n fire#this was inspired by Dress [BUCK-TICK] thats Buns introduced me to god the lyrics n visuals! watch the MV#just the anger that Alma possess is very female but like. queer gendered thirst way idk how to explain myself I hope u guys can understand#like Alma is violence born from female energy but his grace/charm is masculine. does that make any sense at all.......#anger takes many forms right but that brand of anger in the manga is distinctly feminine. 'Hell Hath no fury like a woman scorned'#Mitski & Atushi get it. they understand me.#anyway the songs i cut from vaguely in order from top down left right:#I Hate You [SZA]. Dress [BUCK-TICK]. Less Than Zero [The Weeknd].#Me & My Husband [Mitski] First Love/Late Spring[Mitski]#actually can i recommend another MV that fits what I'm talking about: No Party For Cao Dong - Wayfarer#im sorry this ended up so long I just. i like to explain my thought process since I lack comic making skills lol
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CUE SLAYER'S "BORN OF FIRE" FOR THIS PIECE -- FIRE DEMON RISING.
PIC INFO: Spotlight on Titanus Rodan bursting through his pyrostasis within the volcano El Nido del Demonio (translation: "The Demon's Nest") on Isla de Mara in Mexico. Artwork by Drew Edward Johnson & Allen Passalaqua (colorist), c. 2021.
Resolution at 999x1599 -- 💢🔥🌋🔥💥
Source: https://hero.fandom.com/wiki/Rodan_(MonsterVerse).
#Titanus Rodan#Fire Rodan#MonsterVerse#The One Born of Fire#El Nido del Demonio#Legendary Monsterverse#Titan of Winged Fury#Rodan The One Born of Fire#Rodan#Kaiju#Daikaiju#Rodan King of the Skies#Monster Art#Illustration#King of the Skies#Born of Fire#Rodan the Fire Demon#The Fire Demon#Legendary#The Devil's Nest#Fire Demon
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A Northern Lannister.
Cregan Stark x Lannister!wife!reader
Summary: the reader proves she’s worthy of being the Lady of Winterfell.
Warnings: blood, death, fighting, cursing, yelling
Masterlist
…………………………………..
They hate her.
She's sure of it.
They all hate her.
A Lannister lion in a den of Stark wolves.
Cregan was wonderful, and he made no actions that would lead her to believe he thought her less than for not being a northerner.
But the whispers were still there.
Their mother's last contribution to the earth, Y/n was born the much younger third sibling to the twins, Tyland and Jason. The two treasured her. Due to their significant age difference, she was much more like a daughter than a dear sister. So when she was to marry, they knew the beauty had potential.
And with the war looming over their heads, she was sent to Cregan in an attempt to gain the North's favor.
The greens failed in their attempt at gaining Cregan's favor, however, the girl had not.
He quite liked her.
She had a fire to her that he knew would cause trouble.
And he also liked trouble.
What a deadly combination.
…
"I assure you, I am no delicate rose, Lord Mormont," she said through gritted teeth.
He chuckled in amusement, "You're a mere woman. We will not have you discussing battle plans."
"Mere woman?" She scoffed. "I am your Lady of Winterfell. I am married to the Warden of the North- the man you raise your banners for!"
He shrugged, "My loyalty is to him, not a Lannister wench."
Her eyes burned with fury. "Watch your tongue, Mormont-"
"-Or what?" He taunted. "You'll have your Lord Husband take it? He wouldn't."
Her fists clenched so hard she swore her nails cut into her palm.
She couldn't cause trouble. She couldn't cause trouble.
She huffed and turned around, walking away from the man, ignoring his taunting words as she did so.
…
Cregan stepped up to his war table and looked around at the men, "Where is my wife?"
They all looked around and at each other, lost at what he meant.
His brows furrowed, "Where is my wife?" He tried again. When no answer came, he snapped at a servant, "Where did she go?"
The servant bit her lip, "I last saw her storming from the castle, my lord."
"What?"
…
Hours passed, and Cregan became more and more worried, but he couldn't walk away from his war table until the meeting was finished.
Luckily, she returned.
Mid-meeting, she threw the doors open, making all in the room jump from the sound.
She stood in the doorframe, covered in blood with a look of rage in her eyes. A bag in hand.
They all stood at the sight of the lady, utterly shocked.
Cregan's eyes widened and he immediately rounded the table to get to her, "My love? Wha-"
She threw the bag down and moved to Lord Mormont. "You."
Mormont frowned, "My lady?"
She gripped his cloak with one hand and swung at hard as she could with the other, breaking his nose.
All around the table gasped, completely shocked by the woman's actions as Mormont fell against the table, holding his nose when blood gushed from it.
Her rage was all but tamed, "CALL ME A WENCH AGAIN! I FUCKING DARE YOU!"
Cregan raced forward, pulling his wife back by the waist when she began to wind up for another punch.
She grunted and fought against him, "DO IT! FUCKING DO IT!"
Cregan held one arm around her waist, the other gently around her neck to push her head back against his chest and he whispered to her, "Stop this."
But she was far from done, "I'M A FUCKING STARK! A WOLF! MORE WOLF THAN YOU!"
Cregan tried again, "C'mon."
She looked around, noting the wide eyes, "YOU CAN BE NEXT IF YOU WANT!"
Mormont stood up now, the bottom half of his face completely red, "Control your lady wife, Stark!"
Cregan's brows furrowed, "Pardon me?" His voice lowered, "Did you call my wife a wench, Mormont?"
Y/n finally quieted herself, her chest heaving but her eyes glaring.
Cregan finally looked at her and really took in the blood, "Where did all this blood come from?"
She looked over to the cloth bag she left on the floor.
Lord Bolton crossed the room, picking up the bag and grimacing when he saw what laid inside. "My lord?"
Stark's eyes moved between his wife and the man. "What is it?"
"Two heads, my lord."
All eyes moved to her frame slowly, continually being shocked by the woman.
"Love? What happened out there?"
She pulled herself away from him and reached up, trying to wipe the blood from her face but smearing it instead. "Green spies."
He frowned, "How did you know?"
"Tried to take me back."
Silence fell over the group and Mormont decided to break it, "Perhaps they should have."
Instant rage fell over Cregan's face and he rushed forward, throwing a punch at the man, connecting with his jaw. "YOU BASTARD!"
Bolton stepped forward, "My lord. Please."
Cregan held the bloody Mormont up by his cloak, his jaw clenched as he growled the words out, "To the wall."
Mormont frowned, "w…what?"
"To. The. FUCKING WALL!" And he threw him to the ground.
Cregan then turned to the rest of his war council with equal anger, "Anyone else wish to spew insults in my face?"
When no one answered, he turned to his wife, whose anger had disappeared and surprise had replaced it at his actions. "Are you alright?"
She nodded, "Yes, Cregan."
He grunted and moved back to his place at the table. "Go wash yourself and return. You're needed here."
She nodded, leaving the room quickly.
"Someone get this Mormont scum out of here!"
…
The entire North heard of the Lannister girl's actions, and it was quickly forgotten that she was of Lannister blood entirely.
She was a Northerner.
There was no doubt about that anymore.
………………………………
Cregan Stark taglist: @misswynters, @cosmosnkaz, @sithapprentice, @kaniromi, @lovemesomevesey, @its-jackie-bb, @callsignwidow, @8812-342, @nyxbranwenn, @thorins-queen-of-erebor
#fanfiction#game of thrones x reader#game of thrones x y/n#game of thrones fanfiction#game of thrones imagine#house of the dragon fanfiction#house of the dragon#cregan stark x reader#cregan stark x you#cregan stark#cregan stark x female reader#cregan stark x y/n#cregan stark fanfic#cregan x reader#cregan stark imagine#cregan fanfiction
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"Tethered By Silence"
Pro Hero Katsuki x reader
Synopsis: he may not say it even when you're awake .. but his actions speak for him
Genre/warnings: fluff, soft katsuki, possessive attitude, constant physical touch, domestic moments, love without words, katsuki being gentle, overprotective on katsukis part, no warnings tho ...we die smothered in love
Note: more scenes of this man showing you how much he truly cares ...
w.c: 2.1K
Katsuki was not a man of many words. He had never been one to express his feelings eloquently, least of all when it came to you. For all his sharp edges and blazing fury, he was curiously quiet in the matters of the heart, as if his emotions were too large to be corralled by simple language. He wasn’t born with the gift of easy charm, and certainly not the grace to wrap affection in neat, verbal packages. He had always found his power in action, in the physicality of things—the blast of his quirk, the crackle of his fists, the way the world responded to his presence.
And so, it was with you.
It wasn’t that he didn’t feel love for you; in fact, the reality was quite the opposite. If anything, his love for you was too much—so overwhelming that he feared it might escape him in ways he couldn’t control, reduce him to something soft and breakable. Love, for Katsuki, was an act of survival, a fire that burned deep in his chest, wild and untamed, and you were the tinder. Every time he caught sight of you, every time your laughter cut through the air, light and free, or you absentmindedly twirled his fingers between your own, the fire roared louder, knocking the breath out of him.
But saying the words “I love you”—that simple, declarative statement?—seemed beyond him, like it might lessen the weight of it, reduce the magnitude of what it meant to him. He knew you wanted to hear it, could see it sometimes in the soft expectancy of your gaze, but Katsuki wasn’t the kind of man who could take the vastness of what he felt and stuff it into three small words.
So, he showed you.
Actions, he believed, were better than words anyway.
Like, It was something almost ...poetic ...about the way he moved around you, like the world demanded he orbit you constantly, pulled in by an invisible force too strong to resist. He wasn’t one to articulate such thoughts—his mind too pragmatic to linger on romantic notions—but the way he sought your touch told the story his lips never could. When you walked side by side, his arm always found its place around your shoulders, anchoring you to him, a silent promise of protection and possession. When you sat down together, it was the same—his hand finding yours, fingers curling over yours as though if he let go, you’d slip away from him.
He would never let that happen.
Mornings were when you caught him at his most vulnerable, when the light was soft and gold, casting a halo around your resting form. In those quiet, private moments, he allowed himself to admire you. His breath would hitch in his throat as he ran his fingers gently over your cheek, brushing stray strands of hair from your face so he could continue to watch you sleep in peace. It was then that the words bubbled up unbidden in his chest, words he dared not speak aloud but couldn’t stop from whispering when he thought you were deep in slumber.
"You’re so damn beautiful," he’d murmur under his breath, his thumb gently caressing your skin, his eyes tracing the delicate curve of your jawline. "I love you."
You stirred sometimes, your lips curling in a sleepy smile as though his voice reached some part of you even in sleep. But when you awoke, if you dared ask him about it, his response was always the same—sharp denial, the faintest pink dusting his cheeks as he scowled.
"Wha- ..what are you on about?; I didn’t say shit?, don’t make things up..."
But the way his hand lingered on your cheek after pulling back, the tenderness in his gaze—those were the moments that told you the truth he couldn’t bring himself to say.
Katsuki’s need to take care of you extended to everything, even the mundane. Every evening, when you offered to help cook dinner, his response was always the same—a scoff and a gruff order for you to “sit your ass down.” You’d try to insist, say that you could at least chop some vegetables or stir a pot, but he wouldn’t have it. He didn’t need help, not when it came to you. What he wouldn’t say—what he’d never say—was that he wanted to cook for you. That he found a strange sense of peace in it, in knowing that he was the one providing for you, making sure you were cared for. It was his way of showing love.
Of course, his words were always wrapped in attitude.
"Just sit there and shut up, I’ve got this,”
he’d grumble, his back to you as he moved around the kitchen with practiced ease. But you’d catch the soft look in his eyes when he thought you weren’t watching, the small smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth as he plated your favorite dish.
Late at night, when he returned home from hero work, exhausted and sore, he never had the heart to wake you. As much as he craved your attention, he wouldn’t disturb your peaceful rest. Instead, he’d slip into bed quietly, careful not to jostle the mattress too much as he settled beside you. But once he was there, he couldn’t help himself. His arms would wrap around your sleeping body, pulling you close, your warmth immediately soothing the tension from his muscles. He’d bury his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, your scent grounding him in a way nothing else could. In those moments, he didn’t need words. Holding you close, feeling the steady rise and fall of your breathing, was all he needed to remind himself why he fought so hard every day.
The first time he brought you to meet his parents, you were nervous. Katsuki had a... "somewhat".. complicated but loving relationship with his parents, and you weren’t sure how they’d react to you.
But Mitsuki was sharp, and observant, so much so that the moment her son introduced you, she noticed immediately how his rough edges softened around you. At the dinner table, she watched as he reached under the table to lace his fingers with yours, his thumb brushing the back of your hand absentmindedly as he ate. It was such a small trivial thing, but it spoke volumes.
Katsuki Bakugou, the explosive, untouchable hero, was calm and collected with you. He was happy, content and overall comfortable. And though Mitsuki would never admit it to his face, she was grateful that he had found someone who could anchor him, someone who made him feel at ease in a way no one else could.
Especially in those rare, quiet moments, when the world slowed down and it was just the two of you, Katsuki became someone else—someone softer, more vulnerable, someone who allowed himself to feel without the need to control or suppress it. He would hold you like you were the most precious thing in his universe, and in those times, you knew that you were.
His arms wrapped around you, his face buried into the crook of your neck, breathing in the scent of you like it was the only thing keeping him tethered. He would stay there for what felt like hours, possibly centuries, just feeling the steady warmth of your body against his as the only reassurance he needed after long days of hero work.
The outside world would fade away, replaced by the quiet rhythm of your breathing, the softness of your skin, the way your hand would find his and squeeze gently as if to say:
I’m here.
It was these moments that Katsuki treasured most, even if he didn’t have the words to express it.
His mind, usually sharp and restless, was quiet now, but beneath that calm exterior, the words he couldn’t say out loud raced through his thoughts like an endless loop.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
It was always there, like a mantra, a constant hum in the background of every interaction with you. It consumed him, the weight of it so overwhelming that sometimes he thought he might lose himself in it. But rather than pull away, he held you tighter, pressed his lips to your neck in featherlight kisses that spoke volumes.
And in those moments of silence, when his mind screamed what his mouth refused to say, he’d finally gather the courage to lean in and kiss you. Not a quick peck or a rushed kiss filled with urgency, but something deeper. His lips moved slowly, gently, as if trying to pour every unsaid word, every hidden feeling, into that one act. His kisses were full of meaning, each one more tender than the last. He kissed you like he was trying to say everything he felt but couldn’t find the words for—how much he adored you, how much he needed you, how you had become the single most important thing in his life. The kisses grew longer, more fervent, and by the time he finally pulled away, breathless and slightly flushed, his heart was racing in his chest.
Katsuki didn’t need to say the words. He didn’t need to tell you how much you meant to him because you already knew. You could feel it in the way he kissed you, the way his hands lingered on your skin, the way he looked at you like you were the center of his world. But even so, there were moments—fleeting and fragile—where his heart threatened to burst with everything he felt for you. Moments where he looked into your eyes and almost said it.
Almost let the words slip past his lips.
But instead, he would settle for pressing his forehead against yours, his breath shaky as he whispered something that came close enough to the truth.
“You’re mine.” His voice was low, rough from sleep and something else, something more vulnerable that he would never let anyone else see. “No one else’s. Just mine.”
There was always an intensity to the way Katsuki touched you. The way he held your hand, the way his fingers traced your skin absentmindedly when you sat together, the way he pressed his body against yours like he couldn’t get close enough—it all spoke of a love that was consuming, all-encompassing, a fire that burned so brightly in his chest that he was terrified of it sometimes. He needed you in a way that was almost primal, a need that went beyond affection and straight into the very core of who he was. You had become his anchor, the one constant in his life of chaos and battle, the only person who could make him feel both calm and alive at the same time.
He wasn’t used to this feeling—this deep, unshakeable need to be close to someone, to rely on them, to love them without fear. But with you, it was different. You grounded him. You made him feel human in a way that nothing else could. And so, he held you close, his arms wrapped tightly around you, his lips brushing against your temple in a silent promise. He might not be able to say the words, but he could show you. And every touch, every kiss, every moment spent wrapped up in each other was proof of how deeply he cared for you.
And when he finally pulled back, his eyes would linger on yours, his expression softer than usual, his rough exterior melting away just for you. He would smirk slightly, trying to regain some of his usual bravado, but the warmth in his gaze betrayed him. “Don’t get used to this,” he’d mutter, though you both knew that wasn’t true.
Because no matter how much Katsuki Bakugou pretended to be tough and unyielding, when it came to you, he was anything but. He would always hold you close, always protect you, always make sure you knew how much you meant to him—even if he couldn’t say the words. And maybe, someday, he would. Maybe one day, he’d be able to tell you outright, with no hesitation, that he loved you. That he adored you. That you were his everything. But for now, his actions would speak louder than any words ever could.
For now, it was enough. Enough that he kissed you like he was afraid of losing you, enough that he held you like you were the most precious thing in his life. Enough that, every night, he’d come home from hero work, slide into bed beside you, and wrap his arms around you as if you were the only thing that mattered in the world.
And as long as he held you close, as long as he kissed you with that same unspoken intensity, you knew. You knew that Katsuki Bakugou loved you in a way that was fierce and all-consuming, in a way that words could never fully capture.
And that was more than enough.
Note P2: My forever HC is that Katsuki would be this type of lover and will always be this type of lover ..🍒
#suiwrites🍒#katsuki bakugou#bnha#my hero academia#katsuki x reader#mha fluff#bnha fluff#my hero acedamia#mha x reader#bakugou x reader#bnha x reader#bakugo x reader#bnha bakugo x reader#bakugo katsuki x reader#bnha x fem!reader#mha x you#katsuki bakugo x reader#bnha bakugo katsuki#mha bakugou#bakugou katsuki#bnha bakugou#bakugou x you#bakugou x y/n#bnha x you#bnha x y/n#mha x y/n#katsuki x you#katsuki x y/n#katsuki bakugou x reader#katsuki bakugou fluff
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The Dragon and The Wolf
- Summary: Rhaenyra sends her daughter instead of her son to fly North. You.
- Paring: velayrion!reader/Cregan Stark
- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is second born child of Rhaenyra, has silver hair and violet eyes and is a dragonrider. For more of my works visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.
- Rating: Mature 16+ (expect for rating to go higher in the next chapter)
- Word count: 3 681
- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @21-princess
- A/N: I had this one stored away, but I've decided to post it on a request. Harwin Strong one is not yet finished, but will be posted in coming days. I'll see how both of these are received before posting more.
The wind whips across the snow-dusted fields, biting and cold, as you soar above on your dragon, Thraxata. The North stretches below like a vast, white ocean, with Winterfell looming ahead in the distance, its grey walls rising like ancient guardians against the winter sky. The sun hangs low on the horizon, casting a pale light that glimmers off the frost-coated land.
Thraxata’s dark scales gleam like polished obsidian, a stark contrast to the endless white beneath. Her massive wings carve through the air with graceful power, the membrane tinted in deep shades of violet and blue, like the twilight sky before night fully descends. She is known as the Midnight Fury in whispers—born of shadow and flame, a terror in the night skies. Her roar splits the silence, echoing across the fields, a sound both commanding and otherworldly.
From your perch on her back, you spot the waiting banners below: the direwolf of Stark, surrounded by lesser sigils of Northern houses. Lord Cregan Stark stands at their forefront, a tall figure clad in thick furs and armor, as still and stern as the land he rules. He expects a prince, no doubt, a son of Rhaenyra, a warrior with fire in his veins. But you are no prince.
You are Y/N Velaryon, the only daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen. Silver-haired like your mother, with eyes the color of amethyst flames, you are the embodiment of old Valyria—a sight that would capture any man’s breath, even in the frozen heart of the North. Unlike your brothers, there is no questioning the blood that runs in your veins. You carry both the fire of your ancestors and the steel of the sea, a daughter of dragon and salt.
Thraxata descends with a mighty sweep of her wings, stirring a storm of snow and ice as her talons dig into the frozen ground. Her head swivels as she growls low, a deep rumble that vibrates through your body, her violet eyes fixed on the assembled Northerners. You dismount with practiced grace, the long cloak of thick fur billowing behind you as your boots crunch into the snow.
The men whisper, their breath misting in the cold air, eyes wide with awe and trepidation. No prince, but something more—something wilder, something that belongs in tales and legends.
Cregan Stark steps forward, his eyes fixed on you. They are grey like the winter itself, hard and sharp, yet there is a glint of something else—curiosity, perhaps, or a flicker of admiration beneath the layers of duty. He dips his head in a respectful nod, though his eyes never leave yours.
"Princess," he greets you, his voice deep and resonant, like a wolf's growl beneath the snow. "Winterfell welcomes you. I had expected a prince, but the Queen has sent a dragon nonetheless."
Your lips curve into a small smile, cold as the winter air. "My brothers may be princes, but it is I who bears the fire and ice that binds our realms, Lord Stark. I trust you will remember the oaths sworn to my mother, and the duty you hold to the true Queen."
His eyes narrow slightly, though there is no hostility, merely calculation. "The North remembers its oaths, Princess. But oaths are easily sworn and easily forgotten when the fires of war draw near. I would hear your words and judge for myself where our loyalties lie."
Thraxata’s tail lashes behind you, sending a spray of snow into the air. You can sense her restlessness, her desire to protect you, to assert her dominance in this land where dragons are more myth than reality. But you place a gloved hand on her scaled flank, a silent command, and she stills, though her eyes remain fixed on Cregan.
"You speak with wisdom, my lord," you reply, your voice firm but laced with the authority of the blood you carry. "But the North has never bent to whispers or empty promises. My mother’s cause is just, her claim undeniable. The realm needs strength, and you know as well as I that only fire can bring the long night to its knees."
There’s a flicker of something—approval, perhaps—in Cregan’s gaze. He steps closer, his boots crunching in the snow, until you are but a breath away. The North has always been a place where respect is earned through strength and resolve, not titles or finery. In that moment, you realize that your mother’s choice was not a mistake; you were sent because here, in this land of cold and iron, you are seen not as a delicate princess, but as something fiercer.
"Then perhaps the Queen chose wisely in sending you," he murmurs, his voice low, for your ears alone. "The North respects strength, and it seems that is something you possess in abundance, Y/N Velaryon."
There is a tension between you, a silent acknowledgment of the game you both play. He is the Wolf of Winterfell, and you are the Dragon sent to bind him to your mother’s cause. But there is something else too—a flicker of intrigue, of something more personal beneath the formalities.
