#fire amber How to understand

[thesecondhandwoman]

Going off of the injured Ambessa ask, could you do something where the reader is injured. But their a soldier so it’s really bad and their trying to play it off but Ambessa can tell it’s bad. (Maybe throw in a little hidden injury and “who did this to you?)

if your not up for it I completely understand

-🧚

HIDDEN INJURIES

Ambessa x f!reader

Synopsis: You were one of Ambessa’s Noxian soldiers, and the favorite one of them all. However, when you got injured and struggled to hide it, you thought that might title change.

Request: Anon 🤍

The night air was thick with the scent of Noxus and its empire, the distant hum of a city brimming with life. Meanwhile, you did not feel the same life that the other people shared.

You leaned against the stone wall of the barracks, doing your best to steady yourself, breathe shallow, heart hammering beneath your ribs. Your fingers lingered over the bandage, already stained with the remnants of blood that had dried too quickly. The injury was deeper than you’d let on, an ugly gash that cut across your lower abdomen after a clash with a particularly vicious opponent. You’d tended to it as best as you could, but it wasn’t enough. It never was.

The last few days had been a blur of dull pain and the stubbornness that coursed through your veins, a soldier’s pride that insisted you didn’t need help. You knew what Ambessa expected of you, what she needed you to be: strong, steady, and reliable.

You were her pet, her favored soldier, and above all, you couldn’t let that slip away dimpling because she sees your weakness. Not now. Not ever.

But that was growing harder to do.

With a grimace, you pushed off the wall and staggered back into the fortress, your movements stiff and slow, each step a reminder of how much the injury had begun to rot beneath the surface. You’d tried to hide it, kept it covered up, but something had gone wrong. The infection was spreading now, a subtle ache in your bones, a fever that coursed through your veins, making your body feel like it was being consumed by fire.

You hadn’t been able to hide it from Ambessa for long.

She was waiting for you in her chambers, reclining on a plush chaise, the shadows of candlelight casting an amber glow over her striking features. Her eyes, those fierce golden orbs, flicked up when you entered, and for a brief moment, the sharpness softened.

“Come here,” she beckoned with a subtle wave of her hand, her voice like velvet. She knew something was off, something subtle in the way you moved, the way you tried to stand straighter than you could, the way you winced when your side brushed the doorframe.

You swallowed hard, but obediently stepped toward her.

Ambessa’s eyes narrowed slightly, always keen to the smallest detail. She was no stranger to seeing soldiers in various states of pain. You weren’t the first one she’d taken an interest in, though you were the only one who seemed to matter to her in such a way. Her gaze lingered on you with concern, but her lips curled into a smirk as if to mask the worry creeping in. She raised an eyebrow, studying you, her gaze unwavering.

“Are you sure you’re well?” she asked, the softness of her voice belying the tension that was steadily rising in the room.

You hesitated, your chest tightening at the thought of her disappointment. “I’m fine, truly. It’s just a scratch,” you lied, the words tasting sour on your tongue.

She didn’t believe you for a second. Her eyes softened as she stood up and walked toward you, her footsteps like whispers on the stone floor. As she approached, you could feel her presence like a tangible thing, comforting yet demanding, a force to be reckoned with.

Without warning, her hand came to rest gently on your shoulder. You tensed, a sharp breath catching in your throat. She could feel the heat radiating off of you, could sense the trembling beneath your skin.

“You’ve been hiding something from me,” she murmured, her voice a low, soothing hum. Her thumb stroked lightly over the muscle of your shoulder, sending a shiver through your body. “I could hear it in your voice. Practically feel it radiating off of you.”

You bit the inside of your lip, trying not to show the frustration and guilt that bubbled up. “It’s nothing,” you said, forcing the words to sound as normal as you could. “I’ll recover. No need to—”

“Let me see it,” she interrupted, her voice no longer a request but an order.

Your eyes darted down, and for a moment, you felt a surge of panic. You knew she could be patient, but when she wanted something, she didn’t let it go. Slowly, you reached for the sides of your tunic, fingers fumbling for the fabric that hid the injury.

Ambessa didn’t speak, only stood quietly, watching you with those steady, unwavering eyes as you pulled the fabric up. When you turned slightly to expose the injury on your side, she took in the sight of the angry, red, infected wound with a sharp intake of breath.

“Gods, how long has this been festering?” she asked, her voice low and dangerous now, the tenderness gone. Her fingers ghosted over the edge of the injury, and you flinched, unable to keep the hiss of pain from escaping.

You tried to hide it, tried to play it off as you always did. “It’s not as bad as it looks. I’ll be fine.”

Ambessa’s gaze turned hard, and for the first time in days, you saw the faint flicker of worry behind her gaze. Her hand was soft on your skin, but the concern in her eyes was sharp, like a blade waiting to cut through your excuses.

“Don’t lie to me,” she whispered, her fingers now tracing the ugly colored skin around the wound that was farther from the edges, careful but firm. “You should have come to me sooner. You’re not as invincible as you force yourself to be.”

Her words hit harder than you expected, and for a moment, you let the facade slip. The pain, the fatigue, the overwhelming sense of failure—it all came crashing down. But Ambessa didn’t let you fall. She stepped closer, her presence grounding you, like she always did when you needed her most.

“You’ll need help, this wound is far too infected,” she said, her tone brokering no argument. “Meaning you will rest for some time and take a break from your duties for me, hm?”

You were too tired to argue. Too tired to fight against the kindness you didn’t deserve. Slowly, you nodded, letting her help you remove the rest of your tunic. She gently pressed you back onto the bed, her hands so soft, yet somehow so strong. You felt her steady gaze on you as she began to clean the wound, carefully, expertly, removing the infected tissue with practiced hands.

Her voice, as soft as a lullaby, hummed in your ear. “I don’t want to hear about you being ‘fine’ again. You’re mine now, and when you’re mine, I take care of what’s mine. Understood?”

Her fingers were gentle, the motions slow and deliberate, as if every action was designed to keep you grounded. Despite the pain of her tending to the injury, you felt your body relax into her touch, the feverish burn inside of you easing just a little.

“Yes, I understand,” you whispered, your voice a fragile thing.

“Good.” Her voice was low and approving as she finished cleaning the wound and began bandaging it with care. “Now, rest. I’ll stay with you until you’re better, little one.”

You closed your eyes, the weight of exhaustion pulling you down, but her presence kept you tethered, warm and solid. For the first time in days, you let yourself fall into that comfort, that fragile space between pain and safety.

As she finished tending to you, her fingers lingering on your skin with a soft caress, you could hear the faintest smile in her voice.

“Let me take care of you now,” Ambessa murmured, her voice a soft promise. “No more pretending. Not here.”

And for the first time in days, you let yourself believe that perhaps, just perhaps, you didn’t have to be the soldier anymore. Not in her presence. Not when you were with her.

A/N: Sorry that this is so short, I tried to expand it and it just turned into an absolute mess. So I shortened it down just to realize how much I shortened it. But either way, I hope that you liked it and it was okay (if not, I’ll definitely give it another shot)

[blacknailsandheartbreak]

Imagine the group cannot understand how you and Zuko are so close with you being a literal saint and Zuko being... well Zuko

AN: I am back! Man, it's been a hot minute since my last post! ...Lets not think about that because I am back! :) woo hoo

~1400 word count

Part 2 once your done reading :)

SO, lets jump in and see what this Zuko fic about??? Well, imagine this...

The whole group is together and you are the newest member joining from an encounter at a local market. You'd travel alone from town to town, trying to help in any way you can to help fix the wounds the war had created. You fit in well, very polite and nice, never showing any anger, but very capable of defending your own with a bow. You became close with Katara, almost like sisters. Though, unknown to the group that you were a fire bender, you wished to keep that a secret. Your nation had done too much damage and could not bear to be tied to such a name. You hadn't practiced in a long time and were contempt on keeping it that way. You were good enough with your bow, you could protect yourself without the aid of bending. But one person saw through your mask, the only other fire bender in the group. You had a feeling he knew, as he was finding ways to spend more time with you, offering to walk with you to the market, to fetch water or wood, and he seemed to only ask you questions while it was just the two of you. If he did know you were a fire bender, then let it be so.

You volunteered one night to gather firewood, and Zuko promptly offered his assistance, in your nature you gladly accepted, you did like the company. While you two walked, you held a wicker basket against your hip and did most of the talking. Zuko hummed in response, keeping note of their far distance from the camp. As the conversation seemed to die out, Zuko stopped walking and you walked a couple more steps before realizing his halt. You turn around and lock eyes, both of you stand straight and still like statues. You knew what was coming next, your hair swayed slightly in the wind, the setting sun leaving amber shadows across you both.

"You're a bender, a fire bender." Zuko states, no question to his voice. You couldn't deny it, there was no point, he knew. You looked at him and smiled. You confirmed his suspicions, and explained to him that you have been building a new reputation for yourself outside of a fire bender label, trying to heal the brand the fire nation left on your skin as well as all its people and the ones it had affected. Zuko seemed sad, he apologized for his nation, our nation. He had promised things would change after Sozin's comet, once he overtook his father. You smile and agree that Zuko would make a fine Fire Lord, you talk to him about how much you believe can change. Ever since that night You two became close, very close. Close in ways the group could only suspect, but no proof.

On the last night of the Gaangs regrouping, before they had to pack up camp and keep moving, everyone had gone to bed, except for Zuko. He had a hard time trying to get to sleep that night, so he went out for a walk to try and clear his head. He sat by the nearby river and thought about what you had said, to rebuild a new reputation as to not be associated with the fire nation, start anew. Zuko balled his fists in anger at his country, the horrible things, unspeakable notions they had unleashed. Zuko scrunched his nose in disgust and felt the pull of his scar, a sensation that he was use to, one that would usually bring more frustration but only brought him sorrow tonight, as your words passed though his mind, 'trying to heal the brand the fire nation left on your skin as well as all its people and the ones it had effected'. Zuko felt the shame of his land pile on his shoulders, but he decided to head back to camp before he got too far into his head.

Back at camp, everyone was in bed, Toph slept alone in her stone tent, the boys had their own tent, while You and Katara shared a tent. Katara took a leap on that last night and decided to ask you about you and Zuko. She thought now would be the best time over any. Katara looked at you laying with your back to her, she gently poked your shoulder and you turned over.

"Sorry for waking you, but I had a question and I hope you take no offence, but you and Zuko... you guys have seemed to be getting very close... so um... are you guys... you know... together...?" Katara asked you in a quiet whisper with wide curious eyes.

While Katara spoke, Zuko had made his way back into camp and heard the faint whispers. It was unlike him to listen in on others' conversations but they had obviously not heard him return, and he seemed to be the topic of their subject so he decided it was fair game to listen. He caught on quickly as it was something about you and him.

You smiled and replied in a steady whisper, "Zuko and I have become good friends, nothing more." You and Zuko knew there was a bond beyond your secrets you shared, but you two were not together, just close.

Zuko had his arms crossed across his chest, he felt no offence towards the statement you shared, it was true, it was a neutral answer he could respect.

Katara responds "Oh okay... um if you don't mind me asking another question," You nodded her on, Katara continued, "Zuko and you seem to be very different, as in you are so... vibrant and kind, I don't think I have ever seen you mad." She said giggling quietly, and you smiled. "But Zuko... well you know Zuko, he only ever... scowls. Spirits, I think a smile might split his face in half..."

Zuko furrows his brows at the comment, and grabs across his mouth, 'I can smile', he thinks to himself, lowering his hand.

Katara continues, "and... and it's like pulling teeth trying to get him to talk..." Katara looks at you, "How do you- being your bubbly self, connect with someone like him? How can you talk with him for as long as you do when he seems to barely listens half the time?"

'Barely listen??' Zuko thought as his eyebrows shot up at the comment, 'Is she serious? How could she possibly think that!'

You smile at her observation, "Zuko is very kind to me," you say sweetly.

Zuko's face relaxes to your answer, and he uncrosses his arms.

You continue, "But you're right, he never says much, and yes, he is indeed quiet, but when one has gone through so much, it is understandable. We all know that feeling to some extent and we all have our ways of dealing with it. I have accepted how Zuko conveys himself as he had accepted me for how I present myself. But over all, yes, he does listen, even if it seems he is not, he always does." You conclude with a sweet smile.

Zuko is almost taken back from your answer in a way he cannot explain, but it feels as if an unknown weight has lifted off his shoulders from your response. He decided to leave the conversation there as he had heard all he needed to, and turned to walk away. But the next thing you said had caught his attention.

"Who knows," You add, "his ears are probably burning right now with the mere conversation of us talking about him...". You both giggle and say your goodnights. Zuko smirked and rolled his eyes and walked back to his tent. Although, as he replays the conversation over in his mind, something sits like a small rock in his stomach. 'Zuko and I have become good friends, nothing more.' Nothing more, he thought over and over in his head, maybe with time that could change. Once Zuko becomes Fire Lord and is able to start the change that the world needed to heal, you would embrace your bending and be proud of your nation. But that would come in time, so for right now, he could work with good friends.

[bookwormjust]

Hidden pregnancy (established relationship Eris, protective hound)

You’ve noticed it for the past few weeks—Eris’s chief hound, the leader of the pack, has become more possessive, hovering around you constantly. His behavior has shifted from his usual loyalty to something far more intense. He never leaves your side, growling at anyone who comes too close, even Eris on occasion. At first, you found it endearing, but now, the overprotectiveness is becoming hard to ignore.

You’re in the sitting room of your shared estate in the Autumn Court, lounging by the fire. The hound lies at your feet, his golden eyes fixed on you with a sharp, almost vigilant focus. Anytime you move, he’s right there, nudging at you gently as if to keep you still. It’s almost as if he knows something you don’t.

Eris had been busy, as usual, with the duties of being the High Lord, but today he finally found time to join you for a rare moment of peace. He enters the room, his fiery hair catching the light, and as soon as he steps toward you, the chief hound growls low, his massive body shifting to block Eris’s approach.

“Again?” Eris mutters, eyebrows raised as he glances between you and the hound, a mixture of amusement and mild frustration in his amber eyes. “He’s been acting like this for weeks. What’s gotten into him?”

You shake your head, resting your hand on the hound’s massive shoulder. “I don’t know. He’s just... more protective than usual.” You give the hound a reassuring pat, trying to calm his overprotective instincts, but he remains tense, standing between you and Eris like a sentinel.

Eris sighs, walking around the hound cautiously, his gaze softening as it falls on you. “Has anything felt different?” he asks, sitting beside you and taking your hand gently. “Any reason he might be sensing something?”

You shrug, leaning into Eris’s touch. “I’ve been a little tired, but I thought it was just stress. You’ve been busy, I’ve been restless—maybe he’s picking up on that.”

Eris watches you closely, his brows knitting together in thought. His hand moves to your cheek, gently tilting your head to meet his gaze. “You’ve been more than tired. I can tell.”

Before you can respond, the hound lets out another low growl, his nose twitching as he presses closer to you, almost nuzzling your abdomen. You laugh softly, though the possessiveness in his eyes makes you feel slightly unsettled. “See what I mean?” you say, gesturing toward the hound. “He’s never this intense.”

Eris is silent for a moment, his sharp gaze flicking from the hound to you. Slowly, his eyes narrow, his posture stiffening. “Wait...”

His nostrils flare slightly as he leans closer, inhaling deeply, his focus entirely on your scent now. His eyes widen suddenly, and you see the shock and realization wash over him, his usual calm composure faltering.

“By the Cauldron...” he breathes, his voice low, filled with awe and disbelief. “You’re pregnant.”

You blink at him, stunned, your heart racing. “What? No, I—I couldn’t be...”

But before you can finish the sentence, the truth of it hits you. The exhaustion, the small changes in your body you’d brushed off—all of it suddenly makes sense. Your hand instinctively moves to your stomach, where the hound had been so possessively guarding.

Eris reaches out, his hand gently covering yours, his expression softening with a mixture of joy and concern. “He knew before I did,” he says, glancing at the hound, who is now lying at your feet, his head resting protectively on your lap, watching both of you with sharp, possessive eyes.

You’re still processing the news, your mind spinning. “How is that possible? It’s too early—”

“Fae hounds are attuned to life in ways we aren’t,” Eris says softly, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “He sensed it before your scent changed enough for me to detect it.”

You look down at the hound, a new understanding settling over you. His protectiveness, his possessiveness—it wasn’t just instinct, it was his way of guarding the new life growing inside you, something he had known long before either you or Eris.

Tears prick at your eyes as you meet Eris’s gaze, overwhelmed by the sudden realization. “We’re going to have a baby.”

Eris smiles, a rare, genuine warmth in his expression as he leans forward to kiss your forehead. “Yes, we are,” he whispers, his voice full of love and wonder. “And he’s already started guarding both of you, hasn’t he?”

The hound lets out a soft huff, as if in agreement, settling more comfortably by your side, his head resting protectively against your stomach.

Eris wraps his arms around you, holding you close, his lips brushing the top of your head. “I promise, I’ll protect you both with everything I have.”

And with his hound at your side, you know he means every word.

[gluion]

almost, but not quite — leehan

pairing — leehan x reader genre — friends to lovers, fluff, crack, university au wc — 8.5k misc/warnings — loser!leehan with avoidant tendencies, slight mutual pining, bonedo group dynamics, also architecture student!leehan... heh, a lot of aquatic and ponyo references, a pov switch happens between leehan and myungjae, getting froyo to avoid confessing, alcohol consumption, kissing playlist — heavy by the marías // nervous by the neighbourhood // halley’s comet by billie eilish // patutunguhan by cup of joe // intro (end of the world) by ariana grande // i know you by faye webster // tsunami by niki // ikot by over october // take a chance with me by niki note — please know i have dropped this and pick it up in multiple instances because i'm not built to write fluff. still, i hope you enjoy because i see myself in leehan :]]

synopsis — if there’s one thing leehan didn’t understand, it’s the gross, sticky emotions he feels with you. yet, there’s an undeniable warmth that lingers—and that’s when he knows he’s screwed.

(in other words, the five times leehan found himself at a crossroads and the one time he decided on what he wanted with you.)

if the world were to end, leehan believes it would start with a meteor shower. before they crash against the soil, their trail of flames would catch on tree branches, the fire spreading through forests. their craters would swallow civilizations, and the floor would crack beneath his feet. the world will go up in flames within the blink of an eye; how dinosaurs met their demise would be the same fate he would face.

jaehyun finds it stupid, arguing it would be through an alien invasion. (“there’s too much proof! i mean, have we forgotten about area 51?” is the same point he never fails to make.) it didn’t help that he believed leehan could be an alien in disguise, regardless of how many times leehan showed him his birth certificate.

but how the world ends for leehan happens without him even knowing, waking up in the middle of his fall into the never-ending void. the harsh light morphs into amber tones with every descent as heat prickles his nape. leehan imagines the sting of lava hitting against his skin, burning him alive to a slow death, but it’s his descent into the ocean.

how leehan’s world ends is not from a meteor shower or an alien invasion, but with his plummet past the ocean floor all the way to the core.

yet, the center of his earth doesn’t happen to be molten lava.

it’s you.

“who’s jaehyun talking to?” sungho frowns in confusion before shoving a spoonful of rice into his mouth.

leehan looks up from his phone and attempts to find his friend among the students who fill up the cafeteria. as he cranes his head past unacquainted faces, he spots the familiar boy talking to a stranger. “no clue.” before he can go back to doom-scrolling, jaehyun bursts into laughter.

it shouldn’t be a big deal; the sight of his best friend doubling over is an everyday occurrence for him, but not anyone can achieve it unless they knew the spectrum of jaehyun’s humor.

jaehyun catches leehan’s puzzled look and shoots him a smile. his hand lingers on the mystery person’s shoulder. before leehan can look back at his phone, you turn around.

leehan freezes.

if there’s a view that could beat the great barrier reef, it would be you. (even if leehan has never seen it. he just knows.)

“oh, they’re coming our way,” sungho points out.

like a human meeting a siren, leehan couldn’t rip his eyes off of you. your graceful strides resemble the movement of sea creatures. a coral forms on your nose with every laugh. yet, it’s a sea of jellyfish in your eyes that could make him crumble.

before he knows it, you stand in front of him with your eyes on jaehyun. if his friend was saying something, he never catches on—except for your name. “this is y/n.”

he repeats your name to himself; a song to be sung.