“I shall make my case before the gathered lords,” you say, breaking the charged silence. “And I trust that Winterfell will extend the hospitality due to a dragon and her rider.”
He gives a slight incline of his head, a gesture of respect between equals. “Winterfell is yours, Princess. And I look forward to seeing just how fierce the fire of a dragon truly burns.”
With that, he steps back, signaling to his men. The banners dip in a formal show of respect as you walk forward, the Northern lords parting to make way for you. Thraxata stays behind, watchful, a dark shadow against the snow.
As you enter the gates of Winterfell, you can feel the eyes of Cregan Stark on your back, heavy with unspoken questions, and perhaps—just perhaps—the first stirrings of something that could grow amidst the frost and flame.
The warmth of Winterfell’s great hall is a great contrast to the biting cold outside. The stone walls are thick and ancient, adorned with tapestries depicting wolves in the hunt and battles long past. A roaring fire burns in the hearth, casting flickering shadows that dance across the rough-hewn beams above. The scent of woodsmoke and roasted meat fills the air, mingling with the faint tang of iron and earth, as though even the stone itself remembers the blood spilled within these walls.
You stride forward with measured grace, your fur-lined cloak trailing behind you. Eyes turn your way as you pass, curious glances that are quickly averted once they meet your violet gaze. The courtiers and bannermen of Winterfell are not accustomed to your kind—a dragonrider with Valyrian blood, a figure more suited to the tales of Old Nan than to the cold North. They murmur among themselves, voices hushed but thick with speculation, wondering if you are as fierce as the stories of your mother suggest.
Lord Cregan walks beside you, his stride steady and sure, the embodiment of Northern strength and resolve. He leads you to the head of the hall, where a carved wooden chair sits, draped in furs—a seat of honor, meant for you. As you take your place, his voice rings out, commanding the attention of everyone present.
"The Princess Y/N Velaryon graces us with her presence. Her arrival is most fortunate, for it seems the North’s business does not wait. House Glover has brought a criminal before us—a man accused of grave crimes—and they demand justice. Perhaps," he says, his grey eyes locking onto yours, "it would be fitting for a dragon to pass judgment."
There’s no mistaking the challenge in his words. This is a test, one meant to gauge your strength, your understanding of Northern customs, and how you wield your authority. He watches you closely, waiting for your reaction, as do the assembled lords. You know this moment is pivotal; how you handle this situation will determine whether they see you as just another southern princess, or as something more—someone who can command both fire and frost.
You meet his gaze evenly, a faint smile playing on your lips. "It would be an honor to dispense justice in the North, Lord Stark. Show me this criminal and let us see what manner of man he is."
Cregan gives a slight nod, and with a gesture, the doors at the end of the hall creak open. The sound echoes through the chamber as two men of House Glover drag a prisoner forward, shoving him to his knees before you. He’s a ragged, weathered man with wild eyes and a face marked by scars. His clothes are filthy and torn, his hands bound with rough cord. There’s a stink about him—of sweat, fear, and desperation.
One of the Glovers steps forward, bowing briefly before addressing you and Cregan. "This man, Wyl Gray, is accused of murdering his kin and stealing from their holdings. He fled north to escape our justice, but we tracked him down and brought him here, as is our right."
The hall falls silent, all eyes on you now. The weight of their expectation is palpable. You rise slowly from your seat, descending the steps with a regal grace. Your voice is soft but carries through the room with the authority that only a dragonrider can wield.
"Wyl Gray," you say, your tone cold as the Northern winds, "you stand accused of betraying your own blood and committing theft in the lands sworn to House Glover. What have you to say in your defense?"
The man’s eyes dart around wildly, searching for some hope, some mercy, but finding none. He looks up at you, trembling slightly. "I did what I had to," he snarls, his voice hoarse. "My kin treated me worse than a dog, taking what was mine by right. I took back what they stole from me—nothing more!"
The hall murmurs in response to his words, some in anger, others in grudging acknowledgment. You can see the flickers of approval from a few of the assembled Northerners—they value strength, even when twisted by desperation. But you know better than to be swayed by the claims of a desperate man. His actions speak louder than his words.
You step closer, your gaze piercing. "You claim they took from you, yet you took their lives. Blood demands blood, Wyl Gray. In the North, justice is harsh and swift, but it is also fair. A man who cannot protect what is his without resorting to murder is a man unfit to live among honorable men."
Cregan watches you intently, his expression unreadable, but you can feel the shift in the room. The lords are weighing your words, assessing how well you understand their ways. It’s not enough to be just, you must be decisive—and you must show that you are not ruled by softness.
"You are guilty of murder and theft," you continue, your voice unwavering. "But the North does not deal in mercy for such crimes. You shall face the punishment decreed by the Old Ways. Justice shall be meted out by the one who passes the sentence."
A heavy silence falls over the hall. This is the moment—where the test truly lies. You could ask Cregan to deal with the criminal himself, and none would question it. But you understand what is truly being asked of you. The North respects those who do not flinch from difficult decisions, those who stand by their words with action.
You turn to Cregan. "Bring me the sword," you command.
There’s a ripple of surprise among the lords, but Cregan’s expression shifts, a hint of approval crossing his stern features. He gestures, and a massive sword, long and sharp, is placed into your hands. Its weight is heavy, but you hold it with ease, feeling the cold steel beneath your fingers.
You step before the kneeling man. His eyes widen in terror, realizing that you intend to carry out the sentence yourself. You look down at him, feeling no pity, only the cold resolve needed to see justice done. "In the name of House Glover, for the blood you have spilled and the dishonor you have brought upon yourself, I sentence you to death. May the gods judge your soul as they see fit."
With a swift, clean stroke, you bring the sword down, severing his head from his body. The hall is silent, save for the soft thud of the head hitting the stone floor and the hiss of blood soaking into the rushes.
You let out a breath, handing the sword back to a waiting Stark guard. The lords nod with approval, respect in their eyes. This is not a land for those who shy away from harsh truths or difficult choices. You have shown them that you understand the North’s ways—and that you are as much dragon as you are queen’s daughter.
Cregan steps forward, a slight smile touching his lips. "Well done, Princess. The North remembers strength, and today, you have proven yours."
There’s a weight to his words, a subtle acknowledgment that you’ve passed his test. The respect between you has grown, forged not only by fire and ice, but by a mutual understanding of what it takes to rule.
As the hall begins to stir with renewed conversation, you feel Cregan’s eyes linger on you a moment longer than necessary, something unspoken passing between you. It’s not just respect now—there’s a flicker of something deeper, something that might grow, given time.
But for now, you’ve earned your place among the wolves. And in doing so, you’ve taken the first step toward binding the North to your mother’s cause.
A little more than two weeks have passed since your arrival at Winterfell, and in that time, you have come to understand the North in ways few from the south ever do. The cold no longer bites as fiercely, the rough customs of the Northerners have become familiar, and even the solemn howls of the wolves at night are a comfort rather than a cause for concern. You’ve spent your days among Cregan’s people, riding alongside his bannermen, sitting in council with his advisors, and breaking bread with his warriors in the hall. You’ve proven yourself capable in all the ways that matter to them—skilled with both words and steel, a dragon in human form.
The Northern lords have come to trust you, their respect won by your ability to speak plainly and match them in courage. They see in you a reflection of their own values—honor, strength, and loyalty. Even Thraxata, the Midnight Fury, has found her lair in the craggy wilderness nearby, roosting among the jagged rocks as if she, too, feels at home in this stark and wild land. The villagers whisper tales of the black dragon seen circling the mountains, her shadow long across the snow, a fearsome guardian from the days of old.
Today, you ride out with Lord Cregan and his men on a hunt. The sky is a bleak grey, thick with the promise of snow, and the air carries the scent of pine and earth. The forest is dense, the trees tall and ancient, their branches heavy with frost. It’s a test, of sorts—Cregan’s way of seeing how well you handle yourself in their world, not just as a rider of dragons, but as a hunter and a leader.
You ride astride a hardy Northern stallion, its breath steaming in the cold air, and you match the men stride for stride as they navigate the rough terrain. Cregan rides beside you, his expression more open than it had been when you first met. Over these past weeks, a bond has formed between you—one built on mutual respect and a growing sense of trust. He speaks more freely now, and there’s a warmth in his tone that was absent when you first arrived.
When the hunt begins, you do not hesitate to join the chase. The hounds bay as they track the scent of a massive stag, and you ride hard, your cloak snapping behind you in the wind. You’re no stranger to riding, and you handle your steed with ease, navigating the twisting paths and snow-laden ground. When the time comes to strike, you draw your bow with practiced precision, letting the arrow fly. It finds its mark true, and the stag falls. The men around you roar with approval, slapping their shields and calling your name in praise. They respect a woman who can hunt as well as any man, and here, they see you as one of their own—a warrior, not just a princess.
As the hunt winds down, Cregan approaches you, his face flushed from the cold and the thrill of the chase. "You’ve more than earned your place among us, Y/N," he says, his voice gruff but warm. "Few could keep pace with Northern men in their own forests, let alone best them. I see now why the Queen sent you instead of a prince. You’ve shown strength and wisdom—two things the North values above all else."
You incline your head in acknowledgment. "I’ve come to admire the North and its people. But admiration is not the same as allegiance. I must ask, Lord Stark—will you now stand by my mother and send your armies south to fight in her name?"
Cregan’s expression shifts, a shadow crossing his eyes as he considers your question. He’s silent for a long moment, his gaze turning toward the distant horizon, where the land stretches into a vast, icy wilderness. "The North is not like the South," he says finally, his tone measured. "Our duty is first and foremost to our own. With winter coming, my responsibility is to the Wall and to the people who must survive the cold months ahead. I cannot, in good conscience, march thousands of men south when their families might starve without them."
You frown slightly, frustration creeping in. "So you’ll abandon my mother’s cause? You gave your word, Lord Stark."
Cregan’s eyes meet yours, unwavering. "I do not break my word, Princess. I swore to uphold my oaths, and I will. But sending armies south would be folly with winter approaching. However," he continues, his tone softening as he watches your reaction, "there are those in the North who would fight, even in the harshest winters. The Greybeards—elders, warriors who have lived long and seen much. When winter comes, many of them leave their homes, believing it is better to pass in battle than to linger and be a burden on their kin. They are few in number, but each is worth a dozen younger men in skill and experience. I will send them to your mother, to fight in her name. They may not be an army, but they are a force to be reckoned with."
It’s a compromise, one that you didn’t expect but cannot wholly dismiss. You nod slowly, understanding the practicality behind his words. "Your support, even in this way, will strengthen our position. I thank you for honoring your oath, Lord Stark."
Cregan remains silent for a moment, his expression thoughtful. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, more personal. "There is another matter I wish to discuss—a way to bind North and South even closer. You’ve proven yourself in the eyes of my people, and I have come to value your counsel and your strength. The North needs a Warden, but it also needs stability and unity. I am in need of a wife, Y/N."
His words catch you off guard. You had expected negotiations over troops and strategies, but not this. You study him closely, searching for any hint of jest, but there is none. His gaze is steady, earnest even, and the weight of his words is not lost on you.
"A marriage alliance," you murmur, more to yourself than to him. It’s a move that makes sense, politically and strategically. Your mother’s cause would be strengthened by such a bond, and Cregan’s position would be solidified, uniting the North under his leadership. But you know it’s more than just politics—there’s something personal in his offer, a recognition of the connection that has grown between you over these weeks.
Cregan inclines his head. "A marriage would do more than just bind our houses. It would be a show of unity between North and South, and it would ensure that whatever may come in this war, our strength remains undivided. You are a woman worthy of the North, and I would be honored to stand beside you as more than just allies."
You consider his words carefully, your mind weighing the implications. There’s a certain inevitability in the offer, a recognition that your paths have been converging since the moment you arrived at Winterfell. You could refuse, insist on keeping your independence, but you know that this is more than just a marriage proposal—it’s a partnership that could shape the course of the war and the future of the realm.
Finally, you meet his gaze, your voice clear and firm. "If this is the path we choose, Lord Stark, know that I will be as fierce in our union as I am in battle. The North will have a wife who is as much dragon as she is Velaryon. But I do not take such matters lightly—if we are to do this, it must be done with respect, trust, and understanding."
Cregan’s smile is genuine, his eyes gleaming with both respect and something warmer. "I would expect nothing less, Y/N. We’ll have much to discuss in the days to come, but I believe this could be the start of something greater than either of us alone."
The weight of his words lingers between you, and as you ride back toward Winterfell together, there’s an unspoken understanding—a shared resolve. You have won the respect of the North, secured their support, and now, perhaps, you are on the verge of something more—an alliance forged not just in duty, but in fire and ice, strength and trust.
#house of the dragon#rhaenyra targeryan#cregan stark#hotd cregan#cregan x reader#cregan x you#cregan x y/n#hotd x y/n#hotd x reader#hotd#hotd x you
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The Blood is Rare
Summary: Aemond has always loathed his niece, and the feeling is very much mutual | Words: 3.3k | Warnings below the cut!
Warnings: a lot of talk of illegitimacy, hatefucking, dubcon, choking, slight knife play, biting, bitta blood, incest (character is described with strong features), p in v sex, baby trapping?
There was no plate at his spot at the table. No knife to tempt him. He would not break bread with those he could not trust.
Like an animal atop high ground, he sits rigid at the head of the table, on the outside unnervingly calm. But he watches with a keen eye the prey that sits at the other end.
She shares many features with her mother. His whore-sister. Her stubbornness, her determined gaze and the nervous twisting of the rings on each of her fingers into the bargain.
Had she not the dark brown, near-black shade of waved hair atop her head and bright, clear blue eyes of the former Commander of the City Watch, his niece and his sister would look nearly identical.
Unfortunately, they both shared his hatred for them as well.
He loathed the idea of them all. The birth of one mere brown-haired bastard was enough, and yet there were three of them, sat together in unification, as if to put up defences against the opposite side of the table, dotted with the moonlight-silver of Alicent Hightower’s children.
He smirked at the thought that she came mere hours after Jace. That she was unplanned. Unwanted. And yet here she existed, sitting with her eyes fixed on a flickering candle, trying to drown out the laughs, smiles and the oddity that was all of them all gathered together, enjoying one another’s company.
He knew as well as she did. It was the only thing they had in common. That they could see through this charade.
Aemond wondered if she had always seen it. Understood it. The strife that would happen between them. Perhaps she was a dreamer and could envisage the future before it had even happened.
She was a melancholic, hateful little thing. Born with fire and fury.
He supposed if anything, she was still the daughter of a Targaryen.
Aemond swore she was a witch of sorts. For she must have felt his gaze on her, and her clear eyes were illuminated by the dancing flame as they met him. Her expression unchanged.
His smirk grew that they felt the same about each other.
He was the cunt son of Alicent Hightower.
And she was the Strong bastard of his whore-sister.
Not breaking eye contact, she raised her chin, looking down at him over her nose, huffing as she turned away to sip from the cup on her small, delicate fingers.
Stuck up cunt.
The atmosphere shifted considerably as Viserys groaned, a frail hand raised to the injured portion of his face, to which Aemond felt a sick sense of delight. The guards swiftly carried him away by each corner of his chair.
And the gap between Rhaenyra and Alicent seemed to push each side away further. Irreparably so.
His niece did not appreciate his tribute to her and her brothers.
Throughout the evening, she had said few words apart from mumbled whispers to Daemon on her right and Luke on her left. But when Aemond stood to speak, he revelled in her undivided attention. In those angry eyes, he saw not only a loathing for him, but a loathing at the truth of what she was.
A loathing that he was right, and she knew it.
She seemed almost as disappointed as her mother when Jace struck him weakly.
And before Daemon could place himself between the warring factions of their family, he watched the Strong Princess march angrily away, her skirts in her hands, flashing a stern glare before she left.
Her eyes were all he could think about, with her face anchored in the firm grip of his fingers.
He thought she was so small and fragile, that he could just squeeze and break her little jaw, her bones clattering between his fingers like pebbles. And yet she still looked at him with such fire, that only one of Targaryen blood would be able to throw.
She looked at him like he was the most loathsome creature she had ever seen.
The passageway Aemond had her cornered into was stifling and suffocating, forcing them to breathe the same humid air in anger. He saw her face redden where he had her in his grasp, her glossy lips slightly parted to breathe.
“I will extend you the courtesy of assuming there is a very good reason why you have your hands on me like this, Uncle.”
He almost wants to laugh right in her face, despite what she said not meaning to be funny. She is so frail, and yet roars so loudly.
“There is.”
Her jaw muscles tighten in frustration, shuffling backwards though there is nowhere to go.
“Then, I dare say your reason will not be good enough.”
Aemond allows his gaze to roam over her face. Up close, she really and truly is the picture of her mother, with her father's unfortunate features to her disadvantage in her colouring.
“I merely wished to see the colour of your eyes, mandianna.”
“To make some cruel jape no less, I am sure.”
He grins at the way she takes a sharp breath when he tugs her face towards him slightly. And he swears he sees the pupils within the clear blue of her eyes widen as he does, and wonders if he is having the same effect swelling at the forbidden place between her thighs.
“You wound me, sweet niece. A man cannot simply appreciate the beauty of a woman? Does there always have to be some cruel intent?”
“With you, there must be.”
He somewhat loosens his grip on her face, fingers trailing down her neck, the glint of her earrings catching his eye. She visibly shivers at his touch there.
The most venomous expression sits on her face, and she does not miss a beat. Too clever and witty for her own good.
“Do not insult my intelligence, Uncle. I know what depraved thoughts bat around inside your head, and they are not original. A family trait perhaps.”
He hums, more amused than curious, but perhaps with a smattering of both, “And what of you?”
Her perfect little lips part to speak before his thumb trails down the column of her throat, long fingers wrapped around her neck to her nape. The threat of what he could do making her go quiet.
“What depraved thoughts bat around in your head, sweet niece?”
Silence wraps around them like a rope, tightening with the fibres cracking against their skin. Hot and suffocating all at once. And all Aemond can hear is the steady rhythm of her breathing, his eye wandering down to the necklace perched on her chest as her lungs erratically suck in air.
“It is treason to question my virtue.”
She swallows as his thumb presses on the centre of her throat, as if testing if she is indeed real.
“It may be treason to question your virtue, but it is not treason to question your honesty,” he replies coolly. Aemond can feel her pulse fluttering beneath her skin, the barely-contained rage on her face hidden only by a blanket of courtesy, “a maiden does not allow herself to be alone like this with another man.”
Aemond found himself, a man who had sparred with Ser Criston Cole for a large portion of his life, a man who as a child had claimed the largest dragon in the world and a man who had dealt with the burning pain of losing his eye, and the shame that he carried alongside it, was shocked into brief silence when his niece’s small, delicate palm echoed off his cheek.
It was not the force of it that stunned him so, but rather the shock that she had chosen to do it, with his hand around her neck and his frame blocking her escape.
The little dragon had felt threatened and given him a warning clip.
Aemond felt the warmth bloom on his cheek and smirked. She had slapped him on his bad side, where she knew it would sting the most. For a split second, white, hot pain nipped at the temples of his head as he turned back to face her, and saw that look on her face.
That she knew she’d made a mistake, but was too angry or proud to admit it.
Or perhaps she was both.
Excitement wriggled and rolled in his stomach at the whimper that escaped her lips, using the force of his grip around her tiny throat to force her back, muscles and bones rolling against the stone walls where she was trapped, and those clear, curious eyes darting back at him with distaste. And he was pleased to see, a sprinkling of horror and panic.
“That was a mistake,” he mused, pressing himself closer to her, his hand firm around her throat despite her own attempting to pry them off him. His other hand reached down, shifting her up the cold wall, and gathered her heavy skirts in his palm, and rucked them frustratingly up towards her hip.
He revelled in the terror that crossed her face, a smirk winding its way to his sharp features.
“How exhilarating,” he pondered, “to take something that you are not willing to give.”
“I will scream”.
“Then scream. I will say it was you who seduced me,” he bit back, watching her face and expressions that crossed them, “And who will they believe? The King’s second son or the bastard daughter of a whore?”
He could feel her breath against his face, soothing the spot where she had struck him not a moment before. Aemond blinked slowly at the woman in his grip, apparently attempting to decide for herself whether it was worth the fight.
Or perhaps something else.
Aemond grinned, “like mother like daughter.”
And he enjoyed the fire it stoked in her eyes.
“You will let me go-”
He shook her neck in his grip, as if to make her be quiet. And it seemed to shock and scare her, for she closed her eyes to steel herself, “And then what will you do? Run? Scream? Or will you do something stupid enough to give me an excuse to make everything you’ve ever said about me, truth?”
Her jaw tightened looking at him, feeling cornered, but a strange ache between her thighs.
“You threaten me, Uncle?”
His dagger sliced the very air between them, pressing the tip to the column of her throat where his thumb had branded her not moments before, tracing the shape of her skin. His niece froze, her breath trembling and her head pressed to the wall, as if to try and pull herself feebly away from threat.
This very dagger was an extension of Aemond himself. As if his hand were still touching her but with a pointed edge. And he wondered if he sliced her skin, even just a little, would she bleed like him?
There was something there in her eyes as he looked between them. Her breath came in shallow gasps. And Aemond was willing to bet that deep down, beneath the demure veil she hides herself behind, peeking through, that she is wet and ready for him between her silky thighs.
“You are clever, dear niece,” he all but whispers, trailing the blade down to the neckline of her dress, the rich fabric yielding to it, “but not as clever as you think you are.”
She swallowed thickly as his blade teased the tied bindings to her dress, playing with the double-tied knots as if they were strings of a lute, and he was playing her easily. He plucked one, and then two, watching her face the entire time.
“You believe yourself a proper little Princess, do you not?” he asks, his voice low, almost feline in nature, his face so close to hers she can make out the stitchings of his eyepatch, “hair decorated with gold. Fingers adorned with rubies. Wrapped in lavish dresses.”
She flinched as he flicked his wrist, severing the second to last tie holding two sides of her gown together.
“But pull one little thread, and you unravel -” his tone deepens, forcing her to listen to every little syllable, his gaze boring into hers, “-and all you are…is a wanton, bastard, whore.”
She attempted to push his body away, but his dagger clattered to the floor, holding her easily by her wrists, near-painfully pressing them to the stone wall behind her. It happened so quickly. Lips, teeth and tongue fought as if in battle, and Aemond held her there for him, pressing his rapidly hardening length against her clothed womanhood, rolling his hips against hers to search for that delicious, forbidden friction.
It did not seem to him that she was fighting him, but rather fighting how he made her feel.
Her lips were velvety, moist and soft as his anchored hers apart to taste her, once having a split second’s worth it was never enough. Every little breath and whimper and he wanted to make them louder, make her submit, a part of him intoxicated by her when her teeth grazed his bottom lip, and bit on him, only for her tongue to soothe the area afterwards.
Aemond thought of what would happen, if he devoured her wholly, pressed so hard against her that it was difficult to fathom where either of them began and ended.
His lips moved along her jaw. She smelled of whatever oils were combed through her hair. Camomile and something sweet perhaps. Quickly his hand left her wrist to ruck her heavy skirts up to her waist, feeling her shiver at the touch he left behind with the brief touch of his fingertips where no man had touched before.
“Fight back,” Aemond dared, a mere whisper against her neck where he left his bruise-like mark.
He met her gaze, looking into her bright eyes and allowed his grip on her to slowly relax, waiting to see if she would push away. Scream and run, as she had previously promised. And while her jaw was still tense and eyes aflame with hostility, he swore he saw her pupils dilate.
“Just get on with it.”
The surging heat in his stomach distracted him briefly from acting cocky, his fingers fumbling to untie his breeches while keeping her elevated. And it felt as if his body was thinking before his mind when he looked between them to see her hefty skirts bunched at her hip, and one smooth leg on display, pulling his achingly hard cock free and tucking himself between the soft haven between her thighs.
She could pretend she desired him not all she liked, but when their gazes met in fire and fury, finding that in all of their fighting and struggling she was soaking wet, Aemond pushed against her entrance until she welcomed him, sliding within her tight, choking walls with a low groan batted against her neck.
She whined at both the intrusion and his tight grip on her thigh, one hand elevating it so that he could begin pushing up brutally into her. Shame rose to her cheeks as she closed her eyes tightly, finding the wet smack of their skin rousing that tightness in her belly.
It was both embarrassing and hateful that she found herself enjoying this, and that she let him first of all.
And all she could see above her when she opened her eyes was him, his lips parted to breath as if he was holding some beastly form of himself back, his hair spilling like rays of moonlight over his shoulders with every thrust into her weeping cunt and the way his lone eye never strayed from her expression, not for a second.
That is until Aemond felt as if not only he wanted to own her shame and her body, but wanted to show it too, and leaned forward to graze his teeth on the skin that was now exposed by the ever loosening shoulders of her dress, and sink his teeth in to mark her.
The sound that came from her was between a grunt and a moan, as his position changed the angle of his hips and the blunt head of his cock sparking pleasure deep inside her.
“Fucking…hate you…” is all she managed, feeling the top of his canine break the skin just slightly. Her voice clung to that flat, stoic hatred, and she hated that it sounded as if she were about to fall apart.
If it were possible, he increased the intensity of his movements, pushing up into her mercilessly and drawing feminine, soft whines from her mouth. Sounds he wasn't even sure before his niece was capable of making.
“I adore your fire, sweet niece,” he muses lowly, tracing her jaw with his lips, “I adore how much you think you hate me.”
She does hate him, she tries to think. But every thought that appears is swiftly batted away by the incessant rhythm of his cock pistoning in and out of her, the depraved sounds betraying how she truly feels. An internal war Aemond can clearly see.
“Do you like this? Do you like how much I hate you? How much I want to hurt you?”
Yes.
A thought rung in her mind that she wanted him to hurt her more, so that she could just feel something from him aside from the way he stretched her walls around him so deliciously.
The soreness of his girth is something she had not expected to be a problem, a lapse of thought that she will no doubt be paying for the next morning.
But this, this was a core lapse of morals, surely. Allowing him to do this to her.
His fingers dug into the flesh of her thigh, as if pulling her to meet his cock halfway, feeling the way his body shuddered at the closeness of completion evident on his face.
Aemond grinned wolfishly, “You like this. We both know it.”
He thrusted into her so forcefully that she had no choice but to hold onto him, clinging to his leather-clad shoulder tightly when he met her fleshy end, her insides involuntarily squeezing around him in both pain and pleasure.
His hand came to her neck, clamping down experimentally on her windpipe, and groaning deeply at the way her cunt sucked him in as he did. Forcing her chin up so those traitorous blue eyes met his, he grinned.
Hateful little cunt.
Her peak crept up her spine first, feeling as if the sensation was melting her muscles where they sat inside her body. And then her lips parted in a soundless scream, pitifully moving her hips towards his to encourage the feeling to crest until it rushed out of her with a feeble whine, “uncle…”
Not only was the feeling of her quivering, velvety walls enough to convince him, but the way she called him that while he was so deep inside her, threatening for relief, was so erotic it did not feel depraved in the slightest.
But nothing was better than that wide-eyed, colourful expression of panic, distaste, hate and anxiety when he deliberately planted his seed inside of her. Aemond was sure there was no better feeling, bad intentions or no, her blood felt good on him, his teeth and cock alike.
All he could imagine was what dynasty could be created from such a house of revulsion. To watch this hateful little creature swell with his child, a true Targaryen. Only to put on the same stoic, flat expression which he knew was untrue when he'd fuck her again, and again, and again.
What flame flickered under that expression of hers, he wondered. What stone was hidden in the centre of her peachy, soft exterior. A heart, perhaps.
She didn't have to like it, this dance between them. But when he put her down and watched his spend trickle down her thighs, he would have her come to love it.
She existed for this. Whatever it was. He was sure of that.
“Well, little dragon,” he whispered, “the bastard daughter of a whore, with another growing within her?”
She swallowed around his hand as he tugged her face closer to his.
“Or burn with me.”
General Taglist: @aemondsfavouritebastard @bellstwd @blairfox04 @buckybarnesb-tch@castellomargot @hb8301 @jamespotterismydaddy @mochi-rose @natty2017 @nenelysian @randomdragonfires @risefallrise @thelittleswanao3 @theoneeyedprince @thetrueblackheart @tsujifreya @urmomsgirlfriend1 @valeskafics @valleyof-goldenlilies @virtualsweetsqueen @watercolorskyy
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Dragon Age: The Veilguard - site update - companion blurbs and abilities. [source] Some of this information is new, including each companion's Abilities list.
Text reads:
"LACE HARDING Inquisition This dwarven scout has a positive outlook and a ready bow – as well as unexpected magical powers. At her core, Harding is still a girl from Ferelden; she loves adventure, animals, and nature and is fiercely protective of her family and friends. Abilities: Seismic Shot; Heavy Draw; Shred; Adrenaline Rush; Soothing Potion Harding's skills with the bow are unmatched - her arrows can stagger enemies and shred armor. DAVRIN Grey Wardens Bold and charming, this Grey Warden has made a name for himself as a monster hunter. Though he was raised in a Dalish clan, he craved excitement and adventure. He’d rather make history than reflect on it. Now, he cares for Assan, a young griffon. Abilities: Battle Cry; Death from Above; Heroic Strike; Assan Strike; In War, Victory Fiercely loyal, Davrin brings his enemies down hard with a combination of mighty attacks, teaming with Assan to keep their companions out of danger. BELLARA LUTARE The Veil Jumpers Bellara is creative, romantic, and obsessed with uncovering the secrets of ancient Elvhenan. She has a strong sense of self – a clear idea of who she is and what she wants – and will push herself to her limits to find the answers she seeks. Abilities: Fade Bolts; Enfeebling Shot; Replenish; Time Slow; Galvanized Tear Bellara manipulates the Fade and uses electricity and control magic to support her Companions and diminish the powers of their foes. TAASH The Lords of Fortune A Qunari dragon hunter allied with the Lords of Fortune, Taash lives for adventure and doesn't mind taking risks. While her interests include sparkling treasures and hitting things with an axe, Taash is also deeply knowledgeable about many topics. Abilities: Fire Breath; Dragon's Roar; Dragonfire Strike; Spitfire; Fortune's Favor Blunt and straightforward, Taash is a mighty warrior, who wields dual-axes and breathes out flames, igniting enemies with draconic fury. LUCANIS DELLAMORTE The Antivan Crows Lucanis is an expert assassin for whom the Antivan Crows are a family business. He is poised & pragmatic, but he’d rather not be the center of attention. His focus is usually on his work. Lucanis specializes in executing powerful mages and has earned himself the title Demon of Vyrantium. Abilities: Eviscerate; Abominate; Soothing Potion; Debilitate; Adrenaline Rush Lucanis stylishly deals necrotic damage in battle with his dual-daggers, whilst supporting his companions with potions and buffs. EMMRICH VOLKARIN The Mourn Watch A necromancer of Nevarra's Mourn Watch, this well-meaning scholar comes complete with a skeletal assistant, Manfred. Emmrich is as serious about his duty to protect innocents from the occult as he is about his studies and his interest in the mysteries of the fade. Abilities: Final Rites; Replenish; Entangling Spirits; The Bell Tolls; Time Slow Emmrich summons forth spirits of the dead to both entangle and hinder his enemies and heal his companions. NEVE GALLUS The Shadow Dragons A cynic fighting for a better future, Neve is both a private detective and a member of Tevinter's rebellious Shadow Dragons. Born and raised in a working-class neighborhood of Minrathous, she does not believe in the superiority of mages. Abilities: Icebreaker; Blizzard; Glacial Pace; Time Slow; Replenish Neve uses her talents as an ice mage to freeze and slow enemies, stopping them in their tracks."
[source]
#dragon age: the veilguard#dragon age the veilguard spoilers#dragon age: dreadwolf#dragon age 4#the dread wolf rises#da4#dragon age#bioware#video games#long post#longpost
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Stitch Me Up
pairing: dean winchester x reader
summary: for dean, every scrape, every gash, was a twisted plea for your touch.
genre: angst
word count: 0.5k
author's notes: i wrote this at 3 am on my notes app while simultaneously rewatching spn because i'm insane and i'm a huge advocate of touch-starved!dean.
THE METALLIC TANG OF BLOOD WAS DEAN'S CONSTANT UNPLEASANT FOREWARNING THAT DEAN HAD RETURNED—HE WAS HOME. Sprawled on the floor, another injury marring his flesh, and he sees you right there in front of him. He could see the anger in your eyes, could feel the fury that bubbles in your gut is ceaseless, a familiar dance with the ever-present terror.
For Dean, every scrape, every gash, was a twisted plea for your touch.
Dean loves it when you touch him, when you lay your hands gently on his skin, careful not to cause him more pain than what he is dealing with at the moment. He loves it when you clean his wounds while going off on another tangent as to how he should be more cautious—threatening him that next time, you would not be there to treat him; yet, every time, not one did you miss his homecoming, when he comes home bloodied, the first thing you do is come running and restoring him to full health. He craved your tirades, the harsh scoffs, and thinly veiled threats that were your flimsy shield against worry. Each rant was a desperate battle cry, a plea for him to be careful.
Yet, Dean could not help himself. He reveled in your ministrations, the gentle contrast to the fire of your anger.
Dean loves it when you tend to him because it is proof that you care.
And he craves it—craves you—your presence, your touch—everything. He thinks it is sickening how much he has grown to crave you. Because he thinks he does not deserve you, and he knows that the universe always tries to play a sick joke on him.
It was a warped version of his affection born from a life spent in the shadows. Love, for him, was a dangerous dance, a promise of heartbreak waiting to happen. People he cared about had a knack for disappearing, leaving him with the cold comfort of solitude. Hunting was a drifter's existence. A life with no room for roots or dreams. Letting someone in, and building a family, was a recipe for disaster.
It is a lonely life being a hunter. One could never have the chance to put down roots because there is always a monster to hunt, a demon to exorcise, and a case to solve. Loving someone and having a family is just a foolproof way of getting yourself hurt. Yet, here he was, craving the very thing he swore to avoid. It was a sickness, a yearning that gnawed at his soul.
Because the truth, the terrifying truth, was that Dean could not bear the thought of being truly alone.
The sting of disinfectant was a cruel reminder of his twisted reality. As you patched him up, his eyes, usually alight with mischief, held a touch of vulnerability. At that moment, Dean gave you a glimpse of his plea for something more than just mending—a desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, he could find a place in a world that felt increasingly fragile, right beside you.
But the question remained, a silent echo in the tense air: could you give him what he craved without sacrificing your own heart in the process?
#supernatural#supernatural fandom#supernatural fanfiction#supernatural fanfic#supernatural fic#supernatural fluff#supernatural angst#supernatural smut#dean winchester#dean winchester fandom#dean winchester fanfiction#dean winchester fanfic#dean winchester fic#dean winchester fluff#dean winchester angst#dean winchester smut#dean winchester x reader#dean winchester x you#dean winchester x oc
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lurk | feyd rautha
part four of five. (part 1.) (part 2.) (part 3.)
summary:
“i need you,” he rasps, etching a molten kiss on the dip of your collarbone. “need to get rid of his taste.”
his hand crawls up your thighs, the folds of your velvet dress gliding against your skin. you can still hear the soldiers outside, feel the low thrum of their clamour in your very bones. should you focus, you’ll perceive the baron’s suspensors sucking away at gravity, the servants’ roaming about, feet like neelde-ants on cold marble.
anyone could catch you.
“what are you waiting for, my lord na-baron?”
wc: 1.6k
tw: political machinations, reader being inches away from killing everyone in the damn place including feyd, kissing, biting, mentions of breeding, possessive & needy feyd, sub!feyd, oral (fem receiving), fingering, hallway sex.
you’re getting tired of dreams.
there’s terrible, terrible purpose dripping from their edges. you see it all - snapshots of horror, fractals reflecting endless bodies dropping to the ground. sixty one billion people, dead. ten thousand worlds burning, the universe begging for respite under your brother’s crushing fist.
paul. little mouse, whom you’ve shielded all your life, whom you’ve sparred with, crysknife pressed against his throat, his shield a feeble protection against your blade. something shatters. blades. so many of them. your blade. jamis’ blade. feyd-rautha’s blade.
your dream has you standing in what you know to be the emperor’s ship, shrouded in bene gesserit veils. two silhouettes stand against the bleeding sun of arrakis.
the realisation embeds itself in your mind, marble-carved. fate is looking down upon you and tells you: one of them dies in the end.
when you wake up, there’s a scream dying on your tongue.
you don’t know where you are. you don’t know where you are, why your side is on fire, why you taste blood in your mouth.
slowly, you rise, heart beating furiously, breath laboured. i must not fear. your fingers dig your sheets. the infirmary. fear is the mind killer. you close your eyes, will yourself to breathe. fear is the little-death that brings total -
a hand settles over yours, bone pale fingers weaving with yours. warmth settles on your shoulder. you relax, ever so slightly, leaning into the touch, burying yourself in the crook of feyd-rautha’s neck. he’s all sharp edges, honed to deadly perfection. in the quiet midnight of geidi prime, he softens for you.
“what troubles you?”
you wonder if you should tell him. of the golden path, paved with blood, so much blood it clings to the soles of your feet, you see it rise, rise, eager to seize you-
a low mumble of your name.
“dreams are messages from the deep,” you whisper in the crook of his neck.
his hold tightens over you, brings you closer to the warmth of him, thumb running over the smooth skin of your belly, over your unborn child growing there. from your position, you can feel it, the way his vocal cords vibrate. he’s purring, soothing you bit by bit.
you tilt your head, hand coming to cradle his face, knuckles brushing against his cheek.
“i should be plotting your death.”
a low chuckle, a flash of almost eagerness in his eyes.
“i don’t doubt you will.”
his hand wraps around your neck, resting on the soft skin of your throat, bringing you closer to him, shifting your bodies until you’re straddling him, arms wrapping around his neck. you could strangle him. you could use the voice. ask him to take the knife you know rests on the bedside and slit his own throat like the harkonnen beast he is. use it yourself.
but you’ve sealed your fate the moment you stepped on arrakis. so instead, you let the darkness swallow your confession.
“i don’t want you to die.”
“i won't,” he mumbles against your lips, words like an oath as he kisses you.
they say the beat of a butterfly wing can cause a tempest on the other side of the globe. you wonder what tempest will be borne out of the fury beating in your chest. here goes: morning comes. the spice rules it all, even the baron’s affairs, so he gathers his troops to make a planetary governor out of feyd-rautha.
the glorious sun of geidi prime shines its lifeless light upon you all.
the finest harkonnen soldiers, ruthless hounds barking their sovereign’s name in fervent adoration, thousands upon thousands of ants stretching as far as you can see. they corrupt it all the harkonnen, eating away at the horizon. waiting.
you’re waiting, too, hands folded before you, lone silhouette clad in dark robes, veils like a mask before your face. bene gesserit, the court calls you.
not quite.
by bearing feyd-rautha a child, you’ve gained a modicum of respite. the bene gesserit will spare you, the mother of their precious kwisatz haderach. they will keep your survival a secret and bury it behind inscrutable eyes.
plans within plans within plans. you’re a pawn in the baron’s meaty hands, he’s a pawn in yours, and the bene gesserit have been pulling the strings for ninety generations.
your gaze flits to the scene before you. feyd-rautha harkonnen, clad in dark leathers, silver embroidery like pauldrons over his shoulders. the mass of his uncle hovers above him, a hovering beast eager for power. two meaty hands encompass his face - absolute disgust coils in your chest as you watch vladimir harkonnen kiss his nephew. he kisses back. a show of dominance.
the soldiers howl his name, earth trembling under the clamour. they salute, arms crossed over their heads, a living, breathing organism, synchronicity at its peak.
arrakis has a new ruler.
a hand clasps over your wrist, drags you away from the adoring masses, in the sweet darkness of the palace’s hallways. you’re pinned against the wall, and feyd-rautha looms before you, terrible hunger burning in his eyes. slowly, he lifts your veils, high enough to bare your mouth to him.
“my lord-”
you’re cut off by his lips on yours, eager, desperate, savouring you like fine arrakean spice-wine.
“i need you,” he rasps, etching a molten kiss on the dip of your collarbone. “need to get rid of his taste.”
his hand crawls up your thighs, the folds of your velvet dress gliding against your skin. you can still hear the soldiers outside, feel the low thrum of their clamour in your very bones. should you focus, you’ll perceive the baron’s suspensors sucking away at gravity, the servants’ roaming about, feet like neelde-ants on cold marble.
anyone could catch you.
“what are you waiting for, my lord na-baron?”
he nips at your ear, grin sharper than his blade as he sinks to his knees. slowly, intimately, a shadow curling at his mistress’ feet. he unravels you, nails raking up your thighs, liquid desire burning in their path.
“eyes on me.”
your eyes snap open. oh, he’ll be the death of you, with the way his eyes freeze you in place, willing, begging for his touch. you shiver, a low, needy sound escaping you.
he grins, a flash of black teeth against the liquid darkness of your robes. shadows will swallow you whole - he will swallow you whole. already is, with the way he trails kisses up your thighs, teeth sinking in the meat of it until blood drips on your skin.
he’s lapping at it, hands wrapping around your leg, spreading you apart inch by precious inch until he fits the broad expanse of his shoulders in the space he’s carved for himself. he raises his head, leans his cheek against your thigh, nuzzling in its softness. there’s blood coating his lips, sweet like forbidden fruit, and an unquenchable fire in his eyes.
“exquisite,” he purrs, nail digging in the blossoming mark he’s left, until your hips seek his touch.
he puts his mouth to you. you bite your lip, hard, as you feel him tease you, tongue lapping at you like sweet pomegranate, skilled fingers coaxing pleas for more. the cold of his silver ring has you keening - you're melting against him.
it’s obscene, how the only sounds you can hear are the pleased moans of your lover, the squelching of your juices dripping down his face, his wrist. it’s too much, too fast - your nails dig into his nape, bringing him closer. fucker’s purring, hands digging in your hips. he’s making a feast out of you, and you’ve never seen prettier sight.
feyd-rautha, kneeling at your feet, a pretty, pretty blush dusting his cheeks, his soft mouth on your cunt, ruining you as he denies himself sweet release.
“feyd-”
a jolt - he’s just nipped your clit, and you’re falling apart with his name on your tongue, burning, melting in the pits of desire. you grow boneless, faltering on unsteady legs. he pulls you to him before you can fall, kissing you, moulding his devouring mouth to yours.
distantly, you register that he’s breathless, that he’s pressing you against him, that you can feel the dampness at the front of his pants.
his voice is a low, needy rasp.
“you taste divine, my dear.”
there’s a commotion. someone, somewhere, is calling. a servant. a feast is prepared. blasphemy - the baron is a beast, and he will not have his nephew leave without obscene amounts of food. good. it leaves room for you to plan - you’re running out of precious, precious time. there are too many variables for you to act alone, yet you are.
you’re sitting at feyd-rautha’s side at a banquet table. on you watch, a mockery of a bene gesserit, nails digging in your palm. there’s a knife before you, of course. the baron’s sitting at the head of the table, stuffing himself until he’s about to burst.
repulsive.
you could do it now. put an end to the harkonnen, avenge your family. plunge that knife in the baron’s throat and watch him die like an animal.
but revenge is best served cold. you remember princess irulan being seated in front of you. you remember the emperor at the head of the table. you remember his knife slicing through unknown poultry. a falcon. he’s doomed your family to death.
the emperor is old. paranoid. anybody would’ve seen that the atreides were far too loyal to even consider rebelling against him, rising influence or not. someone convinced him otherwise. the truthsayer, reverend mother gaius helen moriam.
you take a bite of your own meal and find it tasting like ash. the only dish you yearn for is revenge.
you want the baron dead. you want the emperor stripped of his power. you want to watch the split second of horrified realisation on the reverend mother's face.
you want them to burn, and burn they will.
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#obticeo writes#feyd rautha x reader#feyd rautha#bald freak supremacy#feyd rautha smut#feyd rautha x y/n#feyd rautha x you#dune smut#austin butler smut
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Her trans daughter made the volleyball team. Then an armed officer showed up.
Jessica Norton eased her minivan out of the driveway, and she told herself she’d done what any mother would. Her daughter Elizabeth had wanted to play high school volleyball, and Norton had let her. Norton had written female on the permission slips. She’d run practice drills in the yard, and she’d driven this minivan to matches all across their suburban Florida county.