“hi! it’s nice to meet you.” your smile is made of the sun and sea. the expanse of blue glimmers as it crashes against him—out of enchantment and back into reality.

“how do you know jaehyun?” sungho asks.

you glance at your friend. “we’re in the broadcast club together. you know, he’s basically made to host.” from your compliment, jaehyun rolls his eyes and nudges your shoulder.

leehan rips his gaze from you, his hand finding a spot by the back of his ear as he fiddles with the last strands of his composure. he’s out of his mind. what’s he even thinking about you? for all he knows, you could be dating jaehyun.

oh god, are you dating his friend? what if you two have been going out for years and he never knew—wait, it shouldn’t even matter.

leehan doesn’t know anything about you so he feels indifferent towards you, right? right?

sungho tilts his head in curiosity. “oh! what do you do?”

in the process of glancing at you, leehan briefly locks eyes with his best friend. jaehyun’s eyes glance dart between you and leehan as a smirk makes its way to his face.

whatever his friend is thinking of, leehan only assumes the worst. is jaehyun going to misunderstand the situation? how does leehan explain to him that he’s just nervous around you? would his friend take it against him for looking at you?

leehan thinks it’s over for him.  

“tech. you know the people who manage the mixing board?” as you imitate yourself moving the sliders, leehan lets out a giggle without a second thought. once you smile at him, leehan feels the heat rise to his cheeks. he looks back down to his phone, hoping you can’t notice the pink tint all over his face.

“that’s cool! even cooler than what jaehyun does.”

sungho’s joke only brings jaehyun to smack his arm. “hey!” he frowns before glancing at you. “he’s kinda right.”

“not even kinda, he is right,” leehan remarks as he ignores the sea in his stomach.

jaehyun groans as his two friends fist bump each other. before they can ruin his reputation any more, he looks at you and says, “i’ll see you after class?”

you nod. “bye! it was nice meeting you.” you glimpse at his friends before locking eyes with leehan.

your eyes are seas that leehan wishes he could swim in. he would hold his breath just to stay in them, undergo the sting of his lungs just to admire them.

but it’s your smile that snaps him out of your possession. when he realizes he’s staring at you, his elbow slips off the table.

“are you okay?” sungho’s question is accompanied with a frown of confusion. while concern paints your features, the same, all-knowing smirk rests on jaehyun’s face.

leehan clears his throat as he fixes his posture. “yeah, i’m good.” he can’t bear to meet your gaze, not after his slip-up and certainly not after jaehyun’s reaction.

“okay, well i’m going. nice meeting you both!” with your farewell, you leave the group of three. 

once jaehyun finds his spot next to leehan, the worst possible scenarios flood leehan’s mind. the last thing he wants to do is ruin his friendship with him.

yet, he’s dumbfounded when jaehyun chuckles. “dude, if you’re going to have a crush, at least make it discreet.”

leehan’s eyes grow wide over jaehyun’s accusation. “i do not like y/n.” he snickers. “what are talking about?”

his friend clearly misread his actions. how could he even like you when he barely knew you? over one interaction, too? jaehyun needs to have more faith in him.

the disbelief in jaehyun’s features tell leehan otherwise. “are you seriously going to play that card? sungho, back me up.” he looks at the boy across from him who’s too busy eating away to even help him out. “didn’t you notice his eyes? they were practically hearts!”

he shrugs as he finishes his food. “beats me. leehan’s always been an oddball.”

“no, but he’s not like his usual silly self!”

leehan grumbles, nudging his shoulder against his troublesome friend. “quit it. stop making this weird.”

“whatever.” jaehyun rolls his eyes before jabbing his finger against leehan’s chest. “just know that i know your little secret.”

leehan grows annoyed at jaehyun’s accusations. he’s already said he doesn’t like you that way. how could jaehyun even think that? leehan swats away jaehyun’s hand before getting off his seat. “i’m leaving.”

“what? why?!” his friend clings onto his arm. the pout on his lips attempts to hold him back from his departure. “did i tease you too much?”

leehan shakes his head as he shrugs off jaehyun’s grip. “no, i’ve got a plate to cram.” he slings his backpack and drawing tube on his shoulders. “i’ll see you guys later?”

sungho only musters a hum before shoving another spoonful of rice into his mouth. as leehan takes his leave, jaehyun rests his chin on his crossed arms. despite the sigh that leaves the dejected boy, sungho pays no attention to him. “you’re not even going to ask why i’m sad?”

“just let him be. i’m sure he doesn’t like them.”

jaehyun groans in response.

if there’s one thing he’s certain about, it’s leehan’s crush on you. sure, his friends don’t see it, but one thing he knows for sure is leehan’s interest in you—he’ll do anything to make sure it comes into fruition.

and if there’s one thing leehan hates to admit to, it’s jaehyun being right in his suspicions, so he’ll keep going—deny, deny, deny, whatever he’s feeling because it doesn’t mean anything.

it shouldn’t.

but to leehan’s dismay, his mind would always drift back to you.

leehan swears he hasn’t thought about you. unfortunately for him, he never crossed paths with you since that one fateful encounter.

it shouldn’t be unfortunate. after all, he knows nothing about you.

(except for your name. and your course. and that you’re in the broadcasting club with his best friend. and that you’re a big fan of ghibli movies. and that every spotify playlist is perfectly curated to fit every mood, from the “slow mornings” to the “rageful evenings” as you’d like to put it on their descriptions.)

absolutely nothing, really.

as he found himself in the middle of midterms, the idea of you started to slip away in between papers and unfinished plates. 

leehan likes the library during exams season; place filled with students who are struggling like him. as night has dawned upon them, bulbs of yellow light up at every table. he’s always been able to work better at the library. after all, it doesn’t help that jaehyun is lounging in their dorm, enjoying his freedom from academic obligations.

still, leehan cannot deny his exhaustion as he attempts to finish one of his many essays. it works in his favor that his hoodie does its job in concealing his fatigue from others, allowing him to isolate and make sense of the words on his screen.

perhaps it’s for the best for you two. if he found himself entangled with you, maybe he wouldn’t get any work done. he already begged his professors for an extension, and he’s starting to think that might be the last time they’d understand. the last thing he wants on his mind is you—

“leehan?”

the source of his sleepless nights stands right before him. it seems like you’re unscathed from what this season brings but your laptop and bag filled to the brim with readings suggest otherwise.

still, it’s the same jellyfish-like glow in your eyes. 

“o-oh, hi!” at his voice crack, his eyebrows shoot up. “sorry, hi again.”

“no, it’s fine! i understand.” you smile in a poor attempt to suppress your laugh. “i just… wasn’t expecting to see you here. wait—you do remember me, right?”

he’s surprised that thought comes across your mind. “of course i do, y/n. how could i ever forget jaehyun’s cool friend?”

you roll your eyes at his flattery, trying to ignore his comment, but the smile on your face says otherwise. “at least. it would’ve been embarrassing to approach you and find out you don’t remember me, which i understand but i think i would’ve ran away.”

your shy demeanor causes waves to crash against his heart, the sound of your voice enchants him, and—snap out of it!

he shakes his head in an attempt to regain his composure. “what brings you here?”

“i’m here to work as well, but i’ve been walking around trying to find a table and i can’t find a vacant spot.” as your eyes flicker to the empty chair across him, he’s quick to move away his scattered things, some pens falling off the table.

“you can sit with me!”

“are you sure? i’d understand if you need your own space, really.”

leehan can try all he wants to shake off the thought of you, insist that he doesn’t have a crush on you (because he really doesn’t), but he isn’t going to have you leave this library in defeat. you two are in the same boat, trying to meet deadlines while running on a few hours of sleep and caffeine. he isn’t going to leave you stranded.

“yeah, i’d be happy to have someone join me. i can’t be the only one going crazy here,” he reassures you. you take that as your sign to sit with him.

(and this isn’t his attempt to spend time with you. really, it isn’t.)

he tries to continue where he left off on his work. if he continues to put off this essay, he wouldn’t only lose another hour of sleep but risk receiving a failing mark.

yet, his eyes are drawn to you. regardless of all the risks, of all the threats that loom in the deep ocean, he can only look at you.

which is why it comes to his surprise when you meet his gaze. 

leehan is quick to break eye contact and act like he’s working. heat rises to his cheeks. in the sea of typing, your giggle reaches his ear.

now, he isn’t sure how red he’s become.

“i didn’t know you like ponyo.”

a hum of confusion leaves him. as you stare at the stickers plastered over his laptop, your finger darts at a jellyfish one. “that’s from ponyo.”

his face flushes. “oh! yeah.” the last word trails into a whisper.

“is that your favorite ghibli movie?”

leehan melts into his seat. not from the nerves but pure embarrassment—because he has no clue what ponyo is. from what he’s gathered, it’s a ghibli movie, has jellyfish in it, and… that’s all he got. after all, he bought that sticker at a convention a few months back.

(it’s starting to make sense to leehan why the artist showed him a collection of anime characters back then, and it didn’t help that he asked to see more fish stickers instead.)

he should be honest with you; if he doesn’t know what the movie is about, then maybe you’d indulge him with everything you like.

yet, another lie is said. “yeah!” it leaves leehan in shock, in embarrassment, in a situation he could’ve avoided. he should’ve tried to save himself from the unfolding mess, but the beam in your eyes outshine all sea creatures he’s studied up on. “what about you?”

your smile grows bigger. “i love that movie! you know, there’s supposed to be a symphonic concert happening in a couple of months.” leehan only musters out a hum, trying to cover up his anxiety with interest. as you learn on the table, you ask, “who do you think you are between ponyo and sosuke?”

leehan’s absolutely fucked, but he knows how to keep his act up; avoid answering and throw the question back. “who do you think i’m more like?”

you take a moment to think. as your fingers tap against the table, a small hum leaves you. “based on vibes, i think you’d be ponyo.” leehan can only nod.

once silence settles between you two, leehan thinks he’s in the clear. he’s ready to put this interaction behind him, even kick himself for lying to you—

“now, what about me?”