A bumper sticker on the back said “mom.” A rainbow pin tacked inside read “safe with me.” Norton and Elizabeth had spent hours laughing and singing in this extended cab chariot. But this time, Norton had decided to leave her daughter at home.
“Good luck!” the teenager called. “Don’t get fired!”
Until recently, Norton had worked at the high school Elizabeth attended. But last fall, an armed officer with the Broward County Public Schools Police had told Norton she was under investigation for allowing Elizabeth to play girls sports. District leaders banned Norton from the building. They discussed the investigation on the local news, and soon, everyone in Coconut Creek seemed to know Elizabeth is transgender. (Norton asked The Washington Post to use the child’s middle name to protect her privacy.)
In the nine months since, school officials had talked about Elizabeth as if she were dangerous, but Norton knew they couldn’t possibly be picturing the 16-year-old who stood at the edge of the driveway in Taylor Swift Crocs. This girl loved Squishmallows and Disney World. She had long red hair, and she was so skinny, the principal described her to investigators as “frail.”
Elizabeth didn’t have an advantage, Norton thought. She was a normal teenage girl, and yet her very existence had thrust them into one of the nation’s most contentious debates.
Over the last few years, half the country, including Florida, had banned trans girls from playing on girls teams. Proponents of the laws argued that they were fighting for fairness, and the debate had spilled into the stands with an anger that worried Norton. Critics called trans competitors “cheats.” Crowds booed teenage athletes. And some spectators had begun eyeing cisgender competitors for signs of masculinity.
For all that fury, though, no one had been punished yet under one of the bans. Soon, Norton feared, she might become the first. The Broward County School Board planned to take up her case that afternoon, and the agenda included only one proposed outcome: termination.
Norton drove toward her fate and felt nauseous. This life had not been the one she envisioned, but she’d done all she could to ensure it was a good one for her daughter. And she’d succeeded. Before the investigation, Elizabeth had been happy. She’d been a homecoming princess and class president two years in a row. She had friends, near-perfect grades and blue eyes that lit up when she talked about the future.
Now, Elizabeth stayed home and read hateful comments on the internet. She didn’t play sports. She hadn’t been back to Monarch High School.
Norton wanted the light in her daughter’s eyes back. She wanted Elizabeth to have prom and graduation, senior pictures, all the little hallmarks of a teenage life. But first, Norton told herself, she had to fight for her job. She had to return to the school district that shunned her, then somehow she had to convince Elizabeth it was safe for her to go back, too.
Norton was born in Florida in the mid-1970s. She grew up hearing about gay people and drag queens, but the first time she learned about trans children, she was skeptical.
It was 2007. Norton was pregnant with Elizabeth, and she’d turned on the television. Barbara Walters was interviewing a 6-year-old girl she described as “one of the youngest known cases of an early transition from male to female.”
The girl, Jazz Jennings, was cute, Norton thought, but the dispatch unsettled her. How could someone that young know anything about their gender? How could a parent let their kid change their name and appearance?
When Norton gave birth that October, her husband, Gary, picked out a boy’s name, and she bought blue onesies. But almost as soon as Elizabeth could talk, she told her parents she was a girl.
At first, Norton thought their child was confused or maybe gay. Elizabeth begged to wear pink, and she threw tantrums when Norton called her a boy. They fought over backpacks and lunch boxes, school uniforms, haircuts. Norton tried to explain the difference between boys’ and girls’ bodies, but Elizabeth never relented.
“I’m a girl,” she said.
One day in 2013, while Elizabeth was at kindergarten, Norton turned on the TV, and she saw Jazz again. The little girl had a lot in common with Elizabeth. They both loved mermaids. They liked sports, and they seemed to know exactly who they were. Ever since Jazz could talk, her mother said, she had been “consistent, persistent and insistent” that she was a girl.
Oh my god, Norton thought. My kid isn’t gay. My kid is transgender.
Norton collapsed into her couch and sobbed. She didn’t know how to raise a trans child. What if she let Elizabeth transition, then Elizabeth decided she wasn’t a girl? What if someone hurt her?
Norton kept trying to raise Elizabeth as a boy, but eventually, she grew tired of fighting. One afternoon, when Elizabeth was 5 or 6, she asked to wear one of her sister’s outfits to a concert and Norton said yes.
Elizabeth picked a teal ruffle shirt dress with a leopard print. She pulled on a pair of leggings, and when they got to the show, she skipped down the street. Norton had never seen her look that happy.
Though those early years felt hard, South Florida turned out to be an easy place to raise a trans child. The Nortons live in Broward County, a left-leaning community that includes Fort Lauderdale, and its school district was among the first in the United States to adopt a nondiscrimination policy for gender identity. In 2014, when Elizabeth was in first grade, the district released an LGBTQ critical support guide, a wide-ranging document that affirmed trans students’ right to play on sports teams that aligned with their identity.
The superintendent hosted “LGBTQ roundtables” to help parents whose kids were gay or trans. Norton recalled that at one meeting in 2016, she asked if it was possible to change Elizabeth’s name and gender marker on her school records, and he told her yes. (The superintendent later told investigators and The Post he does not remember this conversation, but other people who attended submitted affidavits affirming Norton’s recollection.)
Norton was so excited, she went to Elizabeth’s school that day and asked the assistant principal to make the change.
Norton has always been an involved parent. She volunteered a few times a week at the schools Elizabeth and her two older children attended, and the experience was so positive, she decided she wanted to work in education, too. In the spring of 2017, Monarch High School posted a $15-an-hour job for a library media clerk, and Norton applied even though the job paid $13,000 a year less than she earned as a cake decorator at Publix.
A few months after Norton started, she learned the school board was considering a resolution to create an LGBT history month. Elizabeth said she wanted to testify, so they spent a weekend writing a speech together.
Norton was nervous as they headed inside, but Elizabeth rocked on her heels, excited. She wore her favorite teal dress and a purple headband, and she smiled with all her teeth showing as she and her parents approached the podium.
“I openly transitioned two years ago,” Elizabeth said. “It was the best time of my life. I got to be who I was born to be.”
Elizabeth was 10 then. She’d always had a beautiful face, and people never seemed to look at her and see anything other than girl, but as the school year wore on, she told Norton she worried what would happen once she started puberty.
Norton found a pediatric endocrinologist, and the doctor prescribed a monthly testosterone-blocking shot. As long as Elizabeth took the injection, her voice wouldn’t deepen, she wouldn’t grow facial hair and her body wouldn’t become more muscular the way a boy’s would.
After Elizabeth finished elementary school, she told Norton she didn’t want people to know she was trans. Her new middle school pulled from three elementaries, and most of the kids there had no idea she had ever used another name. She told Norton she wanted to be “a basic White girl,” the kind who wore leggings and drank pumpkin spice lattes, and Norton understood. Most middle-schoolers want to blend in.
The coronavirus shut down schools the next spring, and Elizabeth spent the rest of sixth grade and part of seventh learning online. But Florida was among the first states to reopen, and when Lyons Creek officials announced students could return, they also welcomed kids to try out for sports teams.
Elizabeth was ecstatic. She went everywhere that fall with a volleyball in her hand. She tossed it in the house, and she used the garage door as a rebounder to practice her jump serve. But when she tried out for the team, she didn’t make it past the first cut.
She came home disappointed and told Norton she wanted to get better. Norton didn’t know how to play, but she offered to help. They spent most of the next year in the street outside their house, running “pepper” drills where two people pass, set and hit the ball back and forth.
Norton’s wrists stung by the end of their sessions, but Elizabeth always seemed more energized. Next year, Elizabeth vowed, she would make the team.
As Elizabeth headed into the yard each night, volleyball in hand, she believed the only thing that could keep her off a team was her own ability.
For much of her life, all the big sports associations allowed trans athletes to compete, and most states did, too. Some required athletes to show proof they were taking hormones or blockers, but a dozen states, including Florida, had no restrictions at all. As long as a student could show their gender identity was consistent, they could play.
Trans people represent less than 1 percent of the country’s population, and for decades, state lawmakers rarely mentioned them. But as gay people won protections and the right to marry, LGTBQ+ rights groups and right-wing leaders began looking for new issues to galvanize supporters. Both turned their attention to trans rights.
The community was slowly becoming more visible. Trans people ran for office and appeared on TV, and 17 million people watched as Caitlyn Jenner came out on “20/20.” Trans athletes almost never dominated. But between 2017 and 2019, two trans girls beat cisgender competitors at state track meets in Connecticut, and leading conservative Christian groups warned that other girls would lose athletic opportunities if trans girls continued to compete.
Over the next few years, Florida and two dozen other states passed nearly identical bans on trans girls in sports. Many Republican lawmakers spoke about trans athletes as if they were all the same — tall and muscular, physically dominant, grown men cross-dressing for the sake of a secondary school athletic win. The bill sponsors didn’t mention trans girls who never went through puberty. They hardly ever talked about children like Elizabeth who tried and failed to make a seventh grade team. By 2023, multiple polls, including one by The Post and KFF, found that two-thirds of Americans agreed that trans girls should not be allowed to play girls sports.
Trans athletes remain very rare. A 2021 Associated Press analysis of 20 proposed state bans found that legislators in most couldn’t point to a single trans athlete in their own region. And in Florida, state records show that just two trans girls have played girls sports over the last decade — a bowler who graduated in 2019 and Elizabeth.
Norton doesn’t follow the news, but a friend told her about Florida’s ban the summer before Elizabeth started eighth grade, so Norton went online to read the details. The statute doesn’t list any penalties for young athletes. Instead, it allows competitors who feel they’ve been harmed by a trans athlete to sue that student’s school.
Norton thought Elizabeth might be okay. She had started estrogen by then, and few people knew she was trans. Plus, Coconut Creek still seemed like a safe place. Two weeks after Gov. Ron DeSantis (R) signed the bill, in June 2021, the Broward County School Board unanimously adopted a resolution opposing the ban.
Still, Norton wanted assurance. That summer, with backing from the LGBTQ+ advocacy group Human Rights Campaign Foundation, Norton filed a pseudonymous lawsuit challenging the Fairness in Women’s Sports Act. She didn’t mention any schools. She didn’t use her last name, and she didn’t list Elizabeth’s name.
Norton assumed she’d prevail. A federal judge appointed by President Donald Trump in Idaho had already ruled that that state’s ban was likely unconstitutional and did nothing to ensure the fairness of girls sports.
Norton and Elizabeth never talked about the lawsuit. Instead, they watched the Tokyo Summer Olympics, and Elizabeth fell even more in love with volleyball. As they streamed the Games, Norton researched, and she learned that the International Olympic Committee allowed trans girls and women to compete as long as their testosterone levels were low and they’d identified as female for four years. Elizabeth met all those qualifications. Because she started puberty blockers before her body began making testosterone, her hormone levels looked like any other girl’s.
Though research on the subject remains limited,multiple studies have found that testosterone is the only driver of athletic differences between the sexes. The hormone can give a person a larger physical stature, denser bones and a greater capacity to build muscle. Without it, a trans girl like Elizabeth likely has no physical advantage, researchers have found.
Florida’s new law didn’t make sense to Norton. Elizabeth could compete at the Olympics, but state lawmakers didn’t want her on a middle school team.
Norton had Elizabeth’s birth certificate amended that year, and by the time Elizabeth started eighth grade, she was legally female. When she asked to try out for volleyball again, Norton filled out the paperwork. Next to “sex,” Norton wrote “F.”
When Elizabeth made the cut, she rushed out to tell Norton. She was shocked. She’d been afraid to really hit the ball, she said. She’d tapped it, and the coach had urged her to play harder.
They celebrated at a sports grill, and Elizabeth was too excited to eat. She’d wanted to be on a team with other girls, and now she was.
Elizabeth started high school the next year. She was good enough to make the varsity volleyball team, but she rarely left the bench, and Monarch lost more matches than it won that season. Still, she loved playing. The coach later told the South Florida Sun-Sentinel that Elizabeth “brought an energy” to the team. Other players described her as the team “favorite.”
By then, Norton had become the school’s information management specialist, and she took on a slew of extra jobs to help kids with their student service hours and senior class activities. Norton was so busy, she largely forgot about the lawsuit she’d filed. Her lawyer called her every few months to give her an update, but she didn’t understand much of what he said.
Elizabeth won a starting spot as the volleyball team’s middle blocker her sophomore year. She was 5-foot-8, one of the team’s tallest players, so the coach put her near the net to play defense. She scored a few points over the course of the season, but she wasn’t a hitter. Players need a lot of power to spike a ball the other team can’t return. Elizabeth was 112 pounds and not especially muscular.
Monarch made it to the district semifinals, but its season ended that October with a 3-0 loss to Stoneman Douglas. MaxPreps ranked Monarch 218th out of the state’s 300 girls’ volleyball teams.
Three weeks later, a Trump-appointed district judge dismissed Norton’s lawsuit. The law was not discriminatory, U.S. District Judge Roy Altman found, because it didn’t apply to all transgender students. Trans boys could still play boys sports, he noted.
When the lawyer called to tell Norton the news, she felt the briefest flash of panic. Oh no, she thought. What if they come after me?
Later that month, at the tail end of Thanksgiving break, a work friend asked Norton if she’d seen the email an assistant principal had sent. Norton tried to look, but her school email had stopped working.
There’s a mandatory meeting tomorrow morning, the friend said. It sounds serious.
Norton felt uneasy as she drove Elizabeth to school the next day. She’d heard rumors that some of the boys on the football team lived outside of the district, and she worried she’d be held accountable because her job included overseeing student records.
At the all-staff meeting, an administrator explained that the district had reassigned the school’s principal pending an investigation. Norton felt confused. Everyone liked the principal. He seemed like a stand-up guy, not at all the kind of person who would break district policies.
After the meeting, Norton’s manager told her the school district’s police chief needed to talk to her. Norton met the chief and a school district representative in the principal’s office, and she felt intimidated. The officer was armed. He sat next to Norton, then handed her a written notice and told her she was under investigation.
The notice was inscrutable, just a run of numbers and legalese. Norton told the chief she didn’t understand, and he said she had caused Monarch to break the Fairness in Women’s Sports Act.
Elizabeth, Norton thought. They’re going to ruin my child’s life.
The chief told Norton she was banned from the high school and would have to turn in her keys and laptop, but he assured her the investigation was confidential. No one would know Elizabeth was the reason Norton was in trouble unless Norton told them herself.
Norton spent the next two hours panicking. She called her lawyer, but she was too inconsolable to make out whole sentences. What if she lost her job? What if someone went after Elizabeth?
Just before 11 a.m., Elizabeth texted. She’d looked on the location-tracking app Life360 and seen Norton was at home. Their pet boxer Walter had been sick all weekend, and Elizabeth worried the dog had taken a turn for the worse.
“You’re scaring me,” Elizabeth wrote. “Is Walter OK?”
Norton paced the living room. It took her 20 minutes to work up the nerve, but finally, she called Elizabeth and told her Walter was fine.
Elizabeth asked if Norton had done something wrong, and when Norton said no, Elizabeth asked what happened.
“I don’t want to tell you,” Norton said.
“It has to do with me, doesn’t it?” Elizabeth asked.
She started sobbing before Norton could answer. She asked Norton to pick her up, but Norton told her she wasn’t allowed. A few minutes after they got off the phone, a school employee called. Elizabeth had gone missing.
“Where is she?” the woman asked. “It’s all over the news. Everyone knows.”
Norton checked Life360, and she could see that Elizabeth had left Monarch. Norton asked her husband, Gary, to pick their daughter up, and when they arrived home, Elizabeth ate a pint of ice cream and Gary turned on the news.
A local station called it a “campus controversy.” Reporters said that Norton, the principal and three others had been reassigned because they allowed a transgender student to play volleyball.
News crews showed pictures of Norton and footage of Elizabeth’s team. The reporters didn’t say Elizabeth’s name,but the district released Norton’s, and everyone at school knew Norton had a daughter on the volleyball team.
The phone rang. Norton didn’t recognize the number, so she rejected it, and a man left a snickering voice message.
“So you got a son who likes to sneak into women’s bathrooms?” he asked.
Neither Norton nor Elizabeth left the house the next day. They hid while reporters knocked on the front door, and they watched TV. The local news reported that hundreds of Monarch students had walked out to protest the district’s decision.
Elizabeth was allowed to go back any time, but she told Norton she was scared. What if everyone looked at her, searching for signs of boy where they once saw girl? And what if someone tried to beat her up?
Elizabeth had never been quick to talk about her feelings, but in the weeks that followed, Norton could sense something had changed. Elizabeth spent hours in bed. She told Norton she didn’t care about any of it but pored over online comments about what had happened. That December, Norton’s older daughter came home for the holidays, and she told Norton she could hear Elizabeth through their shared wall. Elizabeth wasn’t sleeping. She was awake, sobbing.
The investigation began that winter. District officials sent Norton to do janitorial work and manual labor at a warehouse, then they interviewed people about Elizabeth. In late January, two officers questioned Norton. They pressed her about the day in 2016 she asked Elizabeth’s elementary school to change her gender marker.
Norton told them every detail she could remember, but she didn’t understand why they were asking. She hadn’t even worked for the school district then. She was just a parent, and as far as she understood, she hadn’t done anything illegal.
A few weeks later, an officer brought Norton a redacted copy of the investigation, then told her a professional standards committee would recommend a punishment within a few months.
Norton read the document at her dining room table, and she felt angry as she made her way through. The then-superintendent had told reporters that an anonymous constituent had called the Tuesday before Thanksgiving and told him a trans girl was playing on the volleyball team. But the informant wasn’t just a constituent, Norton learned. He was a Broward County School Board member. (The former superintendent could not be reached for comment.)
The board had changed considerably in the five years since Elizabeth had testified and thanked its members for keeping her safe. DeSantis had removed several elected board members and replaced them with his own delegates.
The investigation showed that one of DeSantis’s appointees asked the district to investigate Norton. The volleyball season was over by the time Daniel Foganholi reported Elizabeth, but Foganholi told investigators he had received an anonymous phone call “advising that a male student was playing female sports at Monarch High School.” (Foganholi did not respond to requests for comment.)
The investigators’ report was more than 500 pages long, and it took Norton a few days to finish reading. Nearly every page angered her. The officers had spent considerable time trying to find out what Elizabeth looked like. They asked a district administrator to comb Elizabeth’s files and tell them how much she weighed every year between 2013 and 2017. They pushed multiple adults to describe her physically, and they asked three girls on the volleyball team if they’d ever seen Elizabeth undressed. No, the girls said. No one ever used the locker room.
The investigation included transcripts of every interview the officers conducted, and as Norton read, she saw that the officers had repeatedly called Elizabeth “he” in those discussions. On two occasions, the transcripts showed, one detective called Elizabeth “it.” (The investigation is a public document, and The Post reviewed this document and 200 other pages related to the investigation.)
A week before they interviewed Norton, the file showed, they talked to Elizabeth’s middle school guidance counselor, and they asked her to tell them about Elizabeth’s transition. The counselor said she was worried she’d break the law if she did, but an officer told her she wouldn’t.
“No,” the officer said. “I am the law.”
As Norton neared the end of the document, she realized at least some district leaders had known Elizabeth was transgender long before Thanksgiving break. The investigation showed that in 2021, three weeks after Norton filed the lawsuit, the district’s lawyer asked for Elizabeth’s records.
What changed, Norton wondered? Why was the district investigating her now?
Winter turned to spring, and Elizabeth did not return to Monarch. She’d only go back, she said, if Norton went, too.
Norton enrolled Elizabeth in virtual school, but she rarely did more than an hour of classwork. Mostly, she played “Fortnite.” In the game, no one knew what was going on at her school. She was just a girl, spinning across the screen in pink hair and a Nike jumpsuit.
By spring, she was failing geometry. Norton spent most of her time at the book warehouse where she’d been reassigned, but one day in early April, she called in sick so she could spend time with Elizabeth.
Norton waited most of the morning, but Elizabeth didn’t emerge from her room. Finally, at noon, Norton knocked, then pushed Elizabeth’s door open. She was asleep, tucked into a pair of purple floral sheets she’d bought at Target after seeing the same set in a Taylor Swift video.
“Wake up,” Norton said. “We’re going to lunch.”
They drove to a Cheesecake Factory a few minutes from their house. Elizabeth barely talked. After they finished, Norton asked if she wanted to go to Sephora to buy the pistachio-scented Brazilian Crush perfume they both wore.
“Just in and out, okay?” Elizabeth said. “School is getting out soon.”
They made it maybe 20 feet before two teenagers waved. Elizabeth swung right, then disappeared, but Norton didn’t have on her glasses, so she didn’t notice the girls until they were right in front of her.
“Mrs. Norton!” one said. “We miss you!”
Norton scanned the street, but she didn’t see Elizabeth. She wished the girls luck in school, then she found Elizabeth hiding in a row of eyebrow pencils. The perfume was too expensive, Elizabeth said. She left without buying anything.
On the way home, they drove past Monarch, and Norton teared up. She suddenly understood all that Elizabeth might lose. Every year, the seniors paint their parking spots. Elizabeth had already made plans to decorate hers with lyrics from Taylor Swift’s “You’re on Your Own, Kid,” but now, Norton thought, she might never paint one. She probably wouldn’t go to prom. She wouldn’t take senior pictures. She wouldn’t give the graduation speech she’d already started writing.
When they got home late that evening, a certified letter was waiting. Ultimately, the school board would decide Norton’s fate, but the letter said the committee had reviewed the investigative report, and they’d found sufficient evidence to show Norton had broken Florida law.
“The disciplinary recommendation,” it said, “is a termination.”
Norton’s high school salary had always covered their necessities and little else. She worried she’d soon lose even that, so as the investigation dragged on, she took a side job selling merchandise at concerts across South Florida. The Friday night before her scheduled board hearing, she was working a Carlos Santana show when a friend texted to say the board had removed Norton’s name from the Tuesday agenda.
Norton’s stomach sank. She was tired of being silent. She decided she would go to the meeting. She would sign up for public testimony, and she’d tell the school board what had happened to her daughter.
As Norton and her husband sat in the audience that Tuesday, she could feel her heart rate climb. She looked down at her Apple Watch: 110, 120.She worried she might have a heart attack before she reached the podium.
The board reappointed dozens of employees, memorialized three young students, then finally, two hours into the meeting, they called Norton’s name.