“uh,” he mumbles as he discreetly searches up the movie.

with your wide-eyed gaze, the pressure to answer is multiplied by ten-fold. leehan thinks this is even worse than answering an exam worth 40% of his final grade. he wish he could be swallowed up; it pains him to keep the act going.

by some miracle, you read his thoughts. “you don’t know anything about ponyo, do you?”

he sighs in relief. “oh, thank god, i couldn’t keep this up any longer. i only got that jellyfish sticker because i like fish, and no one told me it’s a reference to a movie until you pointed it out.” the frown painted across your face makes him feel like he’s been stung by a jellyfish. “i’m sorry. i should’ve just told you that i had no clue what you were talking about, but i panicked and i didn’t want to ruin the conversation with my ignorance and—”

you burst into laughter, causing neighboring tables to glare at you. as you throw an apologetic smile to those you disturbed, you try to hold yourself back from laughing any more. leehan wishes you didn’t stop then; those few seconds turned into a song stuck in his head.

“i’ve never met anyone who’s into sea creatures.”

leehan’s breath hitches. is he weird for liking fish? would you be freaked out by his tank filled with corydoras? is it over for you and him—

“but i think that’s cool.” your words snap him from his thoughts. “do you have some as pets?”

the question brings him to grin. “corydoras and snakeheads.”

“you wanna tell me more about them?”

leehan thinks you might be it—the one, as riwoo likes to rave on about when imagining his unfolding future—for him.

but he’s gone through weeks filled with stress and the exhaustion gets in the way of his work; it’s probably the same case for his feelings towards you. before he can spiral into a never-ending hole filled with delusions, he shakes off the idea. “maybe another time.”

“you’re right. sorry about that. we both came here to work and i’m clearly distracting you.”

his eyes grow wide, scared to send you the wrong message. “no! you’re okay. i like talking to you.” as your expression shifts from apologetic to shock, he quickly adds, “about my fish! yeah, about them.”

while a nervous chuckle leaves him, you smile. “i like talking to you, too.”

leehan’s skin heats up.

“about ponyo, even if you didn’t know what i was talking about,” you tease. “maybe we can watch it together when we’ve got time. i don’t know what it’s like as an architecture student, but i can spare a few hours.”

leehan’s senses elevate—not from your suggestion but over the mention of his course. “how do you know my course?”

he didn’t want to get ahead of himself, really, but he can’t control his mind from jumping into conclusions. did you search him up right after the first meeting? were you curious about him?

were you interested in him the same way he is with you?

“myungjae mentioned it.”

his hope dissipates. “oh, that makes sense.” disappointment is evident in his tone.

still, your smile remains. “myungjae talks about you quite a lot.”

leehan’s groans as his mind jumps to the embarrassing stories that his friend could possibly say. “i would hope it’d be good things.” after all, jaehyun knows too much about leehan, and he didn’t want him to influence your perceptions surrounding him for the worst. 

a quiet moment stretches between you and him. 

“yeah, all good things.”

it’s a silent agreement for the two of you to get back to work; crunch out sentences filled with grammar mistakes and words derived from google searches of synonyms.

still, leehan’s eyes drift back to you every once in a while.

if there’s one thing jaehyun is set on proving, it’s leehan’s crush on you.

it’s been weeks since he first saw his friend freeze at the sight of you. the first time leehan’s eyes held a certain glow that resembled the jellyfish sticker on his laptop.

on the other hand, sungho’s grown tired of jaehyun’s supposed baseless accusations; all jaehyun needs to do is show the signs to prove it all.

he stands in sungchan’s kitchen, swishing around a mix of alcohol and mixers in his cup. the bartop is filled with bottles of liquor and drinks, a variety for him to choose. while everyone is off to enjoy the party, he stands with riwoo and sungho. as sungho shares about the gossip he’s heard, his fingers playing with the hem of his crop top, riwoo’s pink antennas bounce with every laugh. while they’re caught up in their own conversation, jaehyun’s gaze shifts between leehan, who stood by the corner of the living room with taesan, and the front door that swings open every five minutes.

“dude,” riwoo’s voice snaps jaehyun back into their conversation, “what’s gotten into you?”

sungho frowns at jaehyun who only takes a sip from his drink. jaehyun’s odd but never to a point that he’d stop himself from enjoying a party.

“are you waiting for someone?”

from riwoo’s question, sungho manages to connect the dots, and a frown settles on his face. “are you kidding me? even at this party? is that the only reason you begged us to come?”

jaehyun believes that he’s a mastermind. it was easy to convince his friends to show up to sungchan’s halloween party; the mention of alcohol and familiar names seemed did the trick. after all, they all saw the opportunity to de-stress from finals and end the semester on a high note.

the icing on top of his plan was your agreement to show up.

“is this about leehan’s supposed crush?”

sungho’s hip rests against the counter as he looks over at his friend from a distance. “we don’t even know if he likes them, but jaehyun’s so insistent on saying he does which, by the way, isn’t cool. don’t make it weird between them.”

in all other instances, jaehyun would agree with his best friend, but he shakes his head before saying, “just watch and see. by tonight, i will change your minds.”

“if only y/n shows up,” riwoo snickers. 

regardless of his friends’ comments, jaehyun stands tall. “trust me. i know they will.”

sungho rolls his eyes at his friend’s confidence. “what makes you say that?”

“jaehyun!”

the familiar voice rings in jaehyun’s ears. “speak of the devil.” with a smile on his face, he looks over to see you approaching his group of three, all dressed in a mustard-yellow shirt, grey shorts, and a green pail bucket hanging on your arm.

“sorry! i was finishing up my last requirement a few hours ago.”

jaehyun slings his arm around your shoulders. “i’m just glad you made it.”

“yeah, mainly because you begged me to do so.”

“he did the same to us,” sungho snickers.

jaehyun rolls his eyes. “we all know that’s not true. you just won’t admit that you wanted to party, too.”

“i’ll have you know that sungchan invited me before you did,” you remark before you grab yourself a clean cup. with jaehyun’s arm still wrapped around you, you drag him along in staring at the selection of drinks on the counter. “what’re you drinking?”

“oh, the perfect mix!” you don’t think twice about jaehyun’s words until you watch him grab on different bottles of liqueurs and mixers. “like juice, i tell you.”

“that’s dangerous.” a nervous chuckle leaves you before he shakes his head. 

“you’ll be fine, tipsy after one drink at most.” you roll your eyes at your friend being the cause for your impending doom. “by the way, this is sungho, as you’ve met before, and riwoo.” jaehyun’s introduction has you turning around to greet the two.

“you’re dressed as saiki k! i love that anime.” riwoo chuckles at your exclaim. as you look at sungho, you spot the neck of an electric guitar peeking from behind him. “you play?”

he snaps out of his trance and hums in confirmation. “sorry, i was trying to figure out what you’re dressed up as and i still have no clue.”

“oh!” you reach out into your bucket before pulling out a small keychain of a gingered-folk dressed in red. “i’m sosuke, from ponyo.”

riwoo’s hands come together. “i see that now!”

once jaehyun hands you your drink, you take in his costume; a purple sweater that drowns his figure with rock n’ roll girl plastered at the front. “who the fuck are you?” you sip on jaehyun’s concoction. the sweetness of the drink masks the taste of alcohol. it’s a mistake to drink this, not because this will lead you to an incurable hangover but because of jaehyun’s answer.

“i’m darla from finding nemo.”

you choke on your drink. jaehyun’s quick to rub his hand against your back. in the middle of your coughing fit, laughter slips in between. “what the fuck?! i wouldn’t have guessed that.”

jaehyun clicks his tongue before holding your arm. “which is why i have a partner to complete my outfit! come.”

before you know it, he drags you through the crowd of people. whenever your bucket crashes against someone, you’d quickly apologize before jaehyun hauls you five steps forward. you don’t understand the rush, but jaehyun’s smirk makes you believe otherwise.

jaehyun believes he’s a mastermind; he isn’t going to miss the perfect opportunity to push his plan forward.

“leehan!” his friend, dressed in a fish outfit with yellow and white stripes, rips his gaze away from taesan and settles on the two of you. his relaxed smile morphs into a thin line as his droopy eyes turn wide. it’s moments like these that make jaehyun question how his other friends fail to see the signs.

taesan’s eyes follow. “jaehyun! you came at the perfect time. i just needed a refill of your mix.” the moment he spots you, he straightens his back. “i don’t think we’ve met before. i’m taesan.”

“y/n.” the makeshift cat ears formed by his hair bring a smile to your face. “didn’t know i’d meet a catboy today.”

“yeah, well—”

“taesan, come with me.” jaehyun grabs his arm.

taesan and leehan frown at him. “huh? can’t you just make it and bring it here?” as taesan swings his empty cup, jaehyun rolls his eyes before dragging him to his side.

with your confused expression, he forces a smile. “no. i need to introduce you to someone, anyway,” he lies behind his teeth. while you accept his words at face value, leehan’s eyes grow wide at his friends’ escape.

before his lovesick friend can protest, jaehyun and taesan take their leave.

“what the fuck was that?” taesan shouts the question as they make their way back to the kitchen.

jaehyun shakes his head until they reach riwoo and sungho. “that’s the person i was telling you about! the one leehan likes.”

taesan glances at the two before bursting into laughter. “nah, i think they’re just friends.”

“i’ve been saying that for the past weeks,” sungho complains before he sips his drink. “every time jaehyun teases leehan, it almost looks like he’s going to kill himself.”

riwoo hums as he observes his friend. “what even makes you so sure that he likes them?”

“oh, i’ll show you.” jaehyun pulls out his phone before going through his contacts.

as sungho peers over, he frowns at the contact name. “what’s he going to know?”

“hey, can you at least make my drink—”

the call is picked up by their friend, whose eyes are shut and hair ridden into a mess. “hello?” he groans.

“woonhak, do you think leehan likes y/n?”

a pause ensues.

“who?”

sungho smacks jaehyun’s arm, causing him to hiss at the contact. “why’re you bothering the kid? can’t you see he was sleeping?!”