She and her husband walked to the microphone, and Norton smoothed her floral dress.
“We are here to speak for our family and tell you how careless actions by the district’s leadership have affected our daughter and our family,” she said.
She had waited 203 days for an answer, she told them. She had done manual labor. She had answered every question, and she had sat through an interview where a detective refused to use her daughter’s legal name or gender.
Norton teared up as she spoke. Her daughter was an innocent 16-year-old girl, she said. Yes, she had played volleyball, but she had done so much more at Monarch. Her peers had chosen her for the homecoming court and student government. She had been flourishing, Norton said, but the district’s investigation had ruined that.
“It’s okay if I’m the villain in their story,” she said, “because I’m the hero in my daughter’s story.”
Things started to change after Norton’s speech. The district set a new hearing for late July, and a number of school board members told the South Florida Sun-Sentinel they didn’t want to fire Norton.
On her way to the final meeting, Norton fiddled anxiously with the minivan’s stereo. As part of an earlier board discussion, one member had asked for other employee discipline data. A reporter had posted the findings that morning while Jessica did her makeup. Adults who’d abused children had served one- and five-day suspensions. A teacher who’d slapped a child received a letter of reprimand.
“They’re recommending a harsher punishment for me than for people who abused kids,” Norton told her husband as she drove.
A dozen people registered to speak. Former students told the board Norton was the reason they made it to college. Most people asked the board not to fire her, but as Norton watched, she couldn’t tell what the district officials might do.
Some said the investigation was flawed. They described Norton as a scapegoat and said Elizabeth had suffered enough. But the chair, a former stay-at-home mom who joined the board after her daughter was killed in the Parkland shooting, said she believed any employee who breaks the law should be punished.
Like the investigation itself, much of the board’s discussion centered on the day Norton asked Elizabeth’s elementary school to change her records. Though Norton hadn’t worked at the district then, Brenda Fam, a board member who had criticized trans people online and in previous meetings, said she thought Norton “inappropriately requested and pressured” school employees.
“I think what happened is criminal,” Fam said. “Norton’s efforts to change her child’s gender have stemmed back to the second grade.”
Fam repeatedly referred to Elizabeth as Norton’s “son.” After the third or fourth time, Norton started to think maybe she didn’t want to go back to Monarch. How could she work for a school board that intentionally misgendered her child?
Norton walked out of the auditorium. Outside, she loaded a stream ofthe meeting on her phone and waited for a decision. The board members were split on what they wanted, but half an hour later, a narrow majority agreed to suspend Norton for 10 days, then move her to a different job where she no longer has access to records.
A scrum of reporters circled Norton and her husband. Norton was proud she hadn’t backed down, but she told them she wasn’t sure what to do now. She had fought for 11 years to keep Elizabeth safe in school. She would do whatever she had to do next to keep her safe still.
“Am I remorseful for protecting my child?” she asked. “Absolutely not.”
The school district told Norton in late August she wouldn’t go back to Monarch. Instead, she’d do clerical work at a nonschool site. Norton didn’t want to leave Elizabeth, but she needed money, so she accepted the job.
The family spent one of Norton’s last free days at the beach, then that evening, Elizabeth said she wanted to watch her old team play. It was an away game, the second match of the year, so they climbed into Norton’s minivan and drove to Coral Springs.
All the girls hugged Norton and Elizabeth when they arrived, and most of the parents did, too. But once the game started, Elizabeth went quiet. She watched, and Norton knew she wanted to be out there with them. They left after the first set.
Norton wanted to cheer up Elizabeth, so she drove her to the mall after the game. Elizabeth didn’t talk the entire time. They ate Chipotle and wandered around, and eventually Norton found Elizabeth in the kids’ section at Marshalls, running volleyball drills with a toy.
Elizabeth passed out on the couch the second they got home, and Norton knew they couldn’t keep living like this.
In all the months they’d been waiting for an end to the investigation, Norton had never considered moving. She loved Coconut Creek. Both she and her husband had lived there their entire lives, and she’d always imagined they’d grow old on their corner lot.
Maybe it was time to let those dreams go, Norton thought. Maybe they were better off moving to a town where no one knew them. Elizabeth might never want to play team sports again, Norton imagined, but maybe, if they found a new school, she could still have a senior year, one last chance at a normal girlhood and the good life Norton had worked so hard to give her.
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Just this once
Kokushibo x afab!reader
Warnings: Sex, Smut, MDNI, NSFW, 18+, Kokushibo allows the reader to be a dom for the night, pegging.
Summary: In this atmospheric, steamy dark smut, you become Kokushibo's first-ever female tsugoku, but very soon, you realise that there is more to your relationship than just sword training... He will let you discover a side of him you never knew existed...and after that, you will crave more...
Masterlist
When the word spread that the powerful Upper Moon One was searching for a new tsugoku, things became hectic at the Infinity Castle’s trial grounds, the place where all the infamous blood battles were fought between the upper ranks and where the training of new talents was most frequently conducted. The place breamed with young cocky lower ranks, strutting around like peacocks, intimidating each other with their various physical prowess.
None of them seemed to display any above-level intelligence, and only one was wearing some form of katana. You were standing slightly to the side, watching, and being watched. You were not like any of them. They were all dwarfing you physically, but you did not feel insecure. You knew you had assets none of them possessed: intelligence, cunning, and a high level of swordsmanship.
‘Line up.’ A harsh command sounded through the courtyard.
Very quickly all the aspirants were standing in a neat row, a few were still giggling and talking. But then, as if with a cut of a sharp blade, silence fell almost instantly. An intrusive, oppressive darkness began to diffuse through the warm air, a feeling as if an invisible fire was claiming possession over every particle in its range. Was this what Hell felt like? No one was left unaffected, including the lower rank of the twelve Kizuki that was coordinating the selection event. Some were beginning to cough, showing signs of their breath not coping with whatever was invading.
A few moments later, and there he was. Upper Moon One, also called Kokushibo: the source of the hellish aura that claimed everyone’s strength. He was standing at the opening of the gate, in complete silence, commanding respect and instilling fear in even the cockiest of the young demons. A tall figure in traditional attire, with a fury of black hair and six burning red and golden eyes, a demon samurai, with a power born in the deepest forges of hell.
You have never encountered a presence this ominous. Not even Muzan-sama emanated this much darkness. If you did not know any better, Kokushibo might as well be the Demon King. Slowly and majestically and without uttering a word, he made his way to the end of the row and commenced his inspection of the candidates. You did not dare look up and so you fixated your gaze on a bunch of pebbles in front of your feet. After what felt like hours, you lifted your eyes only to note that he was now two demons away from you. You could hear him speak quietly in a deep and serious voice, a quick interrogation with just one short question: ‘What makes you think that you are worthy?’
And then it was your turn. You thought you knew how to answer, you prepared yourself for ages. This was all you ever dreamt of since you became a demon.
‘Master, I simply want to be the most loyal servant that you could ever have.’
You went silent, as no more words could make their way out of your constricted throat. He stood in front of you for what seemed like a bit longer than what he did with the others. It was almost as if his terrifying gaze softened for a split second. But then he nodded and moved on to continue the selection.
As soon as he reached the end of the row, he walked back to the gate and pointed his clawed finger … toward where you stood. Immediately, the cocky demon closest to you stepped out of the line believing it was him that was chosen. But quickly, he was put in his place.
‘Not you, you fool. You.’
Kokushibo’s voice resounded and filled the courtyard with almost as much power as his aura did. His finger moved slightly more in your direction and as if in a trance you stepped out of the line without him reprimanding you. So, it was … you…
‘Training begins tomorrow. Be ready when I summon you.’ And with that, he left.
The days that followed were a blur. His training was intense with very few breaks. He was a fair sensei, but you were exhausted after each day. He did not seem to lose any of his strength or stamina no matter how hard you were going at him in the sparring. He would not speak much to you either. Apart from instructions and commands, he was short and the hours were passed in silence. He did seem to, however, soften in his attitude toward you, almost so that you could at times spot a glimpse of an occasional faint smile and a softer gaze in his six eyes.
Weeks passed like this when finally, in the middle of a tough sparring match he suddenly paused and waved you in. Without any unnecessary pleasantries, he began to speak:
‘You are progressing well and I am confident that you are ready to learn a breathing technique.’
This was beyond you, as it was only Kokushibo, Kaigaku and the human Demon Slayers that possessed that ability.
‘Will you teach me Moon Breathing, Master?’ Your eyes were still wide in disbelief.
‘No, I do not think your body could handle it. We will devise a technique that suits your physique. After all, you are a female.’ A brief, faint smile graced his face only to disappear just as fast.
He noticed, of course, how wouldn’t he? With his constant transparent world ability, he must have known all along…
The truth was, that all your life, you were uncomfortable in the body your soul was allocated to at birth. A masculine spirit that was trapped in the body of a woman. For years you were rejecting your state, training hard in any martial art you could find, just to counter what the gods threw at you. You developed a slender and athletic physique, however, remaining feminine enough to attract looks. When you became a demon, you could at least attain a physical strength that surpassed any human male. And you were content with that.
As for your looks? Well, you tried to disguise your femininity as much as it was possible, wearing a traditional gi and hakama as well as having your hair cropped short with heavy bangs covering parts of your face. This gave you a fierce look as it was only one of your narrow and predator-like eyes that was visible at any time.
You were shaken out of your thoughts by Kokushibo:
‘Before we proceed with the breathing technique, I would like to offer you an evening of respite. A small reward for your dedication and hard work. I would like to invite you to my mansion for dinner tonight. Would you like to join me?’
‘Master, anything that pleases you is my delight. Thank you for the invitation. I will be honoured to join you.’
He was studying you for a moment, just as if something else was on his mind.
‘Good, I will send a servant to get you tonight then. Be ready at the edge of Infinity Castle. Now go, you are dismissed for the rest of the day.’
As you were making yourself ready for dinner, you could not help but ponder over the true reason he wanted to invite you over to his place. But you quickly dismissed these thoughts as they were foolish and disrespectful.
When the time for your appointment finally came, you were met by a quiet demon servant of Kokushibo. As soon as you stepped on the gravel path, the heavy mist descended seemingly out of nowhere, obscuring your view to only the faint light emitted by the lantern bobbing in front of you carried by the demon leading your way to Kokushibo’s mansion. It was as if you were led by an ignis fatuus, a mysterious will-o'-the-wisp. Everything was quiet, even the sound of your footsteps felt muffled by the heavy blanket of the surrounding fog.
Your progress was slow and it felt like the trip would never end, but before excessive wariness got hold of you, the mist slowly dispersed and you could make out the contours of a wall and a large building looming behind it. Your footsteps felt loud again as you stepped on the wooden bridge leading over the moat and toward the gate. All the time you were walking you asked yourself why wouldn’t he simply teleport you to him. But soon your thoughts got distracted by what became visible to you when you stepped through the gate.
The path led into a well-manicured, large garden, with a mixture of Sakura trees and smaller, ornamental flowers and bushes. Water was pearling in a nearby fountain and warm fires set in traditional lanterns illuminated the almost magical space. Neat gravel paths cut through the garden and to your left in the distance, you could make out what seemed like a training ground.
This would not be the end of your astonishment as very soon you were being let into the mansion itself. After leaving your zori in the shoji, the servant led you through a short, dark corridor and into the room where Kokushibo was awaiting you. You did not know what to expect out of the home of a powerful demon, but definitely imagined something ominous and not overly welcoming to visitors. Instead, you were met by an inviting, ambient space.
The tatami was covered with oriental rugs, there were bookshelves on the walls and various intricately crafted decorative objects emerged from the shadows and into the amber light of the multiple lanterns scattered around the room, as you were slowly making your way toward Kokushibo.
He was already seated at the far end of the room, the contours of his noble figure merging into the space, more resemblant of a statue than a person. He watched you in silence as you approached and pointed you to your seat with a subtle hand gesture. Just as in training, he was not emanating his aura, instead, a strange sense of peace was radiating from his being.
‘You look sophisticated tonight.’ The directness of the greeting took you aback. You did indeed make the effort to look your best, replacing your masculine outfit with a flattering silken, bronze, and gold-coloured kimono. You did not, however, expect him to take notice. You just felt it was in a good tone to show respect by wearing appropriate attire.
‘Thank you, Master. You too look great, as always.’ You almost bit your tongue at your ridiculous response. His reaction was almost comical as he was apparently attempting not to laugh.
‘Well, let us eat. I gather you must be hungry.’ You nodded to this, still recovering from your idiotic and clumsy earlier remark.
He nodded to the servant waiting at the door and a few minutes later an array of fragrant dishes was placed in front of you. As you both ate, he was slowly becoming more talkative giving you more courage to ask a question that was on your mind ever since the selection night.
‘Why did you decide to choose me, Master?’
‘Well, you were the only one of that sorry lot that displayed some promise, but also because you are a female and I was curious. Not once before have I had a female in my service.’
You could not deny that ever since you started training with him, you were slowly becoming more and more susceptible to him. You never thought a male could instill such feelings in your tough, masculine heart… So, you blushed at his response. He noticed that and smirked.
‘But I must ask you. Why are you covering up the fact that you are a woman?’
Your response was long and when you were done, you felt stupid for blabbering on like you did. But he did not show any signs of annoyance. Instead, he stood up and invited you to join him.
‘Come, I have something to show you.’ He walked over to the wall where a magnificent purple katana was placed on a stand.
‘Do you see this? It is a symbol and a reminder of my own transformation. This was mine when I was still a human.’ He lifted the sword off its stand and slowly pulled the blade out of its’ saya. Instantly, you backed off. It was a Nichirin. He noticed your action and continued talking.
‘Yes, it is a Nichirin. As you may or may not know, I used to be a Demon Slayer once.’ He sheathed the katana and placed it gently back where it belonged.
‘All I am trying to say is that we all go through transformations and life is not a constant.’
He moved closer to you, his hand now touching your shoulder. He was a bit too close for comfort, but something kept you in place, you wanted him this close… It was as if he could sense your feelings.
He leaned into you and whispered:
‘Excuse my impertinence, but have you ever been with a man before?’
Whether it was the closeness or the obvious meaning of his question, either way, you started to feel the familiar fluttering in your belly accompanied by spreading warmth and wetness slowly accumulating between your legs.
‘Yes, I have, but it was never…’ You started off shyly.
‘...good...Is that what you are trying to say?’ He finished your sentence for you and you nodded in response.
‘Well, how about I show you how it should really feel like.’ His deep, warm hushed voice was sending shivers down your spine.
‘Now, Master?’ was all you managed to whisper.
‘Yes, now. I cannot wait.’
With that, he lifted you up bridal style and teleported you both to his bedroom.
He set you down on the floor in front of him, cupped your face in his large, calloused hands, and gave you the softest flutter of a kiss. His hands were soon untying your obi and once it was off, your kimono came undone and he slowly removed it from your body. He stepped back, admiring you.
‘You are a work of art…’ He moved closer to you again, his hands caressing your breasts and back. His touch was firm but gentle, no one has ever handled you this well. With skilled hands, you untied the belts of his hakama and the obi holding his kimono in place and removed the entirety of his garments. You were both naked, warm bodies embracing each other in anticipation of the approaching pleasure. He started slowly guiding you toward the futon and when you were close enough, he commanded in a soft voice.
‘Lie down, I wish to pleasure you now.’
He positioned himself between your legs, your sex straight in front of his face. He looked you deep in the eyes as he dove in to lick the outside of your folds. His gaze did not drop yours as he started to spread your slick-covered labia to grant himself better access. He held them apart with the fingers of one of his large hands and buried his face between them, his tongue lapping up your juices, pressing down firmly, and moving at a steady pace. A finger was now tracing circles around your sopping opening, only to proceed to snake its way into your pussy.
Next, you could feel two fingers scissoring inside you, small, deliciously wet squelching sounds filling up the room. He was growing harder and needed some friction to not become too pent up, thus he pushed you further onto the bed so that he could rub his hard cock on the futon underneath him. He started groaning as his manhood finally received the desired pressure and proceeded to abuse your cunt at a more ferocious tempo, concentrating on the area around your clit. You were consumed by your pleasure, unable to do anything else but arch your back and moan, giving yourself fully into the waves of warmth washing over you. Your hands were desperately grabbing and pulling his hair and as he directed all his focus onto your clit, you began to edge, tears filling up your eyes.
He noted your inner muscles clasping hard down on his fingers and your thighs being sent into small convulsions. With a few hard and fast taps of the tongue, he sent you into your orgasm, making you scream and wail. While rubbing his aching hard dick back and forth into the mattress, his face got squirted with your juices and as he was lapping up your cum, he hissed:
‘I can’t hold back anymore, I’m coming.’ And so, he climaxed, spraying his seed onto the sheets beneath.
His own orgasm did not seem to distract him much as within a few breaths he was back to abusing your now overstimulated clitoris. The whole area between your legs was swollen and blood-filled and he was working you relentlessly.
‘Please stop, I can’t.’
‘Yes, you can and you will.’
His eyes had a playful cruelty in them as he kept on licking and rubbing you all over. Tears were pooling in your eyes from overstimulation and your legs were shaking beyond control.
‘This is too much, please..’ You were pleading in protest with a hitching voice.
‘I will pull one more out of you, even if we will be going for hours.’
He intensified his actions, increasing the pressure and strength and very soon you were overcoming the overstimulation and heading toward another climax. With a loud, throaty moan, grabbing hold of his mane for support, you reached another release. This one turned your mind into fuzz and you were simply lying there, splayed on the futon, like a wet rag doll.
‘I am not done with you yet. I need to be inside you.’
He spoke quietly while climbing on top of you and spreading your legs with his massive, strong thighs, his voice sunk an octave lower sending you into overdrive. He was huge, everything including his perfect, large cock was as if carved out of marble. You were tracing the outlines of his muscles, wiping the small droplets of sweat that glistened sensually on his smooth skin. He lowered himself on you, nearly crushing you with his weight, and kissed you, snaking his long demon tongue deep into your mouth. You reciprocated and it was as if the two of you were trying to devour each other. The fire of your passion burning your senses up to dust.
Meanwhile, he shifted his hips and you could feel the tip of his cock press against your gaping entrance. Your core was now aching and dripping so you took him in with ease. His length was filling up your pulsing and needy pussy, your clenching muscles milking him while already on the way in. He commenced thrusting into you, slowly at first but soon increasing his speed and intensity as guided by your savage moans. You were on the edge of consciousness. What he was giving you was beyond anything you could have ever expected. It was as if he was moulding your body to his and all you could do was to allow him to become the master of your senses. The fire inside your core was now intense and you felt that anytime soon, you would climax all over again.
But before that happened you could feel him grow inside you and his thrusts became harder and deeper. And then suddenly, his abdomen muscles contracted and with one deep push into you, he emptied himself painting your velvety walls with his warm, thick cum. As if his seed was the only thing able to extinguish the fire in your core, you came almost simultaneously, squirting all over again, causing you to fill up to the brim with both of your combined juices.
You closed your eyes as you were completely spent, with him still inside and on top of you, thick white slick running out of you and down on the sheets. He was kissing your cheeks and neck softly and when a whisper left his lips, it seemed as if you were deep in a hazy dream:
‘Next time I will grant a wish that I can sense lies in the depths of your soul. I cannot make you a man, I am not God, but I can help you feel like one for a night. Come back here tomorrow and I will make it come true.’
When you woke up the following morning, your body was still imprinted with the memory of his touch. The intensity of sensations kept your flesh nearly at boiling point, despite having been granted release so many times… You moved your hand to your groin and started pleasuring yourself, moaning louder and louder the closer you were to your imminent climax. With eyes closed and thoughts invaded by him, you rode out your high and collapsed exhausted.
You had a day off as Kokushibo was on a short mission somewhere. You took the opportunity to just sleep, eat and relax. After all, tonight would bring new intense experiences… You were equally anxious as you were excited.
With the approach of the night, you were once again led through the same misty path and to Kokushibo’s mansion. This time around, you were led directly into his private sleeping quarters. Tonight, the room was filled with candles and there were wine and various snacks next to the large futon. He greeted you with a deep, passionate kiss and went over to get something from a nearby side table. When he walked over back to you and before handing you the item, he lifted your head by the chin and looked you deep in the eyes:
‘Are you ready to fulfill your wish? Do bear in mind, however, that I would not do this for anyone else but you. Do you understand? So here, I think this will help you feel more, mhm, in character.’
He handed you the object and you were perplexed. You had heard of such a thing but never saw one in real life, let alone used one. It was a fake penis, made in black, shiny, and bouncy material, strapped to a bunch of belts. You must have looked confused as he interrupted your hesitance:
‘It is a strap-on. You use it as if it was your own cock.’ He smiled playfully and winked.
‘Let us see if you are up for it. And oh, I almost forgot.’ He went over to the side table again.
‘You will need this. To make it smoother for us both.’ He handed you a small bottle of oil.
‘Well then, Master, I want you to fuck me hard.’ His lewd and playful words almost made your jaw drop.
Quickly, you regained your composure, as a chance like this, granted by no other than the powerful Kokushibo, would most likely never arise again. You manned up and walked up to him. You grabbed him by his long ponytail and yanked his head back while undoing his clothes with your other hand. You nipped his exposed neck with your fangs and whispered:
‘I will make you scream in pleasure, by the end of the night you will be begging me for more.’
As you let go of his hair, he looked back at you, a mischievous smile lighting up his face. He seemed pleased with your performance, eagerly awaiting your next step. You nearly tore his clothes off him and pushed him onto the futon. You proceeded to deliberately slowly remove your own garments. He was watching you with a hungry look in his eyes, biting his lip and cocking his head playfully. When you were completely naked you grabbed the strap on and after a short moment of inspection, you put it on, making sure it sat on properly.
‘What would you like me to do now, Master?’ He spoke in a flirtatious tone. His cock was fully erect, small pearls of precum already running down the shaft.
‘Lay flat on your stomach.’ You commanded.
*This was starting to feel good*, you thought. Your initial astoundment with being allowed to treat your sensei like this was as if washed away. Instead, you began to feel a powerful adrenaline rush ripping through your body. You grabbed the bottle of lubricant and climbed onto the futon.
You crawled on top of him, pressing his hard cock even deeper into the bed, causing him to release a deep sigh. His huge, hard glutes felt so good under your hands when you were massaging him, spreading his buttocks, and landing an occasional spank.