“at 10:34 p.m.? the night’s still young!” taesan jokes as he sings out the last sentence. “anyway, about my drink—”

“this is about the person i was telling you about! the one in the broadcast club.” despite jaehyun’s attempt to jog his friend’s memory, he’s met with a confused and sleepy groan. “the one who likes ponyo.”

for some reason, that piece of information clicks in his drowsy friend’s brain. “oh, yeah! what about them?”

sungho shakes his head. “this is pointless. he’s clearly too sleepy to have this conversation. bye—”

“no! woonhak, you are going to help me prove that i am right about leehan and y/n.”

riwoo laughs in disbelief. jaehyun’s persistence is not new, but it’s the first time they’ve seen it involving their friend. “and how are you going to do that?”

“like this.” jaehyun flips the camera, showing woonhak the view of leehan. woonhak’s face moves closer to the camera in an attempt to focus on his friend, who rocks back and forth in place as he talks to you.

like clockwork, leehan leans forward. “see! don’t you think they’re so close to each other?” jaehyun points at the view.

sungho chuckles before resting his hand on his shoulder. “it’s a party. i’m sure they can’t hear each other that well, especially since they’re near the speakers.”

“he’s right. i mean, they are close, sure, but it doesn’t really mean anything.” although woonhak shares the same sentiments as sungho, jaehyun doesn’t admit defeat. he’s secured in his suspicions; the last thing he’ll allow is for him to be swayed until he shows them all signs affirming it.

“okay, but look at his thumbs.” his friends dart towards leehan’s hands that are wrapped around his cup. “he’s twiddling them! don’t you think he’d fidget around someone he likes?”

riwoo sighs. “i’m sure he’s just nervous because he doesn’t know y/n that well.”

yet, jaehyun shakes his head at riwoo’s assumption. “but that’s the type of anxiety you expect from someone with a crush.”

“that is true.” taesan’s comment brings all eyes on him. i’m kind of just agreeing at this point so that jaehyun can make my drink.” everyone groans and scolds the alcoholic.

“okay, but he could still be warming up to them. i mean, they’ve only known each other for a few weeks now,” woonhak adds on. it’s clear that calling him isn’t helping jaehyun’s case. woonhak’s two more comments away before the call is dropped on him.

at this point, jaehyun’s desperate. he couldn’t have his plan fall through or he would never live this down. if anything, he might end up getting scolded by sungho. (“this is what you get for being so hard-headed!” jaehyun can imagine sungho’s harsh tone that would be accompanied with flared nostrils.)

yet, it’s like the universe heard jaehyun’s plea. leehan does the unimaginable—a gummy grin takes over his features.

“holy shit,” taesan whispers.

riwoo looks back at his friends. “there’s no way, right?”

leehan’s never the type to grin easily, always sticking to tight-lipped ones and smirks. such smiles are different from whenever he'd laugh; a beam in the middle of a conversation comes like bioluminescent waves.

“wait, the quality is so bad. i can’t see why you guys are shocked,” woonhak complains from the other end of the line.

“it’s just that leehan is smiling, like really smiling,” sungho briefs the confused fellow. his head tilts as he continues to watch you two interact. “i mean, y/n could’ve told a joke. like, that possibility is still there.”

jaehyun’s patience runs thin the more sungho remains dismissive. “why don’t you want to admit that i’m right? is it that hard to just say, hey, jaehyun, you might be right about leehan crushing on y/n. sorry about that! like, is it that hard?”

despite jaehyun’s frustration, sungho sighs. “it’s not that, really. i just don’t want to assume anything about his feelings.”

jaehyun’s frown falters. when sungho puts it that way, he recalls all the times he might’ve made leehan uncomfortable, going lengths to ignore what his friend says; he must’ve been a terrible friend to leehan. and for once, jaehyun admits defeat. “yeah. you know what, you’re right. i shouldn’t assume whatever he feels.”

“what makes you so certain about those two, anyway?” woonhak asks.

jaehyun looks over at you two, backs against the wall and shoulders pressed to each other. from leehan’s grin to the crinkle by your eyes, jaehyun smiles to himself. “because i’ve never seen them that happy unless they’re together.”

because to him, you two are a match made by the seven seas—handcrafted by the gods that rule the oceans with the intention of having you to stick together like corals and fish. while his friends can’t see that, he hopes with enough high and low tides that they’d start to see the same vision as him.

yet, the waters hear his final plea; one final sign that might affirm jaehyun’s suspicions.

as you walk away from leehan, making your way to the washroom, his eyes never leave you. his grin resembles the softness of sponges he’d ramble about, and the jellyfish-like glow in his eyes didn’t leave. 

“oh my god, leehan likes y/n,” sungho gives in to jaehyun’s conviction.

“wait, what? how’d we get here? what happened?”

jaehyun doesn’t think twice about dropping the call. (only to pick up and earn an earful of complaints about leaving woonhak in the dark, especially after waking him up.)

leehan thinks he’s dreaming. 

he’ll wake up in a classroom to his professor’s lecture on parametric design or urban revitalization. before he’ll know it, he’ll watch the clock tick away until the bell rings. if not to a lecture, leehan might wake up to jaehyun’s knocks, only to groan and doze off once again.

he should be dreaming, really, because in no universe would he be seated on the couch of the living room and watching ponyo with you—except for this one. 

leehan can’t find the words to explain how he got here. since his last class was canceled for the day, he was going to rush home and take a long needed nap. yet, the waves managed to bring you to him at the right time.

the thing about leehan is that could never say no to you. whether it be for a small favor or rearranging all his plans for the day, he thinks it’s only right to accept anything you throw at his way. you’re his friend, after all, which is why he didn’t think twice about having you over for the long-awaited ponyo watch party.

now, he finds himself seated on a sofa with you, speakers blasting your favorite film. the space is littered with all forms of knickknacks, sea-like or music related. it’s filled with leehan’s and jaehyun’s personalities, showing an apartment filled with love. when leehan’s free time lined up with jaehyun’s, they’d make it a habit to lounge and watch all sorts of films.

while he’s never had issues getting invested in what he watches, it’s only now that he faces that issue.

he swears from the bottom of the ocean that he wanted to focus on the movie, but it all seems impossible with you. the smell of your laundry detergent. your skin against his arm. the quiet, steady breathing of yours that syncs with his.

“leehan.” as you tilt your head in curiosity, he holds his breath. “are you watching?”

and the thing about you is that you always saw right through him. over the course of a few weeks, past the seafoam and algae, you always read him.

he clears his throat before scooting away from you. “of course.” as he stares right at the television screen, a chuckle leaves you.

silence hangs between you two. 

leehan glances at you. you’re eyes are already on him.

“gotcha.” heat rises to his cheeks. 

you sink into the couch with a pout. “if you didn’t wanna watch, i would understand.”

“no, it’s not that at all!” as your eyes snap to him, he sighs. “i really want to watch this with you. my mind’s just over the place.”

you face him, concern painting your features. “what’s going on then? why don’t you tell me what’s up?”

what you don’t know is that you’re his distraction. even at this moment, leehan can’t form an answer to your question. he can never think straight with you; the jellyfish you spoke of in your favorite movie could never compare to the ones in your eyes.

he takes one glance at your lips before breathing out. “nothing.” as he shifts his attention back to the movie, he tries to shut down the conversation. “it’s fine.”

leehan expects for the subject to drop, go back to watching your favorite movie in silence, until your hand rests on his thigh.

“leehan.”

when he looks at you, the distance between you two is enough for the seafloor to crack. the waves in his stomach roar. his breathing halts, almost scared that one exhale will cause you to crumble like a coral reef. when you lean towards him, hot water rushes out of the splits.

yet, you stay still.

the waves won’t carry him to you; all he needs to do is pull his feet from the wet sand to close the distance.

“hey, do you want to get some—oh!”

you pull away from him. as you attempt to resume watching the movie, leehan looks back at the intruder. there stands a shocked jaehyun whose eyes dart between you two.

“uh, i should probably go.” you get off your seat. “i still have some papers to work on, you know.”

leehan shakes his head in reassurance before standing. “of course. i can go with you back to campus—”

“no need!” you interject before shooting an awkward smile. “it was nice seeing you two!”

without any second to spare, you exit out of leehan and jaehyun’s shared apartment.

“were you guys about to…”

leehan’s eyebrows shoot up. “no! that would never happen,” he says as he shuts the television.

a moment ticks by.

before leehan knows it, jaehyun drops to his knees. “no!” his head finds its spot behind his hands. “why did i walk in? i should’ve just kept my damn mouth shut!”

leehan rolls his eyes before walking to his distressed friend. his distraught state should bring concern but it’s an everyday behavior that leehan expects. “nothing was going to happen.”

yet, jaehyun continues to wail. 

leehan grabs hold of jaehyun’s arm and helps him stand up. “c’mon, what did you want to get?”

jaehyun groans before fixing his posture. “i literally saw you two about to ki—”

“we weren’t!” leehan bites the inside of his cheek as he thinks back to today’s events. “nothing is going on between us.”

and there shouldn’t be anything because you two are just friends.  

despite his defense, jaehyun frowns. “well, something is definitely going on!” he crosses his arms. “i saw it with my own eyes, so you better start saying something if you like them.”

but leehan shouldn’t like you. to him, you’re still jaehyun’s friend before anything—even before his friend—and he should respect that.

his silence speaks volumes, bring jaehyun to sigh. “i mean it when i say there’s nothing wrong with liking y/n. why are you scared?”

leehan has always admired his friend’s sensibility. jaehyun welcomes emotions, allowing himself to run on its highs and lows, walking around with his heart on his sleeve. admittedly, it’s something leehan wishes he could say the same about himself. 

all his life, he’s learned to run away from vulnerability. he believes that emotions are inherently disgusting, almost sticky, and should be avoided at all cost. after all, what comes after vulnerability is a moment of inevitable embarrassment.

yet, it’s from jaehyun’s confrontation that leehan realizes he can’t run away from the waves anymore. soon enough, he’ll have to run to the ocean, allow himself to be consumed by the water, and let himself bathe in whatever he feels towards you.

but it’ll take steps for him to get to the sea. “let’s go get some froyo.”

so for now, he’ll continue to run until he grows tired.

leehan remembers the last time he felt this nervous; stomach churning and heartbeat racing with every second. it was for his final defense for his research study. he spent days locked up in his room, piles of clothes found left and right with a corner stacked with empty coffee cups. jaehyun likes to describe it as the great pacific garbage patch that leehan rants about.

who could blame him? with the panel of nitpicky professors, he only had his index cards filled with chicken scratch and his trusty fish keychain to rely on.

when he came out of the defense victorious, the keychain became a lucky charm. for difficult assessments. for life-changing decisions.

for you. 

it shouldn’t be a big deal to leehan, but he holds on to the charm as he waits for you to pick up his call.

ever since he opened up to jaehyun about his confusing feelings, the situation is impossible to avoid. jaehyun claims that the tides leehan rides on are from his crush on you. although leehan still denies it, his friend takes it upon himself to push him across the shore—so long as he’s closer to sea.