‘Harder, please.’ He taunted you while lifting his head up and giving you a lewd smirk.
‘No looking.’ You riposted, surprised at your sudden firmness. But you did listen and spanked him harder this time, your hand leaving a red print on his firm flesh.
‘Yes, Master.’ He chuckled out and moaned when the hard spank pushed his hips as well as obviously his dick into the mattress.
‘Please, fuck me hard.’ He kept on taunting.
‘Quiet.’ Another hard spank landed on his ass.
This time he obeyed and you could get to the main course. After you poured some oil onto his buttocks, you started spreading it around, massaging, and using your fingers to prep him before the oncoming penetration. You poured more oil into the palm of your hand and spread it all over the black dildo attached to your groin. Without a word you positioned the tip of it at his entrance and slowly, but steadily pried your way into him. There was the faintest twitch from his hips and thighs, but very soon you could see him slowly pump his hips into the mattress as you were moving in deeper. His breath was heavy and apart from that he was now completely silent. No more bratty remarks nor comments seemed to be in place anymore.
As you began pumping in and out, his hip movements followed your rhythm. You were holding on firmly to his buttocks with both your hands, the feeling of being in this position made the already strong onslaught of adrenaline completely empower you as you felt a surge of strength and aggression run through you. You gritted your teeth as you increased your pace. You could feel your cum literally run down your thighs, you have never been this aroused in your life. It was as if you were turning into a wild beast with its own pleasure as the only goal.
You saw him move his hand to his groin, grabbing hold of his cock to speed up the nearing climax. You could see his arm muscles flex as he was pumping alongside the continuous hip thrusts into the mattress. You sped up again causing him to growl and as you pumped relentlessly, stimulating his prostate, his whole body contracted and he sprayed out cum all over the sheets and his chest with a loud growl.
Cautiously, you pulled out. You grabbed a towel from the bedside table and wiped him clean, removed the strap-on, and wrapped it in the towel, dropping it to the floor.
As you climbed off him, he was lying on his side, breathing heavily, his eyes fogged up with lust and the remains of the recent pleasure. His lips were parted and he was looking at you from under his bangs.
You crawled closer to him and gently rolled him on his back. His arms fell limp to the sides and his face lit up by another lewd smirk. Without a word, but looking him straight in the eyes, you wrapped your hands around his limp cock and started stroking it until hard. It did not take long to get him erect and very soon you were straddling him, sinking yourself down onto his thick length. Your excessive wetness made it easy to do it in one swift move that made him almost gasp for air, as you seated yourself fully, he was now essentially balls deep inside you. Without hesitation, you started bouncing on him, every hard movement creating the perfect friction and making you moan in pleasure. He tried to touch your breasts, but you batted his arms away.
‘No touching. Not until I tell you to.’
You could feel the pressure inside your core reaching the point of being almost painful. Chasing your own release, you leaned over him, your chest almost flat on his, and began humping frenetically. In your mind you imagined him being your little bitch and you her master, dicking her down with your large manhood. You were humping hard and fast, almost at the limit of what your thigh muscles could take.
‘Rub my nipples.’ You hissed out and he obeyed.
When your sensitive buds ended up being rolled between his long fingers, you started to lose control. The entire depth of your inner muscle clenching and milking him relentlessly. You lowered yourself down to his neck and sank your fangs into the skin while scratching his arms with your claws. And doing this pushed you over the edge, your orgasm sending shockwaves of pleasure as you screamed your lungs out.
You kept on humping him lightly even after your climax, but your movement was slowing down as exhaustion was finally catching up with you. That is when he caught you off-guard.
‘I would like to come too, Master. Please?’ He whispered in your ear, landing a powerful thrust into you, making you almost fall off him.
You looked him in the eye and began riding him as if in a trance. He was groaning quietly as you felt his cock grow and twitch. And as you increased your pace and licked the side of his neck, ending up nibbling on the lobe of his ear, he came, growling loud and spraying you full of his cum.
He wrapped his arms around you and you remained in his embrace for the rest of the evening. You were not sure what the future held, but right here, in this moment where time stood still, you were exactly who you were meant to be.
Tagging: @horror4themasses @muzansfangs @sunsblaze
Banner by @cafekitsune
#demon slayer#kimetsu no yaiba#kny#kokushibo#demon slayer smut#michikatsu tsugikuni#kokushibo smut#kny smut#kimetsu no yaiba smut#kny michikatsu#michikatsu x reader#demon slayer michikatsu#michikatsu#tsugikuni michikatsu#michikatsu x y/n#kokushibo x reader#demon slayer kokushibou#kimetsu no yaiba kokushibo#kokushibou#demon slayer kokushibo#kokushibo x y/n#kokushibo x you#demon slayer x reader#demon slayer x you#demon slayer x y/n#kny x reader#kny x y/n#kny x you#kimetsu no yaiba x reader#kimetsu no yaiba x you
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A Mission Gone Sinfully Wrong
Day 18 of Kinktober: Visions of Temptation hosted by @xxsycamore found here Featuring: Jujutsu Kaisen | Gojo Satoru x f!reader Tags: mdni, smut, sex pollen, aphrodisiac, pwp, semi-public sex, p in v sex Prompts: Intoxication/Hypnosis/Aphrodisiacs | “You look good like that. Thoroughly loved.” A/N: A day late, but posting Day 18! ao3 link here.
Relentless waves of fire were rolling through your body. Satoru was pounding into you with a frightening speed, supporting you by your ass with your legs around him, your back pressed against the trunk of a tree. You bit back a moan, hopelessly trying to fight against the torrential rain of pure unadulterated ecstasy, but his next thrust had you seeing stars until you couldn’t hold back any longer.
“Senpai,” you gasped.
Satoru grunted, the grip he had on your hips tightening until you were sure his fingertips would leave bruises for you to find the next morning.
How.. How the fuck did you end up like this?!
It was supposed to be a straightforward mission, the kind where you would be in and out in record time without any complications, especially with the world’s strongest, Gojo Satoru by your side.
The mission was to track down a Grade 1 curse wreaking havoc in a residential area a few hours from Tokyo, a weaker Grade 1 that you absolutely knew you could handle solo. There wasn’t much information available about this particular curse or the extent of its destruction other than abnormal reports of people being found dead, wrapped up in one another naked, but it was enough to warrant investigation.
You grumbled, ignoring Satoru’s rambling behind you, as you led the way through the woods, irate at why the higher ups insisted Gojo Satoru accompany you on this particular mission. As a Semi-Grade 1, you knew you were still in the phase of being evaluated by a Grade 1 sorcerer or higher, but… were there really no other sorcerers available other than Gojo Satoru?
Gojo Satoru had been a couple years your senior at Tokyo Jujutsu High School, and until the day he graduated, he teased you relentlessly, and when he wasn’t teasing you, he was dismissing you for being weak. The two years he wasn’t around until you graduated had been heaven. Until now. Until he was chosen to evaluate whether you passed the promotion. You huffed. Why couldn’t it be Nanami Kento senpai evaluating you instead?
Your blood boiled, his playful comments on how slow it took for you to attain Semi-Grade 1 status grating on your last nerve, at how he reached Grade 1 status years ago, while still attending Jujutsu High. You gritted your teeth, taking deep breaths to calm the fury bubbling up, in danger of exploding. Easy for him to say, he had the entirety of the formidable Gojo clan pushing for his ascension, though you were loath to admit that the heavens had blessed the man with the incomparable innate skill to be named, ‘the strongest’.
Clicking your tongue, you came to a stop in a small clearing in the middle of the dense thicket of trees. You listened, closing your eyes, taking in the sound of the branches rustling in the wind, the sound of birds chirping, the sound of animals padding through the woods. Other than what one would normally expect to hear in a wooded area, nothing.
You frowned. The curse was last observed entering these woods. Even if it was lying dormant, your cursed energy enhanced hearing should be sensing something.
“Need help?” Satoru snickered from behind you where he had been languidly following your lead.
You felt yourself sigh. He was obviously being condescending. Knowing Satoru’s Six Eyes gift, it was likely he had already pinpointed the presence or the lack of presence of the curse, but this was your first mission as lead, and you needed the promotion to Grade 1. You needed to prove that you were strong enough to take over your family’s legacy as the first born child despite being a woman. You needed to prove that you weren’t weak.
“Not at all,” you retorted.
Lifting your pointer and middle finger to your chest, you muttered, “Aural Expansion.” A ping only audible to you shot through the trees, the returning echoes mapping out what lay around you.
Your eyes flew open. There. Thirty feet to your right. Lounging in a large tree.
You broke into a sprint. You heard Satoru protest from behind you, something about how you should communicate before running off on your own, but whatever. He was practically super human. He’d have no trouble keeping up.
You saw the tree from your echolocation up ahead. Smirking, you grasped the soundwaves of your and Satoru’s feet hitting the ground into your hands effectively muting the sound from reaching the curse’s ears. This was your ability, the ability to manipulate auditory vibrations.
“Soundwave manipulation… shockwave.”
The soundwaves in your hand amplified, sending a pulse of energy into the tree where the curse was hiding. The tree exploded with a loud crack, shrapnel of wood violently flying in all directions. You grabbed the sound of the tree exploding, preventing the crack from resounding through the forest and into the surrounding residential region.
Waiting for the smoke to clear, you narrowed your eyes, flicking them right and left. Where was it? It had been a direct hit, but the force behind the sound of footsteps was only strong enough to incapacitate it. You needed the strength of the resulting explosion in order to exorcise it.
Perking your ears, you took a deep breath, listening for a hint of its movements.
“Eh? Is that Bulbasaur?”
You whirled around, following the direction of Satoru’s blindfolded gaze to see…
You cocked your head to one side. The curse was idly sitting in a patch of debris, twittering in what appeared to be bristling anger. The same disbelief in Satoru’s voice flickered across your face.
Because… the curse did look very much like Bulbasaur, or rather, a very grotesque form of Bulbasaur, if Bulbasaur had monstrous fangs and oozing boils and welts covering its surface.
“Hmm… maybe not quite as cute as Bulbasaur.” Satoru turned to you. “So, you going to kill it or do I need to handle this for you?”
“I got it.”
You wanted to snap in frustration as Satoru shrugged in reply, shoving his hands in his pockets and slouching nonchalantly, but you chose to shift your focus onto the waves pulsing in your hands instead, preparing yourself to deliver the final, killing blow, when the curse suddenly jumped, shooting up into the air.
You froze. Did the first blast not injure it? Cursing to yourself, you snapped out of it, opening your mouth to utter your technique, when a soft yellow powder rained down on both you and Satoru, covering you in a fine layer of whatever it released.
You coughed, trying to clear as much of it as you could from your airway. The powder had gotten up your nose and into your throat, coating everything in a dry layer as if you had just tried to swallow a spoonful of cinnamon. Choking on whatever it was, you prayed that the powder wasn’t anything poisonous or damaging, and barely gathering a breath, you choked out, “shockwave”, hurling the waves in your hands at the curse hanging in the air, watching as they barreled into its body and the curse exploded in a squelch of purple.
Thank god.
You sank to your knees, gasping to catch your breath. It was only when the adrenaline subsided you could hear Satoru sputtering from behind you, also making futile attempts at expelling whatever this was from his own lungs.
That was strange. Satoru’s Limitless should have prevented the powder from reaching him at all. Did it have the ability to push through his barrier? You felt a giggle choking out of you. The great Gojo Satoru apparently wasn’t able to block everything.
“Not so–” cough “–invincible, are you–” cough “–senpai?” you wheezed, shaking at how ridiculous Satoru looked clutching at his chest, trying to suck in as much oxygen as you were at the moment.
Turned out, he was just a man and not a god after all.
“Shut up–” cough “–all your fault.” Satoru – you assumed, it was difficult to tell with the blindfold – glared at you from where he was hunched over.
Your giggles turned into choked laughter, partially from the elation of not needing Gojo Satoru’s help on this mission and partially from the glee in watching him suffer.
But…
Why was it suddenly so hot?!
A buzzing, tingling sensation rippled down your body starting from the top of your head, down to the very tip of your toes as an intense heat overtook you.
Was this the effect of the curse’s powder?
You moved to stand, but the sensation of your thighs rubbing together sent a jolt of lightning hurtling through the apex between your legs.
What?
You unclenched your thighs, making another attempt to rise to your feet, but the sensation of skin against skin sent another jolt radiating through your lower belly.
What was happening?
You glanced at your mission partner, who also seemed to be suffering from the same symptoms. He was groaning sensually, a soft flush spreading on his cheeks.
“Senpai?”
Your voice came out sweetly, almost like a breathless moan, the complete opposite of what you intended. Satoru groaned pitifully as your voice reached him, writhing in what you presumed to be pain. You managed to pull yourself up onto shaky legs, stumbling over to the Special Grade sorcerer.
“Senpai, are you okay?”
You placed a hand on his shoulder, eliciting a drawn-out moan from him and startled at the intense heat radiating through you until you ached. All your senses buzzed for him. The enticing sounds of his groans, the intoxicating smell permeating off of him, the blistering heat of his body, the erotic flush on his face all overtaking you in an intense whirlwind until you throbbed. Throbbed with need for him.
Your eyes widened. The reports suddenly made sense. The yellow powder wasn’t a poison. It was a powerful aphrodisiac leading victims into carnal acts of pleasure, the curse killing them at their peak.
“Don’t… don’t touch me,” Satoru grunted. “This… all your… fault.”
He was barely holding himself together, his muscles rippling under his clothes, taut with restraint. He breathed heavily, the sound dizzying to your senses. You pathetically whined, your own desire bubbling under the surface, knees buckling at how intensely you shivered.
Gojo Satoru snapped when you brushed his side as you faltered beside him. He reached for you hastily, urgently crashing his lips onto yours, claiming them with a ravenous ferocity. You gasped, lips parting against him, and he took the opening to desperately taste you with his tongue, running them over your lips, intertwining it with yours.
He tasted divine.
Somewhere in the murky depths of your mind, you knew that this was wrong. It was so very wrong. He was your evaluator. Your relationship was professional. You absolutely detested him. But the thought was lost in the muddled haze of your desire, the only prominent thought reigning in your mind in this present moment being one of how much you wanted him.
You pawed at him shamelessly, the feel of his taut muscles and his hungry, demanding lips stoking the fire burning within you into a blazing inferno.
“Can’t… can’t hold back,” he mumbled, his own hands roaming your body, along your back, your ass, your breasts.
You took in a shuddering breath, knowing you might regret how you answer tomorrow. “D-don’t.”
It was almost as if something in Gojo Satoru broke when you whimpered for him not to stop. He practically ripped off his pants and yours in his frenzied haste to remove everything that stood in the way of his cock and you.
“Gojo… senpai…”
“Say– say my name.”
“Satoru…”
With a guttural growl, Satoru hiked you up around his waist, his lips still locked onto yours, stumbling until your back hit the trunk of a tree behind you, your legs wrapping around his waist. A thready moan escaped you, the impact sending vibrations roiling through your hot, bothered body. Satoru keened at the sultry sound of your voice, pressing you even harder against the rough bark.
He entered you sharply, your arousal pooling so thickly, he buried himself to the hilt quickly without resistance. Satoru broke the kiss, burying his head in the crook of your neck, panting.
“God, you feel amazing.”
His strangled exhaled breaths burned where they landed on your skin. You were squirming, trembling, writhing, the deliciously full sensation of him bringing you to your metaphorical knees. There was no foreplay, no buildup. Satoru was splitting you open, bouncing you on his cock, his frenzied speed only getting faster every time he felt you clench.
It was pure animalistic pandemonium.
Satoru found his way back to your lips, seeking them out with a frenetic desperation as if he’d never experience something so sweet again. “Wouldn’t have… happened… if I killed it… first…” he grunted, pressing his lips to yours over and over again, hot, heavy breaths intermingling with your own heady gasps of pleasure.
God, how was it that even deep in the throes of passion, he could make your blood pressure rise dramatically?
“Shut.. up…”
You arched your back, moaning his name, trembling from the overwhelming build of fire scorching you from the inside out. Satoru was pounding into you at an inhuman speed, driving deeper into you as if he were trying to meld your bodies into one, the friction of him dragging along you driving you to the edge of unraveling.
Gojo Satoru was fucking you, and you were loving it.
“Senpai…” His grip on you tightened, his fingertips digging into your flesh with a bruising force. “Satoru…”
You were on the edge, so close, so very close.
“Almost… hah…” Satoru breathed.
Your eyes fluttered closed, and throwing your head back, you made the lewdest, most indecent yowl you’d ever made in your life, clamping down on his cock with a force you yourself had never experienced before.
Satoru slammed into you forcefully, filling your vision with white hot stars, the painfully delicious sensation sending you both careening off the edge and he was filling you with flood after flood of his release while you convulsed uncontrollably in his arms.
Your heartbeat was pounding in your ears. It was only after the adrenaline ebbed away, as the fog of blinding lust cleared and clarity returned, the effects of the powder seemingly having abated, that you realized the ridiculous vision the two of you must make, half-naked, flushed, tops and blindfold askew, his climax and your slick sliding down your thighs, creamed around his base – in a public space no less. Feeling him soften still buried deep inside you, you blushed furiously and swatted at his arms, silently demanding he release you.
Satoru did the opposite, pulling you even more flush against his heaving body, a smug smirk dancing on his arrogant, swollen lips, a wicked gleam in his impossibly clear blue eyes.
You struggled against his hold, but he held fast, his physical strength far above yours, leaving you thrashing in vain. You huffed, your blush deepening, refusing to meet his incessant gaze, more to spare yourself from the embarrassment of what just happened.
“You know…”
“Don’t, just… please don’t.” You all, but begged. Knowing Gojo Satoru, the next words out of his mouth were guaranteed to be aggravatingly humiliating.
“You look good like that. Thoroughly loved.”
You groaned, sure that your face was no doubt a deep reddish purple. “Shut up,” and with a pout, you insisted, “This never happened.”
Satoru hummed, but finally released you, gently pulling out and setting you on your feet. You beelined towards your discarded pants, trying to ignore the squelch of white running down your leg. Shakily dressing yourself, you watched as Satoru also righted himself out of the corner of your eye.
You wanted nothing more than to go home, to your quiet, safe, apartment where you could take a scalding hot shower to remove any and all traces of that damn curse and Gojo Satoru off of your body, where you could bury yourself under your blanket and utter muffled profanities into your pillow, where you could die and wallow in embarrassment.
But, being a few hours from Tokyo and with how dark it had gotten, it was likely you’d have to find a place to stay for the night before you could return to your comforting bed the next morning.
You twisted your fingers together, searching for something, anything to say to break the awkward silent tension hanging in the air.
“So… did I pass the evaluation?”
You grimaced as the words left your mouth.
Really? That’s what you decided to say? After what just happened?
You heard Satoru snicker.
“After that, definitely.”
You rolled your eyes. Of course… of course he’d say something so exasperatingly inappropriate. You sometimes wondered why you even bothered expecting anything different.
“Gojo Satoru, you are a menace,” you muttered to yourself under your breath, but kicked yourself when Satoru chuckled, indicating that he had heard you.
“Come on, I’m starving.” Satoru walked off, but he suddenly stopped, turning halfway back towards you, fixing one of his gorgeous blue eyes on you, twinkling with something you couldn’t quite name before snapping the blindfold in place.
The electric zing running through you unsettled you.
Could it be that the powder’s effect hadn’t completely worn off?
That had to be the only rational explanation for what you just felt. The other possibility, the possibility that you might not actually dislike Gojo Satoru didn’t make any sense.
Groaning, you ran to catch up to Satoru’s receding form, ardently hoping there was an inn in town with more than just one vacant room.
It was going to be a long night, you just knew it.
#missaengg writes#kinktober#kinktober 2024#visions of temptation 2024#jujutsu kaisen smut#jjk smut#gojo satoru x reader#gojo x reader#gojo satoru smut#gojo x you#gojo x reader smut#satoru gojo x reader#satoru gojo#satoru x you#satoru x reader#gojo satoru x you#gojo satoru#jjk fanfic#jjk#jujutsu kaisen fanfic#jujutsu kaisen
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HELL-FIRE. luke (pjo) - pt 1
PART 1 > PART 2 (in progress)
IN WHICH… Y/N doesn’t want to admit it, but perhaps she and the mischievous son of Hermes have more in common than she originally thought.
“Maybe it’s a blessing in disguise. I see my reflection in your eyes.”
Warnings : mentions of abuse
REQUESTS ARE OPEN
—
The cold water lapped at Y/N’s shoulders as she sank into the tub placed strategically in the corner of the empty cabin.
Life as a forbidden kid was hard. You had no siblings and everybody was expecting you to do grand things. A small sigh slipped past Y/N’s lips as the water heated up until it was at a temperature that almost scolded her skin. Perhaps it was because Hades, the king of the Underworld, was her father but Y/N always found herself fascinated by fire. She loved to watch the blue, orange, and yellow flames flicker in the dim darkness.
It wasn’t until her arrival at Camp Half-Blood did it all make sense. Y/N, the daughter of Hades, was able to control fire. Though, she hadn’t quite gotten the hang of it. It all came in random bursts and every time she walked along the crisp green grass, a trail of brightly lit flames slithered after her.
The Demeter kids hated her for ruining the plush red roses that took them weeks to nurture. Y/N could understand their fury and she did her best to avoid their plants now, especially because her fire favoured the taste of Demeter’s flowers.
A quiet knock on the wooden door interrupted Y/N’s peace. She slowly rose from the water, droplets running down her finger tips. She slowly dried herself with a soft cotton towel before slipping her bright orange shirt over her head. She slid on a pair of loosely fitting pants before turning the knob, harshly pulling the door open.
“Do you need something?” Y/N asked, frowning at the small kid in front of her. He trembled and took a nervous step back.
“Luke… he… he told me to give this to you.” The kid stretched out his hand, practically shaking as Y/N stared down at the dark red rose. A lousy gift in her opinion.
Luke was the son of Hermes and the head counsellor of his cabin. He was popular amongst the campers and girls constantly swooned over him. Y/N, on the other hand, had no interest in romance. It had always been that way ever since she was born.
Y/N was conceived into this cruel world with a cold and empty heart. Her mother thought of it as a personality disorder at first until she realized that it was just how Y/N was. No amount of love forced into her arms could change the deep anger boiling inside of her.