“hello?”

“y/n!” his voice cracks, a cough following to cover it up. “hi.”

“oh! how’d you get my number?”

he drums his fingers against his desk. “i, uh, got it from jaehyun.”

“oh, okay. what’s up?”

leehan takes a moment to breathe as he grabs hold of the tickets. maybe he shouldn’t ask you. it would be better for taesan and sungho to go to this event like they originally planned. yet, he would only receive an earful of complaints should he back out now.

“leehan?”

“sorry, i just…” he shuts his eyes. “are you free this weekend?”

“yeah.”

his friends have pushed him across the shore. now, the water is close to his feet. all he needs to do is ask. 

“do you, i don’t know, wanna watch the ponyo symphonic concert with me?”

a beat passes.

leehan’s heart races.

a moment of embarrassment.

he should’ve known better. how could he allow himself to be talked into doing this? he should run farm away from the sea— 

“you got tickets?! how?” your squeal breaks him from his trance. 

leehan chuckles, breathing unsteady, and says, “it’s a secret.”

“keeping secrets from me now? thought we were friends.” somehow, your playful nature and curiosity never fails to lighten up the mood—even if you never fail to make him nervous.

leehan could never think properly with you; he loses all common sense or composure, catching him off guard with every impulsive decision. “which is why i’m asking you out.” his eyebrows shoot up at the implications of that phrase.

“asking me out?” you giggle on the other end of the line. “like a date?”

“sorry, i mean—”

“i’m just messing with you,” you cut him off from his tangent. as he sighs in relief, you say, “but i’d love to go with you. send me the details.”

he smiles to himself. “i’ll see you, then.”

“okay, bye.”

once the call drops, leehan flops down onto his seat. as he stares up at the ceiling, he plays the phone call back in his head, and his cheeks start to hurt.

for once, vulnerability awarded him with something.

the sea has grazed his feet.

leehan thinks he sticks out like a sore thumb in the theater. considering that he’s never been here before, he’s grown conscious of his attendance to the symphonic concert. in these moments, he would’ve run away, ditched the event and locked himself in his room, but he made it through the night—all thanks to you.

in the unfamiliar, he’s able to find comfort through you.

“that was amazing!” there’s a skip to your feet as you exit the theater with leehan. “i think my ears were blessed.”

leehan chuckles at your joy. “i’m happy you think that.” as much as he would like to share the same enjoyment, his happiness stems from you.

people continue to make their way out, knocking shoulders against you two. “you don’t think the same?” you throw the question over the loud chatter.

“i’m sure you appreciated it more than i did.” 

your nose scrunches at his accuracy.

the bustling crowd doesn’t die down, swarming the lobby even further with every second that passes. while you attempt to stand tall within the busy crowd, your faltering smile gives leehan enough reason to protect you.

he loops his arm with yours. “hold tight.” before you know it, he dashes out of the theater with you. 

the breeze of the night hits his cheeks. a sigh of relief leaves you as you find yourselves in the open space. “thanks. i was scared that i was gonna trip,” you mention.

“i could tell.”

you laugh as you nudge your elbow against him. “oh, shut up!”

in these moments, leehan’s feelings towards you were pushed to the back of his mind. in these moments, you two are friends; nothing more, nothing less. 

still, you latch on his arm, like tentacles, like sea anemones, almost like you can’t imagine letting him go.

leehan walks on the edge of the pier; between embracing or ignoring intimacy.

you both get in the backseat of your uber. with how late the concert ended, you and leehan fall into silence as the car drives off to your complex.

streams of fluorescent lights fill the window. the radio plays a soft melody that reminds leehan of the sea. he’ll look at everything, so long as your arm around his remains off his mind.

yet, all it takes is your head on his shoulder for him to freeze up. 

a shaky exhale leaves him. his heartbeat fills his ears. when he looks over at you, he notices your eyes are shut. as a series of quiet snores escape you, leehan thinks back to jaehyun’s words. 

why is he afraid of you?

in all the time you spent with him, you learned everything about him; his quirks, his habits, his unconventional interests. he swore that you would walk out on him, drift away like plywood in the sea, as you got to know him. 

yet, you stayed through it all.

he should know better than to disengage with you the moment his fears come into play. without even thinking, he was villainizing you—every moment that teetered the edge of intimacy had only made him pull back like how seaweed rips through ship ruins.

in his eyes, the worst thing that comes out after intimacy isn’t the embarrassment—it’s the uncertainty that follows. there’s comfortability in familiarity; nothing ever goes wrong if he plays it safe. yet, his mindset may have upheld barriers that restrain your relationship.

leehan only understood that the moment jaehyun pointed it out. in all the time he’s spent with you, he’s never fully given you credit, assuming the worst about you the moment you do anything that encourages vulnerability from him.

and still, you welcome him with open arms.

what if you’re good? what if this is good?

all he needs to do is fall into the sea, plummet through the ocean floor, until he arrives at your embrace.

“we’re here,” the driver says as he pulls into the driveway.

to leehan’s surprise, your eyes open in an instant, catching him red-handed. in a split second, he looks away from you, a cough following afterwards.

when a soft giggle leaves you, he knows he’s only dug himself a deeper hole.

you both exit the car as you walk to the entrance of the builidng. for a moment, you stand beside each other, no word being said, and leehan wishes it could stay that way. he doesn’t want to say goodbye to this night just yet.

yet, you look at him with a smile, and say, “i really had fun tonight. thank you for thinking of me.”

“no, thank you for sharing your favorite movie with me.” leehan looks down to the ground as his foot kicks against the concrete. “i think it’ll be my favorite movie.”

“think you’ll end up loving it more than me?”

he smirks. “no one’s love for ponyo will ever compare to yours.” you laugh at his remark. 

leehan notices how your hands fiddle with each other. he’s never seen you uneasy; you always carry yourself with confidence everywhere you go. yet, it’s in this moment that it hits him—were you just as nervous as him?

in all the times his fears got the best of him, did your doubts do the same to you? were your nights plagued with ideas of him in the same way he fell asleep to the thought of you? did you second guess every action, every instance, like he did?

but most of all, did you want him, too?

“okay,” you breathe out, “i’ll see you soon.”

once you turn your back on him, he’s left to watch your figure walk away.

there’s security in the familiarity. avoiding intimacy saves him from embarrassment and uncertainty. if he were to shift the tides at this moment, who knows what could happen between you two?

the sea grazes his sand-covered feet.

despite the unknown future, is diving into the ocean worth it for you?

before leehan can spiral into his thoughts, he grabs your arm and spins you around. your wide eyes meet his. as he pulls you closer to him, his arm finds their spot around your waist.

the distance between you two allows him to take in your features; your trembling lips, the jellyfish glow in wavering eyes.

at the same time, what could happen between you two?

as his hand reaches for your face, you melt into his touch.

the possibilities are endless; you’re the risk he’s willing to take.

with eyes closed, he dives to meet your lips; soft like how he imagined. it’s a slow kiss, one spent trying to learn you in ways he only thought he could in a distant dream. yet, leehan’s hesitance shows with every second spent exploring you.

when your hands rest on the back of his neck, leehan’s fears dissipate, a small sigh leaving him in between. at his relaxed state, you take the lead. your nose grazes his cheek as your fingers play with his hair. leehan grows dizzy, hand gripping your waist as he tries to keep up with you.

somehow, your lips felt familiar; he’s secured in you.

as you pull away, your erratic breathing matches with his. the sight of your lips that once interlocked with his only makes him want more.

he goes for one more, causing you to giggle, and he smiles in between kisses. your fingers dig against his shoulder as he savors the taste of you. how could he have denied himself of this? if this is what it meant to kiss you, he wouldn’t have second guessed diving into the sea.

you break the kiss, a grin on your lips that can’t match his. “took you long enough.”

leehan’s world doesn’t end in a meteor shower, or an alien invasion, or even through his descent past the ocean floor. past the sand, the dirt, the minerals, the core of his world is not molten lava.

instead, it’s a pair of arms that embrace him. wholly. flaws and all.

and leehan’s world doesn’t end, after all—it’s only begun with you.

networks tag list: @kflixnet @k-labels @onedoornet @kstrucknet

boynextdoor permanent tag list: @bonedors @0310s @whyilovewhales-pdf

story tag list: @bananielle @yunextdoor @heechwe @taesanrot

@loserlvrss @blooqz @mari3s @saintriots @koodaes

@seokkiez @candycane-lemonade @chewnotchoke

[catiroll]

𝐹𝑎𝑣𝑜𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑒 𝑃𝑜𝑠𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛// *✲ﾟ*｡⋆

Pairings: Ambessa & Sevika ( gn reader leaning towards fem)

Warning: NSFW, overworking, lesbians, drinking, set relationships.

ΛMBΣƧƧΛ ↣ Cowgirl

Ambessa thrives on control, her every touch and glance designed to draw her partner into her dominance. She demands their attention, insisting they watch her and feel every calculated movement, every deliberate tease, as she takes them apart piece by piece. To her, their surrender is the ultimate proof of trust, and she wields it with both pride and unrelenting intensity, ensuring they never forget the power she holds over them.

Ambessa’s smirk deepens as her amber eyes drink in the sight of the reader beneath her, their chest rising and falling with each labored breath. She takes her time, savoring the power she holds in this moment, her hands trailing over their body with deliberate precision. Her calloused fingers explore every curve and contour, her touch firm but never rushed, as though she’s mapping them out inch by inch.

“You’ve been holding back all night,” she murmurs, her voice rich and commanding, each word sending a shiver down their spine. “Not anymore. I want to feel you give in—to me.”