Y/N took the rose, peering at it and scowling. “You’ve done your job. Scram.” She shooed the young Hermes kid away, almost shoving him off her rickety wooden porch. She caught sight of Luke watching her through the clean window of his own cabin.
He had never shown much interest in her before until a year ago, where we witnessed her easily take down some of the best fighters in camp.
He grinned at her, a gesture that should have made her heart flutter. But it didn’t. Y/N silently stared at him, feeling the sudden heat rush to her fingers. She lit the rose alight and it didn’t take long until only a few crisp and blackened petals remained in her grasp.
She quickly dropped them, scattering the remains of the once beautiful flower everywhere. It acted as a constant reminder that no matter how hard Luke tried, she was simply immune to his charm.
It’s not like Y/N didn’t want to love, because she did. She saw the Aphrodite kids treating Valentine’s Day like it was some big festivals. And she noticed how many of the boys in the Apollo cabin always had their eyes glued to one of the Athena girls.
They looked at her like she was a pile of treasure; like a precious jewel. They stared at her with such admiration and adoration that Y/N felt a little jealous. How come she couldn’t love while others could?
It was probably because of the darkness lurking within her, feasting away at every small spark of happiness until it was gone, resting in the belly of the beast. Anger, jealousy, and hatred consumed her easily. And she was bitter because of it.
It was pitch black by the time Y/N collapsed on her soft mattress. She was clad in shorts and a black crop top to battle the humid weather during Summer. She was half asleep when a quiet tap and rattle woke her.
Y/N quietly groaned. She knew who was waiting by her window, wearing a spare camp t-shirt and dusty grey shorts that stopped above his knees. His tapping become quicker and sharper until Y/N had no choice but to fling the window open.
“What?” She hissed at Luke.
He always came at the same time every night. Twelve o’clock sharp in hopes of wooing her. Y/N wasn’t stupid, she knew he was after something else that wasn’t romance related but until she figured out what, she wasn’t comfortable being alone in his presence.
Luke simply smiled, resting his chin on the sill. “Walk with me?” He questioned, jabbing a thumb over his right shoulder.
“It’s past curfew.” Y/N sharply retorted, glowering at him. Beams of moonlight shone down on the pair, acting as if the world were a stage that needed to be lit. Y/N could clearly see Luke tilt his head to the side, gazing up at her through his lashes.
“It’ll be quick.” He was persistent as always.
“What part of not interested confuses you?” Y/N threw the covers back over her body, prepared to crash her head against her feathered pillow and let her eyes flutter shut.
"One walk and I'll stop annoying you for a week."
That made Y/N pause. She stared at Luke, narrowing her eyes. A week wasn't long but it was better than putting up with his presence constantly. "Okay." She slowly said, causing Luke to victoriously grin. He pumped his fist.
"If we get caught, you have to take the blame." Y/N warned Luke as she stepped out of her cabin, pointing sternly at him. He wrapped a lock of her H/C hair around his finger, standing too close to comfort.
"I'd take every blame for you." He whispered, playfully winking. Y/N rolled her eyes in reply.
"I'd let you rot in a ditch." She pushed him away, storming down the stairs of the small porch. He clicked his tongue, eyes glazing over her movements. He jogged to catch up with her, his hand brushing against her leg.
The slight breeze surrounded the two of them as Y/N glanced up at the shining stars, her eyes darting around to spot all the different constellations. Luke followed her gaze, arching an eyebrow.
"What are you staring at?" He asked, licking his chapped lips. Y/N's eyes darted to look at him before she rolled her eyes, not saying anything.
"Can't you take a hint to be quiet?" She muttered after a minute of painful silence.
"No, I can. It's a choice to annoy you." He slyly smiled, bumping Y/N with his hip. She scoffed, shoving her hand into his face.
The crickets chirped loudly as Y/N walked past them, Luke following close behind. The air was colder now and Y/N relished the feeling of it against her skin. She almost forgot the son of Hermes was with her before he cleared his throat.
"No fire following behind us?" He questioned. He was used to the flames that often licked at Y/N's ankles but never dared burn her.
"That would get us caught." Y/N retorted. She faltered for a second, "Me, I mean. It would get me caught."
Luke lowly chuckled. "Nah, too late, Blaze. You said us. So there is something between us. And here I thought you only saw me as an obnoxious idiot."
Y/N sharply clicked her tongue, glaring at him. "Don't call me Blaze. And yes, I do see you as one."
"What would you prefer then? Conflagration? Inferno? Oh, what about Holocaust?"
"I didn't even know you knew those words." Y/N uttered, blankly staring at Luke. But Blaze was surely better than being called Holocaust.
"Blaze it is." Luke slung an arm around Y/N's shoulder, carefully testing the waters. The smell of burning flesh wafted through the air and Y/N quickly shrugged Luke's arm off, panicking slightly.
"Don't touch me." She said. It was supposed to be a harsh command but it came out as more of a desperate warning. Y/N's eyes darted to Luke's burnt skin. She scowled, at both his persistence to hold her and her inability to control her angry flames. It's not like she was actively trying to hurt people. It just... happened.
"I think it's time for you to leave." She said, her voice nothing more than a whisper. "Get your arm checked."
"It's late, no Apollo kid will be awake." His sizzling flesh didn't phase him in the slightest. He had dealt with worse, far worse. Like Clarisse's spear. "Besides, I like walking with you."
"At least soak your arm in water. It'll bring down the stinging sensation as well as protect it from risk of infection." Y/N was hesitant to even get near Luke, afraid of what her ability might do lest she lost control. But Luke was fearless. He'd grip her wrist a million times, even if it meant getting burnt, just to feel her skin against his.
He was like Icarus, unrelenting in his pursuit for greatness. He adored Y/N like Icarus loved the sun; too fast and too close. In a way, Y/N was death reincarnated. Pupils so big that it was unsettling, a glare so intense it could swallow you up, and a dark grace that followed her every move. Icarus died with broken wings but a fulfilled soul, just as Luke would if it meant he could hold Y/N.
Y/N led Luke towards a small pond and dipped her hand into the cool water. It started bubbling and Y/N instantly recoiled. Luke watched her, curious.
"Why do you do that?" He asked, gaining Y/N's wavering attention.
"Do what?" She muttered, furrowing her brows in confusion. Luke lightly chuckled, staring down at the rippling water.
"The fire thing. And heating up water. Why?"
Y/N shrugged. "It's not like I do it on purpose. It's random. Heating up water is easy enough but the flames are weird. I've tried spotting a pattern but I just can't see it." Y/N held up a finger, heat rushing to the tip. A flame flickered but it wasn't like her usual orange or blue ones. It was pink.
A light pink hue reflected off Luke's face as he peered at the fire, his eyes darting to follow its wild movements. He slowly dipped his charred arm into the water, grinning at Y/N who found slight amusement in playing with the pink flame.
"You ever think your flames follow your emotions?" He piped up, tilting his head to the side.
"Excuse me?"
"Your emotions. Maybe they control your fire." He shrugged, "Your flames are usually orange but when you get angry, which happens a lot, they turn blue. And the pink... I don't know. Love?"
Y/N sneered. "Love? Who would I be in love with?" It was a ridiculous suggestion. Stupid, even. Love didn't exist in Y/N L/N's world. Luke raised his brows, silently gesturing to himself. "I'd rather kiss a dragon."
Luke reached out to touch the flame and Y/N pulled away in a panic. "Don't!" She exclaimed, but Luke's hand was already waving through the fire. It didn't hurt in the slightest and Luke smiled. Y/N's whole hand exploded into pink-toned flames and she jumped, waving her hand around until the fire went out.
"Blaze... Do your emotions... scare you?" Luke asked. Y/N lightly scoffed, glaring at Luke as she always did. A flicker of blue glazed over her E/C eyes and then it was replaced with orange which quickly shifted into pink. And it finally returned to blue before disappearing as quickly as it came.
"Your eyes... they, uh..." Luke didn't know how to describe it. "Do they... somewhat flame up a lot?"
"Ignore that." She grumbled, shielding her face from Luke's hawk-like gaze.
"You intrigue me. Why do you act so bitter all the time, Y/N?" Luke questioned, clearing his throat. She paused, lightly biting down on her bottom lip. He didn't have room to judge because despite carrying around a kind and caring facade, Luke was just as mean as her underneath it all. Y/N just... didn't bother to hide it while Luke turned his head every time his eyes darkened or his lips curled into a disgusted sneer.
"I don't have a reason. Do you ever think that maybe I'm not acting and that I was born this way? Because I'm pretty sure I was."
"There's a reason for everything."
"Okay, you want to know why?!" Y/N exclaimed, fed up with all his questions and teasing. Luke calmly gestured her to continue.
"I hate them. I hate the deities above who call themselves our godly parents. They are just as fucked up as us, if not more. I mean, what were they thinking? Fucked up people give birth to fucked up kids. They underestimate us and abandon us and still think that we'll worship the ground they walk on. If I'm being honest, I don't think they love us. My father... Hades... he had an opportunity to save me from the abuse my mother was inflicting on me."
Luke's facial expression softened. His eyes locked with Y/N's angry ones and for a split second, he saw himself in her. A demigod desperate to prove themselves to their parent only to be disappointed.
"And you know what was worse? I saw him. I met him. He came to our house one day and I didn't know it was him in that moment but after I got here, it all made sense. The man who randomly showed up on the doorstep all those years ago and acted like he knew everything about me... was my father. The same man who dumped me in the horrible care of my mother. Hades, the supposedly only God who loved his half-blood child, actually abandoned her when he had the choice to take her with him."
"I get what you mean." Luke muttered, shifting closer to her. She didn't stop him. "I feel abandoned too. My dad, he did something similar. I agree with you when you say that the gods don't love us... because I don't think they do either. We're just... their pawns. You see this scar?"
Luke's finger trailed over the scar that adorned the side of his face. "My father... he gave me a quest that Hercules had already completed. I didn't want to do something someone else had already done but I thought, how hard could it be? And I failed it... I failed the quest. And some stupid dragon scratched me and gave me this scar."
"I don't get why they think we're expendable." Y/N's hands clenched into fists and she clicked her tongue. She turned to Luke, flinching at how close he was all of a sudden.
It all happened too quickly. One second Y/N's lips accidently brushed against Luke's and the next the whole field around the pond burst into a flood of pink flames. Y/N and Luke stood in front of Chiron, hands clasped behind them. Luke stared at the ground in shame while Y/N wasn't scared to look Chiron in the eye.
"You not only snuck out past curfew, which is breaking rules, but Miss Y/N, you also burned a fellow camper and set flames to the grass."
"Chiron, sneaking out past curfew was my idea." Luke, as promised, took responsibility for his actions. "And she can't control her fire and I provoked her so I deserved it anyway." Luke shrugged.
"That still doesn't excuse your behavior. I expect you to clean all the sword before the Ares kids mess them all up again."
Y/N scoffed under her breath. "This is all your fault. I can't believe I snuck out with you of all people." Y/N poked his shoulder and a small pink flame danced across his shirt before dissolving into thin air.
"Pink means love." Luke teased.
"I will burn you again." Y/N threatened, stomping on his foot.
"Hey, you wouldn't burn your ranting partner so soon, would you?" He grinned.
Y/N didn't want to admit it but she did share a lot of similarities with Luke. From their hatred for the gods to the feeling of being abandoned. "Talking with you wasn't entirely terrible." She muttered, rolling her eyes.
"Thanks, Blaze." He gently grasped her hand, pressing a chaste kiss to her knuckle. Y/N jumped and everything went up in flames again. Literally. "Y/N... Y/N, you're on fire. You are on fire!" But it didn't hurt. The flames wrapped around her like a comforting blanket as Luke stared at her in both awe and confusion. "It's kinda cool actually. It looks like you're glowing." Luke chuckled while she glared at him, wildly trying to pat the pink fire out.
"Come on, just admit you like me, Blaze. Even just a little bit. You find me pretty, don't you?"
"I do not!" Y/N exclaimed, the flames growing stronger. Luke teasingly raised his brows, staring at her with a knowing smirk. She scoffed, spinning around.
"See ya later, Blaze!" Luke called out as she stormed away. She turned around, deeply scowling at him.
"Shut up!" She shouted, a glowing trail of fire following after her and burning its way through the grass. Campers squealed at the sight, jumping out of the way.
Luke chuckled to himself, watching when Y/N sneered at a young Apollo boy. "She's so cute." He muttered to himself, shaking his head in amusement.
From the window, Chiron sighed at the familiar sight of Y/N's fire. "She's getting stronger." He said, frowning.
"So? At least her pink flames are harmless, unlike her blue ones. And don't get me started on that huge blowup she had last year. I didn't even know black flames existed until she blew up! More like exploded!" Mr D scoffed, shivering at the memory of Y/N's black flames. It was like a massive bomb went off.
Chiron was silent for a moment until he looked at Mr D. "She likes Luke." He quickly said.
Mr D instantly sat up, slamming his hand against the table in front of him. "Oh, yeah, definitely! I started shipping those two ever since they started bickering. Catch up, Chiron!"
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Could you take a shot of aegon x Tyrell? Where she is married to some reach gentleman and ends up having an affair with aegon and resulting in a pregnancy. And when the baby is born and everyone sees that he is platinum, oc's husband freaks out and questions aegon who answers with sarcasm that he may have a dragonrider son and does not like his wife
✾𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐞✾
Aegon ii targaryen x Reader Tyrell
word count :990
Warning : Infidelity, pregnancy, bad words , anguts.
It had not stopped raining since morning, and your screams echoed in the room, accompanying the constant rhythm of the rain. You paced back and forth, trying to mitigate the intense pain that came in relentless waves. The midwives followed you, advising you to lie down, but you pushed them away.
You prayed to the gods fervently, begging for their mercy and to help the baby be born healthy. Your red hair stuck to your sweat-beaded forehead, while tears of desperation and effort ran down your cheeks. As you walked, resting a hand on your bulging belly, you felt a sudden release of fluids that soaked the floor of the room.
The pain was unbearable, but it was all worth it when the midwives finally placed the newborn on your chest. You noticed the thin layer of platinum hair that covered his head, an unmistakable feature, but at the time you didn't care. You kissed your son's head as happy tears fell down your cheeks. The baby was crying loudly, his little fists clenched
Your husband entered the room looking with amazement and horror at the newborn he was holding in your arms, before he could say anything you stopped him.
"Luthor, please" you begged with a trembling voice, your eyes filling with tears "This is our son. I beg you to accept it."
The knight stood still, his fists clenched and his face hardened with anger and betrayal. "Don't do it for me… do it for him" you said, holding the newborn into his arms.
Luthor hesitated, his gaze moving from the baby's serene face to your pleading eyes. The room was filled with tension, the air thick with the mix of emotions and the distant sound of the rain that continued to hit the windows. Finally, with a mixture of resignation and hopelessness, he reached out and took the child.
You spent the next few days in your chambers, surrounded only by your husband, a few midwives, and little Edmund. No one else had seen the newborn. His platinum hair and brown eyes, just like yours, looked around with endless curiosity.
You and Luthor didn't discuss the topic of the baby's paternity, and you both decided not to mention it to anyone. However, it was not surprising that rumors were already spreading in the corridors from the rats of the Red Keep. The gossip spread like a slow fire, and even if it wasn't openly discussed, you knew that many eyes were on your family.
It wasn't until a heated argument between Prince Aegon and your husband that Lord Tyrell burst into your room, his face burning with fury, declaring that they would return to Highgarden. You were surprised, since you had come to King's Landing on court business and you did not expect such a hasty return.
"Prepare your things, we leave at dawn" Luthor ordered, his voice trembling with suppressed anger. His eyes flashed with a mix of pain and determination that disturbed you deeply.
You tried to stay calm as you processed his words. "What happened? ,Why are we coming back so soon?" you asked softly, although you already knew the answer, Luthor strode over, his face grim and his fists still clenched.
"Aegon" he began in a harsh voice. "He had the audacity to say that you should be grateful to have fathered the son of a dragon rider" That insolence was the last straw.
The air became thick and heavy in the room. You instantly understood the impact of those words on your husband. The humiliation and betrayal had been too much for him, and Aegon, with his arrogance, had pushed Luthor over the edge.
"Luthor" you said, trying to reach for his hand to offer comfort, but he jerked away, his gaze fixed on the floor.
"There is nothing more to discuss" he replied in a sharp voice. "Highgarden is our home, far from the viperous tongues and inquisitive eyes of this rotten court."
You sighed, resigned. You knew that insisting would only make things worse. As you prepared to leave, your mind was filled with worries about the future. How would you face life in Highgarden with the stigma of infidelity and the birth of Edmund? However, the innocence of your son and his future were your main concern.
While leaving King's Landing meant escaping immediate scrutiny, it also meant facing suspicion and judgment in the Tyrell ancestral home.
You decided to take one last walk through the halls of the Red Keep before leaving. You wanted to record in your memory every corner, every detail of that place that had witnessed your most intense and complex moments. With every step, you felt the weight of the decisions made and the consequences you would face upon returning to Highgarden.
You turned into a hallway and suddenly, someone slammed you against the wall, holding you firmly by the waist. The impact left you momentarily breathless and before you could react, you felt lips smash against yours in a rough and messy manner.
Your first instinct was to resist, but the unmistakable platinum hair and the intensity of his gaze piercing you confirmed it was Aegon.
The force of his kiss spoke of desperation and desire, an attempt to hold on to something he knew he was about to lose.
"Aegon" you tried to say between their kisses, but he didn't let you finish, his mouth covering yours again, silencing any protests. His hands gripped your waist with palpable need, as if he could prevent your departure with his touch.
Finally, you managed to pull away slightly, panting with the effort. "I have to go" you whispered, your words barely audible as you tried to regain your composure.
"I can't let you go like this" Aegon rasped, his forehead resting against yours. —You know this isn't fair, that I need you here.
"I can't stay here anymore" you whispered, barely containing the emotion in your voice. You felt Aegon bury his face in your neck, leaving a trail of sloppy and desperate kisses over your skin.
"Don't say that" Aegon murmured against your neck, his voice vibrating with a mix of sadness and desire. His hands gripped your waist tightly, as if his touch could prevent the inevitable.
"I must go" you insisted softly, trying to remain firm in your decision. You felt his lips move slowly over your skin, his kisses leaving a burning trail that contrasted with the cold of the stone behind your back
Aegon pulled away slightly, his intense gaze searching yours. "Is this really what you want?" he asked with a voice heavy with pain. "Leave everything we've had here?"
You took a deep breath, trying to find the right words. "It's not a matter of wanting" you finally said. "It's what I should do for my family. I can't continue living in this chaos"
You pulled away from Aegon gently, leaving one last kiss on his lips. "See you, my prince" you whispered, saying goodbye with a mixture of resignation and a spark of amusement in your eyes.
You turned around and started walking down the hallway, feeling his gaze on your back. Each step towards the exit of the Red Keep felt lighter than the last. You had decided to face the future with a more optimistic attitude, knowing that this farewell was necessary.
#house of the dragon season 2#aegon targaryen#hotd season 2#angst#aegon ii targaryen#aegon the second#aegon ii x reader#hotd aegon#aegon ii fanfic#aegon ii x you#writers on tumblr#medieval#dragon age#fanfic#fantasy#prince aemond#aegon targaryen x reader#house tyrell#aemond targaryen x reader#rhaenyra targaryen#aemond targaryen x you#aemond fanfiction
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Hour of the Wolf
- Summary: Cregan keeps his promise to you, and delivers Northern justice to the South.
- Paring: velaryon!reader/Cregan Stark
- Note: These events happen right after The Wolf's Flame. To read all parts of this story, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top. This is the last part (conclusion) for this series.
- Rating: Mature 16+
- Word count: 5 000+
- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @daeryna @melsunshine @21-princess
The cold wind that blows down from the North seems to follow him even here, into the heart of the South, where the air is usually filled with the warmth of the sun. Yet today, the skies over King’s Landing are heavy with a gray pallor, as if the gods themselves know that justice is at hand. You are not here to witness this, but you are the reason for it. Every step Cregan Stark takes is one of duty, but also of love—love for you, his Y/N, his beloved wife, and the mother of his children.
The streets of King’s Landing tremble under the march of Northern boots, the sight of direwolf banners casting long shadows against the red stone walls. Cregan’s expression is as hard and unyielding as the land he comes from, his gray eyes focused on the path ahead. He is the Lord of Winterfell, the Wolf in the South, and today, the Hour of the Wolf has come.
Outside the Red Keep, the air is tense, the men around him anxious. They know what he is capable of; they know the purpose behind his presence. Justice. It is the promise he made to you, and the promise he will fulfill. Waiting at the gates, he finds two figures—one is the boy king, Aegon, the youngest of your mother’s children, and the other is Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, your grandfather.
Aegon stands tall, but there is a shadow in his violet eyes, a weight that he has carried since he took his place as the King of the Seven Kingdoms. Corlys, too, has the look of a man who has seen too much, but still, there is a fire in him, one that refuses to die despite the years of war and loss.
As Cregan approaches, it is Aegon who speaks first, his voice steady despite the turmoil that surrounds him. “Lord Stark, we have been expecting you.”
Cregan nods, his gaze unwavering. “And I have come as promised. The South will know the meaning of Northern justice.”
Corlys steps forward, his eyes sharp as they search Cregan’s face. “The traitor Aegon II is dead, found poisoned in his chambers,” he announces, his tone devoid of satisfaction, yet also lacking in sorrow. “The throne is now secure, but the realm is not yet at peace.”
For a moment, the air is still, as if even the city itself is holding its breath. Cregan’s expression does not change, but there is a flicker in his eyes—a glimmer of something darker. “The death of Aegon II was too swift,” he says, his voice low and filled with the cold of the North. “He deserved more for what he did to your family, for what he did to my wife.”
Aegon shifts uncomfortably, but Corlys holds Cregan’s gaze, understanding the weight behind those words. “Justice has been served, in one way or another,” the Sea Snake says, his voice carrying the wisdom of his years. “But what of your children, my grandchildren? How are they?”
The question brings a softness to Cregan’s hard exterior, a flicker of warmth that only thoughts of you and your children can invoke. “They are well,” he answers, a hint of pride in his tone. “Safe in their mother’s embrace, in the heart of Winterfell. And Killian, our eldest, has had a dragon hatch from Thraxata’s clutch. A fine beast, worthy of a Stark and a Velaryon.”
Corlys’s eyes widen at the news, and even Aegon’s lips twitch in something that almost resembles a smile. The thought of a new dragon, born of your bonded dragon, Thraxata, the Midnight Fury, a creature of polished obsidian and violet fire, is enough to stir the blood of even the most hardened man. It is a symbol of your strength, your legacy, and the legacy of the children you have borne with Cregan.
The Sea Snake nods, his gaze distant as he considers the future. “A new dragon, a new beginning,” he murmurs. “Perhaps there is hope yet for this broken realm.”
Cregan does not reply immediately. Instead, he turns his gaze toward the towering walls of the Red Keep, a place that has seen too much bloodshed, too many betrayals. He thinks of you, of the letters you exchanged before he rode South, the promises made between you. He is here to fulfill those promises, to ensure that your family, your children, will inherit a world where they can grow without the shadow of war looming over them.
Finally, he speaks, his voice as unyielding as the North. “Hope is something that must be earned,” he says. “And I will see to it that this realm is worthy of the children it will one day belong to.”
With that, Cregan Stark, the Wolf in the South, turns his back on the Red Keep, his mind already turning to the tasks ahead. There is still much to be done, and he will not rest until justice, true justice, has been delivered. For you, Y/N, for your children, and for the memory of your family.
As he walks away, the wind picks up, carrying with it the chill of the North—a reminder that Winterfell, and all that it holds dear, is never far from his thoughts.
The throne room of the Red Keep is a place of power, but also of shadows—of secrets whispered in the dark and blood spilled on the cold stone floor. Today, however, it is a place of judgment. Cregan Stark, the Wolf of the North, stands before the Iron Throne, his presence imposing, his expression as cold as the winter winds that sweep across his homeland. The crown has been secured, the usurper dead by poison, but the realm still bleeds, and it falls to him to stitch its wounds.
He takes his position as Hand of the King with a heavy heart, but with unshakable resolve. Justice must be done, and he is here to see it through, not for his own glory, but for you, his beloved Y/N, and for the future you share. He remembers the words he once whispered to you in the quiet of your chambers, promises made in the stillness of Winterfell: to protect, to avenge, to make the world safer for your children. Today, he begins to fulfill those promises.
Before him stand nineteen men, the accused, each bearing the weight of their sins. Traitors, conspirators, men who played their parts in the bloodshed that tore the realm apart. They are the remnants of a conflict that has claimed too many lives, the final vestiges of a regime that crumbled beneath the weight of its own ambition.
Cregan’s voice rings out in the hall, deep and unwavering, as he addresses them. “You stand accused of treason, of betrayal to the crown, and of crimes that have brought the realm to the brink of ruin. Justice is what I seek, and justice is what you will receive.”
The room is silent, the tension thick as his words hang in the air. There is no mercy in his tone, no room for doubt or leniency. The eyes of those before him are filled with a mixture of fear and resignation. They know what is coming, and they know there is no escape.
Cregan’s gaze moves across them, his expression unreadable as he delivers the sentence. “Those of you who have been found guilty, you will take the black. You will live out the remainder of your days on the Wall, defending the realm you have betrayed. Your lives are forfeit, but the Watch will have your service.”
There is a murmur among the accused, some relief, some despair. The Wall is a harsh fate, but it is life, of a sort. But not all will receive such a sentence, and they know it.
Cregan turns his gaze to the two men who stand apart from the others, Lord Larys Strong and Ser Gyles. They do not flinch under his scrutiny, though they know what fate awaits them. They are men who have accepted their end, men who understand that the blood they have spilled cannot be washed away by mere words.
“For you,” Cregan continues, his voice colder now, “there will be no such mercy. Lord Larys Strong, Ser Gyles Belgrave, you have been judged, and your sentence is death.”
The room is silent again, the weight of his words settling over all who are present. Cregan steps forward, the greatsword Ice in his hand, the Valyrian steel gleaming in the dim light of the throne room. It is a blade that has seen many executions, a blade that carries the history of House Stark in every inch of its steel.
Without hesitation, Cregan raises Ice, his muscles rippling beneath his furs as he prepares to deliver the final justice. The men before him kneel, heads bowed, accepting their fate. It is a grim task, but one that must be done. For you, for your children, for the future of the realm.
The blade comes down, swift and sure, and in a single stroke, both men fall. Their heads roll across the cold stone floor, the blood pooling at Cregan’s feet. The sound echoes in the chamber, a final, resounding note of justice delivered.
Cregan stands over the fallen men, Ice still in his hand, his breath steady. He feels the weight of his duty, the coldness of the act, but also the warmth of satisfaction. It is done. The traitors have paid for their crimes, and the realm can begin to heal.
As he steps back, wiping the blood from Ice with a cloth handed to him by one of his bannermen, a raven arrives. The black bird flutters through the open windows of the throne room, a small scroll tied to its leg, the wax seal of Winterfell visible even from a distance.
Cregan’s heart skips a beat as he takes the scroll, recognizing the seal immediately. It is from Maester Kennet, and he knows what news it carries. He breaks the seal with a steady hand, though inside, his emotions swirl. The paper crinkles as he unrolls it, and he reads the words written in the familiar script.
"Lord Cregan,
It is with great joy that I inform you that Lady Y/N has given birth to a healthy son. Both mother and child are well. The boy has been named Rickon, after your noble father. Winterfell rejoices at the birth of its heir, and we await your return.
Maester Kennet"
Cregan’s heart swells with a warmth that almost overcomes him. Rickon. Another son, another piece of the future you will build together. He closes his eyes for a moment, allowing himself to picture you in the great hall of Winterfell, holding your newborn son in your arms, surrounded by Killian and Alysane. He can see their smiles, hear the laughter that will fill the halls once more.
He tucks the letter away, the coldness of the throne room fading as he turns to leave. His duty here is nearly done, and soon, he will return to you, to your children, to Winterfell. He will hold his son, he will see your face, and he will feel the warmth of home once more.
But for now, he is still the Wolf in the South, the Hand of the King, and there are still tasks that must be completed before he can return to you. He steels himself, knowing that with every step he takes, he is one step closer to home, one step closer to you and the life you have built together.
The fire crackles softly in the hearth, its warmth chasing away the chill of the Northern winds that rattle the ancient stones of Winterfell. The room is quiet, filled with a peaceful stillness that you savor, holding your newborn son close to your chest. Little Rickon, barely a few days old, sleeps soundly in your arms, his tiny breaths warm against your skin. His dark lashes rest against his pale cheeks, so much like his father’s, and you can already see the strength in his small features, a promise of the man he will one day become.
You sit in a chair by the fire, wrapped in furs that keep you warm and comfortable. The weight of your son is a soothing comfort, grounding you in this moment, despite the swirling thoughts that sometimes pull your mind southward, toward King’s Landing, where your husband, Cregan, now walks paths that you wished you could have shared with him.
It was a hard decision, staying behind. You wanted to be there at Cregan’s side, to see justice served for what was done to your family. But the weight of your pregnancy had kept you here, in the North, far from the seat of power and the vengeance that now unfolds. You had argued, begged even, but Cregan, in his stern but loving way, had insisted. His duty was there, and yours, he said with a gentle hand on your belly, was here, with the child you were carrying and the children who needed their mother.
You sigh softly, glancing across the room where your other children play. Killian, your eldest, is sprawled on the floor, his dark hair a wild tangle as he wrestles with a small dragon, a hatchling from Thraxata’s clutch. Vexion, as Killian named him, is a striking creature, barely larger than a hunting hound, with scales of deep midnight blue that shimmer like sapphires in the firelight. His wings, though small, are strong and powerful, the membranes tinted in the same shades of violet as Thraxata’s, and his eyes, bright and alert, match the deep purple of her own.
Killian laughs as Vexion snaps playfully at his fingers, his little teeth harmless for now, though you know that one day, they will grow sharp enough to rend flesh and bone. But for now, the dragon is just a playful companion, a symbol of your legacy and the bond your family shares with these magnificent beasts.
Alysane, your daughter, sits beside her brother, her pale hair cascading over her shoulders as she carefully arranges a set of wooden figures. She’s creating a scene, you realize, a miniature version of Winterfell with figures of wolves and dragons placed carefully around the perimeter. Her little brow is furrowed in concentration, but she smiles when she hears Killian���s laughter, her violet eyes sparkling with the same mischievous light that often shines in Cregan’s when he is teasing you.
Watching them, your heart swells with love and pride. These are your children, your future. They are the reason you stayed behind, the reason you now feel a deep sense of contentment despite the ache of being apart from your husband. Here, in this room, surrounded by the warmth of the fire and the presence of your children, you find peace.
Rickon stirs in your arms, making a soft, contented noise, and you gently rock him, brushing a kiss against his tiny forehead. “Hush now, little one,” you murmur softly, your voice filled with a tenderness that surprises even you. “Your father will be home soon, and then we’ll all be together again.”
The thought of Cregan’s return brings a soft smile to your lips. You imagine him walking through the doors of the great hall, his face breaking into a rare, warm smile as he sees you and the children waiting for him. You imagine the feel of his arms around you, the strength and warmth that have always been your greatest comfort. You imagine introducing him to Rickon, watching as he takes his newborn son in his arms for the first time, the pride and love shining in his gray eyes.
But for now, you are content. Content to be here, with your children, safe in the heart of Winterfell. You have known loss, grief, and the cold touch of betrayal, but you have also known love, fierce and unyielding, and that love has given you these three beautiful children, each one a piece of your heart walking around outside your body.
“Look, Mother!” Killian’s excited voice pulls you from your thoughts, and you look up to see him holding Vexion aloft, the little dragon’s wings flapping furiously as he tries to stay airborne. “Vexion’s learning to fly!”
You laugh softly, a sound full of warmth and joy. “He’s doing wonderfully, my love. Just like you.”
Killian beams at your praise, setting Vexion down gently on the floor. The dragon immediately scampers over to Alysane’s miniature Winterfell, sniffing curiously at the wooden figures. Alysane giggles, gently guiding him away from her carefully arranged scene.
You watch them with a full heart, feeling the warmth of the fire, the weight of your newborn son, and the love that fills this room. Yes, you wish you could be with Cregan, standing beside him as he delivers justice, but you also know that this—being here, with your children, holding Rickon close—is where you are meant to be.
You lean back in your chair, closing your eyes for just a moment, allowing the peacefulness of the moment to wash over you. Soon, Cregan will return, and your family will be whole again. Until then, you have this—this quiet, this warmth, this love. And that is more than enough.
The air in Winterfell is crisp with the first touch of spring as you stand at the gates, your heart pounding with anticipation. The sun is low in the sky, casting long shadows across the courtyard where you wait with your children. The news of Cregan’s return reached you only this morning, and ever since, you’ve been unable to keep the smile from your face. You’ve missed him with a deep, aching intensity, and the thought of having him home again fills you with a joy that’s almost overwhelming.
Killian and Alysane stand beside you, both of them practically bouncing with excitement. Killian’s hand is clutching Vexion’s leash, the little dragon sitting obediently at his feet, though his violet eyes are alert, as if he too can sense the importance of this moment. Alysane’s hand is in yours, her small fingers squeezing tightly as she peers down the road, searching for the first sign of her father.
The minutes feel like hours, but then, finally, you see them: the first of the riders cresting the hill, the Stark banners flapping in the wind, and your heart skips a beat. Cregan is home.
As the riders draw closer, you spot him at the front of the group, his dark hair falling loose around his shoulders, his broad frame unmistakable even from a distance. The sight of him stirs something deep inside you, a rush of warmth and love that makes your eyes burn with unshed tears.
“Father!” Killian’s voice breaks through your reverie, and before you can stop him, he’s running across the courtyard, Vexion darting after him with a playful roar. Alysane releases your hand and follows suit, her laughter ringing out as she races to meet her father.
Cregan dismounts with ease, dropping to one knee just in time to catch Killian in his arms. Alysane is close behind, and he sweeps her up as well, holding both of them tightly against his chest. His deep laugh rumbles through the air, the sound of it filling your heart with a warmth that melts away the last remnants of the cold that had settled there in his absence.
You watch them, your vision blurring slightly with tears. This is what you’ve been waiting for, what you’ve dreamed of during the long nights alone—this moment, when your family is together again.
Finally, Cregan looks up, his gray eyes meeting yours across the distance. For a moment, the world seems to stop, and it’s just the two of you, connected by the unspoken love that has always been the foundation of your bond. He rises to his feet, one arm still wrapped around each of your children, and as he walks toward you, you feel your breath catch in your throat.
When he’s close enough, you close the distance between you, your hands reaching up to cup his face. His skin is cool from the journey, but beneath it, you can feel the warmth that has always drawn you to him, the steady, reassuring presence that you’ve missed so much.
“Cregan,” you whisper, your voice trembling with emotion.
He smiles, that rare, genuine smile that’s reserved only for you and your children. “Y/N,” he murmurs, his voice deep and rough with emotion. “I’ve missed you.”
And then his lips are on yours, gentle at first, but quickly deepening as the months of longing and separation melt away. His kiss is everything you’ve needed, everything you’ve craved—warmth, love, passion, and the undeniable connection that has always bound you together. You lose yourself in him, in the taste of him, the feel of him, the way his arms wrap around you, pulling you closer as if he can’t bear to let you go.
For a moment, the world fades away, and it’s just the two of you, lost in each other. You can feel the beat of his heart against your chest, strong and steady, a reminder that he’s here, he’s home, and you’re safe in his arms.
When you finally pull back, your forehead rests against his, and you take a moment to just breathe him in, to savor the feel of him against you. “I’m so glad you’re home,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion.
Cregan’s hand comes up to brush a strand of silver hair away from your face, his touch tender and filled with love. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” he replies, his eyes soft as they gaze into yours.
Killian and Alysane, sensing that they’re witnessing something special, are unusually quiet as they cling to their father’s legs. But you can see the joy in their eyes, the way they look up at him with adoration and love.
Cregan glances down at them, and then back at you, his smile widening as he takes in the sight of his family. “I’ve missed so much,” he says, his voice tinged with regret.
You shake your head, squeezing his hand. “You did what you had to do. And now, you’re home. That’s all that matters.”
He nods, his eyes shining with the same love and pride that you feel swelling in your chest. “I’m home,” he repeats, as if savoring the words. Then, he looks at you, his expression turning more serious. “How is Rickon?”
Your heart swells at the mention of your youngest, and you can’t help but smile. “He’s perfect, Cregan. Just like his father.”
Cregan’s smile softens, and there’s a tenderness in his eyes that makes your heart flutter. “I can’t wait to meet him,” he says, his voice thick with emotion.
You nod, taking his hand and leading him toward the keep. “He’s waiting for you,” you say softly. “We all were.”
The walk to the great hall is short, but it feels like a journey, each step bringing you closer to the home you’ve longed for, the completeness you’ve missed. When you enter the hall, the warmth of the fire greets you, along with the familiar scents of Winterfell. But it’s the sight of the small cradle by the hearth that draws your eyes.
Cregan steps forward, his movements careful and reverent as he approaches the cradle. Rickon is awake, his tiny fists waving in the air, and when Cregan leans down to look at him, you see the wonder and awe in his eyes.
“He’s beautiful,” Cregan whispers, reaching out to gently touch his son’s cheek. Rickon’s eyes, a soft gray like his father’s, blink up at him, and a small, contented smile spreads across his tiny face.
“He looks just like you,” you say softly, stepping beside Cregan and slipping your hand into his.
Cregan shakes his head, his eyes never leaving Rickon’s. “No,” he says quietly, “he looks like us.”
The words bring a lump to your throat, and you lean into Cregan’s side, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. This is your family—whole, safe, and together.
You stay like that for a long moment, just watching Cregan with Rickon, feeling the love and contentment that fills the room. Then, slowly, Cregan straightens, his eyes still filled with that soft, tender light as he looks at you.
“Thank you,” he says quietly, his voice full of meaning.
You smile up at him, your heart full to bursting. “For what?”
“For giving me this,” he replies, his hand gently squeezing yours. “For our children, our home… for everything.”
You reach up to cup his cheek, your thumb brushing against the rough stubble that you’ve missed so much. “We built this together,” you say softly. “And now, we’ll enjoy it together.”
Cregan’s eyes darken with emotion, and he leans down to capture your lips in another kiss, this one slow and full of promise. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, and you can feel his breath mingling with yours.
“I love you, Y/N,” he whispers, the words a vow, a promise, and a declaration all at once.
“I love you too, Cregan,” you reply, your voice filled with all the love and devotion you feel for him.
The world outside may be cold and harsh, but here, in this moment, in this place, you are warm, safe, and complete. Cregan is home, your children are safe, and your family is whole. And that is all you need.
Excerpt from Fire and Blood by Archmaester Glyndwyr, Chapter: "The Hour of the Wolf and the Dawn of the Dragon"
The Dragon That Followed the Wolf
In the aftermath of the Dance of the Dragons, the realm lay in ruin, its people exhausted from years of bloodshed and treachery. The Iron Throne, once a symbol of absolute power, had become a seat of sorrow and conflict. Aegon III, the Dragonbane, who had ascended to the throne at a young age after the fall of his mother, Rhaenyra, found himself ill-suited to the demands of kingship. His reign, though marked by attempts at restoration, was overshadowed by the lingering shadow of the civil war and his own deep-seated melancholy.
It was in this time of uncertainty and discontent that voices began to rise among the lords of Westeros, calling for a new ruler—one who could unite the fractured realm and bring about a new era of prosperity. These voices soon coalesced around a single name: Killian Stark, son of Cregan Stark and Y/N Velaryon, a boy of strong bloodlines and even stronger will, who had already shown promise as a dragonrider, bonded to Vexion, a dragon of Thraxata’s clutch.
Killian's lineage was beyond question. As the great-grandson of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and Laenor Velaryon, his claim combined the noble blood of House Targaryen and House Velaryon with the unyielding strength of House Stark. With his mother Y/N, the only daughter of Rhaenyra, and his father, Cregan Stark, the Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell, Killian embodied the unity of the North and the Targaryen bloodline.
It was Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, who first championed Killian’s cause. The aged and wise Lord of the Tides, having outlived nearly all of his contemporaries, saw in his great-grandson the potential to restore what had been lost. The Sea Snake's influence and respect among the lords of Westeros were unmatched, and his advocacy for Killian as the rightful heir to the throne was taken with the utmost seriousness.
Corlys's argument was simple yet compelling: the realm needed a king who was not only of noble blood but also one who could command the loyalty of the dragonlords and the great houses alike. Killian, with his Stark resolve and Targaryen fire, was that king. He was a boy with the blood of the dragon in his veins, and unlike his predecessors, he had a dragon at his side—a symbol of the power that once ruled the skies of Westeros. Vexion, though young, was already growing into a fearsome beast, his deep midnight blue scales and violet eyes a reminder of the might of House Targaryen.
The Great Council of 138 AC was convened at Harrenhal, a place chosen for its neutrality, to decide the fate of the realm. The lords of Westeros, weary of war and eager for stability, gathered to debate the future. Among those who spoke for Killian was not only Corlys Velaryon but also his father, Cregan Stark, who had already proven his dedication to justice during the Hour of the Wolf when he served as Hand of the King and dispensed justice to those who had betrayed the realm.
Cregan Stark was a man of honor and few words, but his presence at the council carried weight. It was said that when Cregan rose to speak, the hall fell silent, and every lord in attendance felt the weight of his words. He did not advocate for his son out of ambition but out of duty—to his family, to the realm, and to the memory of those who had suffered and died during the Dance of the Dragons. He spoke of the need for a ruler who could command both respect and fear, a king who could rebuild what had been broken, and a dragonlord who could ensure that the skies of Westeros would never again be darkened by treachery and betrayal.
The lords of Westeros, many of whom had fought in the Dance or had seen their lands ravaged by it, were moved by the arguments presented. They saw in Killian Stark the hope of a new beginning, a ruler who could bridge the divides that had torn the realm apart. The fact that he was a dragonrider only strengthened his claim, for the memory of dragonfire was still fresh in the minds of many, and the power of the dragon was seen as essential to maintaining order in a realm as vast and diverse as the Seven Kingdoms.
Thus, it was decided by the Great Council that Aegon III, whose reign had been marred by personal tragedy and political strife, would abdicate the throne in favor of Killian Stark. Aegon, who had always been more comfortable away from the throne than upon it, accepted the decision with grace, retiring to Dragonstone, where he would live out the remainder of his days in relative peace.
On the first day of the new year, in 139 AC, Killian Stark was crowned as King Killian I of House Stark and Targaryen, the Dragon-Wolf, first of his name. His coronation was a grand affair, attended by lords and ladies from across the realm, each of whom pledged their loyalty to the new king. As the crown of Aegon the Conqueror was placed upon his brow, Vexion let out a mighty roar, his wings unfurling as he took to the skies above the Red Keep, a symbol of the new age that had dawned in Westeros.
The reign of King Killian I was marked by a period of reconstruction and renewal. With his parents by his side—Cregan Stark as his most trusted advisor, and Y/N Velaryon as the queen mother—he worked to restore the realm to its former glory. The North and South were united as never before, and under his rule, the great houses of Westeros found a new sense of purpose and loyalty to the crown.
During their marriage, Cregan and Y/N had more children, each of whom played a role in the continued stability of the realm. Their eldest daughter, Alysane Stark, was married to the heir of the Vale, further strengthening the bonds between the North and the South. Their younger sons, Rickon and Jory, were given lordships and served as key figures in the court, ensuring that the realm remained united and strong.
King Killian I’s reign saw the rebuilding of many of the great castles and cities that had been destroyed during the Dance. The Targaryen bloodline was secured through alliances with the other dragonlord houses, and the power of the Iron Throne was restored. The scars of the past were not forgotten, but they were healed, and the realm once again prospered under the rule of a strong, just, and wise king.
In the end, the Dragon-Wolf proved to be the ruler that Westeros needed—a king who could command both the loyalty of his subjects and the respect of his enemies. His reign ushered in a new era of peace and prosperity, and his legacy would be remembered for generations to come as the king who brought the broken realm back to life.
Thus ends the account of King Killian I, the Dragon-Wolf, and the legacy of House Stark and Targaryen.
#house of the dragon#hotd x female reader#hotd x y/n#hotd x reader#hotd x you#cregan x y/n#hotd cregan#cregan x you#cregan x reader#cregan stark
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