She kneels between their legs, her broad frame silhouetted against the flickering candlelight. There’s an undeniable confidence in the way she moves, as if every action is part of a carefully orchestrated performance designed to captivate. Her hands glide up their thighs, spreading them apart with an unspoken authority.

“Look at me,” she orders softly, her gaze locking onto theirs. Her fingers press into their skin, not to restrain but to remind them of the power she holds. The reader’s body reacts instinctively, their breathing quickening under the intensity of her touch.

Ambessa leans forward, her lips brushing against the hollow of their throat, her kisses unhurried and deliberate. She lingers, her teeth grazing lightly against their sensitive skin, drawing soft gasps from their lips. Her hands move with practiced confidence, teasing and exploring, each motion designed to leave them trembling beneath her.

“I want to hear you,” she murmurs against their ear, her breath warm and intoxicating. “Don’t hold back from me. Let me know how much you want this.”

Her lips trail downward, leaving a heated path in their wake. Every kiss, every touch is calculated, designed to evoke as much anticipation as pleasure. When she finally takes them, her movements are slow and deliberate, her strength both grounding and overwhelming.

She doesn’t just want to touch them—she wants them to feel her power, to understand the full force of her desire. Her hips press firmly against theirs, her rhythm commanding but never hurried, her body moving in perfect sync with their own.

Ambessa’s voice breaks through the haze of pleasure, low and gravelly. “You’re mine,” she says, her tone thick with possession and pride. “Don’t forget that.”

Every sound, every movement, every moment is hers to control, and by the time she brings them over the edge, the reader is left completely undone, their body and soul marked by the intensity of her dominance.

Sҽѵíkα ↣ Missionary

Sevika thrives in the intimacy of missionary. Grounding her in a way that makes the connection feel deeper and more personal. She loves the closeness, the way their bodies align perfectly, allowing her to feel every breath and every movement, knowing they’re both fully immersed in each other. In this position, Sevika’s control softens, and she relishes in the vulnerability, the shared intensity of their connection as they move together.

The simmering tension between Sevika and the reader has been building for weeks, each lingering glance and teasing remark a spark to an already blazing fire. Tonight, Sevika arrives unannounced at the reader’s doorstep, her presence impossible to ignore as the streetlights cast a glow on her metal arm, giving her an almost ethereal, powerful aura. Holding a bottle of wine in one hand, her other hand brushes a stray lock of hair from her face, her lips curling into that signature, lopsided grin. “Thought you might need some company,” she says, her voice a velvety invitation laced with the promise of more.

The two settle on the couch, the wine flowing freely, laughter spilling into the room like a warm embrace. The warmth of Sevika’s presence is intoxicating, her low chuckle reverberating in the reader's chest as their knees brush beneath the table. Her scent lingers in the air, a heady mix of leather and something deeper, more magnetic. As the reader leans forward to refill Sevika’s glass, their hands meet in a soft, almost electric touch, sending a thrill straight through them. They share a glance that speaks volumes, the kind of look that doesn’t need words to communicate the raw desire building between them.

Sevika’s fingers trail deliberately down the reader’s arm, each touch rough and tender in equal measure, as if marking them. Her body leans closer, her breath warming the reader's ear before she finally closes the gap, her lips ghosting over theirs in a teasing, tantalizing kiss. The taste of wine is forgotten as Sevika deepens the kiss, pulling the reader closer, her hands sliding under their clothes to trace the curve of their back. The heat between them burns brighter with every passing moment, the playful banter between them replaced by pure, primal longing.

Before they know it, they’re moving toward the bedroom, the world outside fading into oblivion. The air is thick with desire, with the weight of unspoken promises and anticipation. Sevika stands over them, her eyes dark with hunger and determination, as she looks down at the reader. The soft rustle of her movements fills the room as she reaches for the purple shimmer hexstrap-on she brought with her, her gaze never leaving theirs. The strap-on gleams in the low light, a stark contrast to Sevika’s confidence, a visual testament to her control. Her lips curl into another knowing grin as she leans in, her voice rough but seductive.

"You ready for me to take you apart?" she asks, her voice low and thick with desire. Her gaze flickers between their eyes and their body, wanting to feel every inch of their submission to her. As she straps herself in, she watches the reader’s every reaction, their body trembling with anticipation.

Her movements are slow at first, deliberate, wanting them to feel every inch of her power, every inch of her control. She guides the reader’s hands to the bed, her fingers tracing their skin with possessive care, grounding them. “I want you to feel me. I want you to know exactly who’s in charge here,” she whispers, her voice husky as she begins to move. Each thrust is purposeful, an undeniable rhythm that leaves no room for anything but Sevika. She commands the space around them, her body undulating with controlled force as she watches the reader, her every movement a display of dominance and unyielding control.

The reader can only surrender, their body reacting instinctively to her, their hands gripping the bed, their back arching under her command. Sevika’s eyes lock onto theirs, holding them captive as she drives them both toward the edge. “Look at me,” she demands in a voice thick with possessiveness. “Watch me take you apart.”

Masterlist

YAYAYAYAY finnaly back I haven’t posted in a while so my bad but yeah I’m gonna make more of these like Caitlyn and vi

ALSO thinking about writing more ambessa shes soooo ughhhh

[illyrianbitch]

Of Our Own Devices — Part Seven

For @erisweekofficial Day 7: Free Day

Pairing: Reader x Eris

Summary: Eris wakes up as the newly crowned High Lord with a multitude of responsibilities ahead. Yet, there is one essential matter he must resolve before he can truly claim his throne.

Warnings: brief mentions of injury and death, fluff.

Word Count: 3.3k

Part Six

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

The room of the Forest House was quiet, save for the occasional crackle of the fire, its glow casting soft shadows against the stone walls. 

You sat near the window, gazing out into the night, feeling a strange of calm settle over you for the first time in days. The unease that had been clinging to your chest, that pressing weight, had loosened just a little.

Lady Autumn had offered you this room. It was close to Eris, a mere three minute walk to the room that he now laid in, shallow-breathed and unconscious, unable to be woken. You'd initially turned her offer down, said it was unnecessary. But she'd given you a look, something soft and knowing, and you accepted without another protest. You were grateful. You didn't want to be far from Eris— whether you were willing to admit it out loud or not.

You hadn't left his side at first, had found yourself cemented to him, unmovable, hands grasping his. He was warm still, unbelievably so, but his face was slack. 

You only separated when the sense of intrusion became too strong—a quiet unease, like you were imposing on something that wasn’t yours to witness. 

You weren’t his family, weren’t one of his advisors. Hell, you weren’t even sure if you could call yourselves friends. Days ago, months ago, you would’ve said no without hesitation. Eris had been nothing to you but a persistent thorn in your side, the kind you try to pluck free, only for it to burrow deeper the more you tugged.

Or maybe it was the other way around. Maybe it was you who kept returning, drawn to him without fully understanding why.

To keep your mind off his unmoving body, you did the only thing that felt right: you returned to the ballroom, to the place where everything had changed. It was already cleaned then, rid of the spilled Vanserra blood, empty of Beron's soulless body. You weren't sure where he had been taken, didn't quite care enough to think about it for a moment longer.

You’d found yourself taking Eris’s hound, gently removing the restraints from his soft body and transporting him to a beautiful clearing near Eris’s cabin. 

You knew Eris would want to pay respect to his beloved pet. Until he could do it for himself, you would do it in his honor. You buried the hound, marked his grave, and sat next to it for what seemed like hours. He was an animal, yes, and you weren’t sure if they could understand emotions when they were living, but just in case, you wanted him to feel loved. To feel mourned.

Then you’d returned to the Forest House, took up residence in that empty room, and waited. 

The moonlight painted the landscape in silver, softening the sharp edges of the world outside. The autumn trees glowed faintly, their fire-hues reflecting off leaves in a way that felt surreal, felt dream-like. Your court was beautiful. You needed to appreciate it more.

You pressed your hand against the cool glass of the window and let your thoughts drift.

How many nights had Eris stood in his room, a few doors down, looking out at the same scene? You imagined him, alone in the quiet, his amber eyes fixed on the trees, thinking of a world beyond them. Had he been lonely? The thought struck you with a pang. For all his fire, for all his strength and sharp wit, Eris always felt hidden, like his true spirit had been locked away where no one could reach him.

No one but you seemed to feel it. You often wondered why.

The fear you’d felt during these last few days had been unlike anything you’d ever known. It all stemmed from your concern for Eris, for the cruel eldest Vanserra that you'd always flocked to. You couldn’t shake the image of him, standing tall and unyielding, facing the storm of his father and everything he was bound to inherit. 

You'd watched him take blow after blow, fought the instinct to step in, to place yourself between Eris and Beron’s fists, to shield him.  It had terrified you—more than you thought possible—how close you’d come to losing him. Even after things had calmed, after they'd taken Eris's body to his quarters, brought a healer to him, you still felt the echoes of that fear, lingering like an aftertaste of dread.

But tonight, as the moonlight spilled over the fire-touched trees and bathed the world outside in silver, that fear felt distant. Like something that belonged to the past, now slowly dissipating into the night.

You sighed softly, leaning against the frame, when suddenly you felt it—a presence behind you. A ripple of heat, a familiar energy brushing against the edge of your awareness.

Your breath caught as you turned.

Even in the darkness, with only the faint flicker of firelight, he was unmistakable. For someone so vibrant, so impossible to blend in, Eris always moved like a ghost. Stealthy, quiet, as though the fire in his blood had learned how to hide in the shadows.

You stared at him for a moment. He was different now. Something had shifted, not just in his stance but in the very air around him. He was glowing—radiating a sense of power and regality that made your breath catch. 

You'd seen it as Beron fell: a glow emanating from Eris, a surge of power that seemed to ripple through the room. You had watched him take a deep breath before the darkness of unconsciousness gripped him with its strong hands, dragging him into a deep, weary sleep. Hovered over him as Lady Autumn attended to his wounds, placed your hand gently on his forehead, combed through his disheveled hair. Over and over, you had whispered his name.

He was High Lord.

Eris’s hair, normally styled to perfection, now fell across his forehead in a messy, untouched way that only made him more soft, more vulnerable.  His face was unguarded, the lines of his usual mask softened, like he was finally free of a heavy weight.

He was High Lord.

The title fit him, settled into him like it had always been waiting to claim him. And yet, there was something else there too, something raw, as though he wasn’t entirely sure how to stand in this new skin of his.

You felt hyper-aware all of a sudden—of yourself, your own appearance, of the silence stretching between you. You’d never felt this way before around him, never felt so unsure, so seen and yet invisible in the same breath.

His chest rose with a deep breath as he stepped forward, the firelight catching the edges of his hair, making it glow like molten gold.

“Hello,” Eris said, the word sounding strange, almost tentative, like he didn’t quite know how to begin.

And before you could think, before you could even register what was happening, you were moving. Your feet carried you across the room without a second thought and soon your arms were around him, pulling him close. 

He seemed as shocked as you were, frozen for a heartbeat before his arms came up around you, pulling you tightly against his chest. The smell of pine, smoke, and that distinct scent of Eris filled your senses, and for a moment, everything else disappeared. The warmth of him flooded into you, familiar and grounding, and your body seemed to sing in response.

You pressed your face against his shoulder, heart pounding in your chest. You didn’t know why you had done it, why you had suddenly thrown yourself into his arms, but nothing else seemed right. No other response. 

He exhaled, a soft, almost disbelieving sound, and then his grip tightened around you, his hands splaying across your back as though anchoring himself in your touch alone. His cheek rested against your temple, and you felt his breath stir your hair as he whispered, "Am I still dreaming?"

Whatever that meant.

A few moments passed before you suddenly became aware of just how vulnerable the moment was, the tenderness of it all. You hastily stepped back, peeling yourself from him. Eris’s hands lingered where they had been, his touch ghosting across your arms as you pulled away, and you caught the fleeting look of sadness on his face as he let you go. His gaze dropped for just a second before he looked at you again, searching, almost cautious. Something flickered in his eyes, and his lips quirked upward—just slightly.

You didn't pay attention to the motion as you shoved him in the chest, your palm hitting against him with more force than intended. He blinked in surprise, stumbling back a half-step, his brows shooting up in shock.

“Never do that again!” you blurted out, heart racing as the flood of everything hit you at once. You took a deep breath, feeling your chest tighten as you rambled, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “Who does that, huh? Brings someone to a ball, asks all these cryptic questions, and then just goes and almost dies right in front of them?”

Eris’s eyebrow arched, and you could see the corners of his mouth twitching higher, and higher. 

“A High Lord apparently,” he mused.

Something changed in his expression the second the words left his lips, as if he was truly realizing for the first time what he now was, who he had become. His amber eyes glowed. It was the first time you’d heard it—the title in reference to the male before you, to the one you'd known for most of your life.

Eris glanced down, his hands falling to his sides, and then he shrugged, almost nonchalant. “Also,” he added with a small smirk, “I knew I wasn’t going to die.”

You fixed him with a look that said exactly what you were feeling. “Not funny,” you scolded, your tone flat and unimpressed.

His smile broadened. It was the kind of smile that felt carefree, open, without the usual edge of mischief that defined so much of his demeanor. There was still a touch of arrogance, of course—it wouldn’t be Eris without it—but it was tempered now, softer, more sincere.

“I didn’t mean for you to see it all,” Eris said, his dropping into a a tone of regret. “I thought you’d heed my warning, leave before the feast.”

You raised an eyebrow, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips despite yourself. “And when have I ever listened to you?”

His laugh was soft, a genuine chuckle that filled the space between you with warmth. He nodded, conceding the point with a slight shake of his head. The sound of his laughter lingered as silence dawned on you once more.

The quiet carried a weight that seemed to settle into your chest. It was heavy, all consuming—but not in a bad way. You felt something flutter there, a mix of emotions you couldn’t quite name. Looking at Eris, you hesitated, searching for something to break the stillness.

“So, you're High Lord now."

Eris nodded, his expression softening slightly. “That I am.”

The simple acknowledgment left you at a loss. It was strange, seeing him like this—glowing with power, radiating authority, yet still the same Eris who had always danced on the edge of your life.

“I’m not bowing," you said. 

Eris’s laughter came again. “I wouldn’t expect you to."

You crossed your arms. “I’m serious.”

“I know you are.” His voice softened, still laced with that familiar mirth as he took a step toward you, the light around him shifting. He took in the room around him, inspecting it as if it wasn't a familiar area of his own home.

“I have many things to attend to. I've never awoken to so many people at my feet.” He let out a breath, his gaze traveling back to yours. “But the one person I wanted to see wasn't there.”

You swallowed, staying quiet. Your fingers instinctively came up to rub against your chest, as if trying to ease the tightness you had begun to feel. 

“My mother told me you’ve been staying here,” Eris said.

You nodded. He watched you carefully.

“Thank you,” he said. The sincerity in his voice should've caught you off guard, the softness of it standing in stark contrast to the rough, ragged persona that Eris presented. But it didn't. It rolled through you like a wave of comfort. 

“You're welcome,” you whispered, the words coming out more like a breath. You weren’t sure what else to say. 

Eris’s gaze dropped for a moment, his fingers curling at his sides before he spoke again, his voice a little rougher, more uncertain. “I don’t know how to do this.”

You furrowed your brow. “Do what? Be High Lord?”

He shook his head, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “No,” he said, exhaling deeply. “I’ve prepared for this title my entire life. I’m excited, I’m ready.” He paused. “I was referring to something else.”

Your heart skipped a beat as the silence settled between you again, heavier this time. He softened before you, shoulders dropping, lips twitching upwards, a soft blush painting his freckled cheeks, the tip of his nose.

“I don’t know how to ask for forgiveness."

The Eris who always seemed so sure of himself, always one step ahead, was suddenly exposed—stripped of all the stiffness and confidence, standing before you, waiting for something. Your thoughts wandered as you examined the male before you.

You knew Eris—knew him so deeply that it bothered you. You used to hate that you cared for him, that despite everything, your gaze would linger on him when he'd walk past you and Lucien, his cheeks bruised, open cuts on his knuckles. You hated that you'd defended him in private, that you'd craved those fleeting moments where you might run into him, even when you knew you shouldn’t. You’d found him impressive, even admirable, at times—despite the part of you that wished you hadn’t.

You tried to imagine a world without Eris Vanserra, a life where he had remained in the background, a distant figure, the elusive, cruel older brother who tormented Lucien. The one who was easy to hate. You’d forced yourself to see him that way, for Lucien’s sake—offering your friend understanding and a place to rant, a shoulder to lean on when he needed it. Lucien was entitled to those feelings, after all. Eris had done terrible things, things you couldn’t deny or excuse.

But even then, you had never fully seen him as the monster others did. Even when you wanted to. No matter how hard you tried, Eris had always been more than that to you. He was always there. At least, in the memories that seemed to matter—both good and bad. Somehow, he'd woven himself into the fabric of your life, in ways you hadn’t even realized until now.

A life without Eris Vanserra, for all his flaws, simply wasn’t yours. 

You blinked, your eyes finding his again. 

“I suppose it depends on who you’re asking.”

Something shone in his eyes. He took a slow step forward. “There’s this female," he began, his voice soft, "She has always been there—frustratingly persistent, stubborn... beautiful.”

Your breath caught as he reached out, his fingers brushing against yours with a gentleness that seemed almost out of place for a High Lord. But then again, this was Eris—someone who had always defied expectations. His touch unglued you from yourself as he took your hand, cradling it in his palm. His thumb brushed delicately over your skin before he lifted it to his lips.

He pressed a tender kiss to your knuckles, and his gaze held yours, the burn in his eyes making it hard for you to breathe. “The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Your heart raced. You could hardly find the words as he stepped even closer, the air between you thinning until it felt like nothing at all.

“I believe she sees me for more than I’ve offered the world,” he continued. “And I’ve been unworthy of it.”

Your lips parted as you still struggled to find a response. His hand tightened around yours, but not possessively—reverently. “But it is a time of change. A new start for myself, for this court,” he whispered, his gaze flicking down to where your hands met before returning to your eyes. “And I want to be worthy.”

Your heart swelled, and you realized that, for all the history between you, this was indeed a time of change. Autumn Equinox and all. Something that you both had waited for—maybe without even realizing it.

"Worthy of you, Vixen."

Something shifted between you—an unfamiliar warmth spreading in your chest, slow and steady, like light creeping into a room long left in shadow. You couldn’t name it, didn’t know what it was, but the sensation began to crack open a space inside you, filling the quiet between your words.

“You don’t need to ask for my forgiveness, Eris.”

He blinked, a flicker of confusion crossing his face as his brow furrowed slightly. You drew him in closer with your palm still in his, your voice softer now. 

“I can’t offer you forgiveness on behalf of anyone else. Not for your citizens, not for Lucien.” His jaw tensed at the mention of his brother’s name, but you didn’t stop. “But you don’t need to seek it in me.”

He seemed to hesitate, holding his breath as though whatever you were about to say could either break him or put something back together that had been shattered long ago.

“You’ve always had it,” you said quietly, letting the truth settle between you like a long-overdue confession. He exhaled slowly, the tension that had been wound tight within him loosening, unravelling like a cut thread. His thumb brushed over your hand again. You felt a subtle tremor in his fingers. 

“I’ve always seen you,” you finally managed to say. “I’ve always seen you, Eris.”

That unfamiliar warmth swelled beneath your ribs, expanding, filling every space between you and Eris. It started slow, subtle, but then, all at once, it flared—bright and undeniable. A soft hum in your chest. A chant that your body repeated over and over.

Mate. Mate. Mate.

Your breath caught, a sharp inhale as the truth washed over you, tangible and real. Eris seemed to feel it too, his eyes widening for a heartbeat before he let out a deep, shaky exhale, his lips pulling into a bright, knowing smile. It was sinfully soft.

“I knew it,” he said.

Eris pulled you closer as you gave him a incredulous look. “You did not.”

His grin grew wider, a flash of pure, smug confidence crossing his face. “Yes, Y/n. I did.”

Before you could argue, his hand cupped the back of your neck, pulling you in as his lips found yours. The kiss was slow at first—soft, tender—but quickly deepened, like something that had been waiting to break free for far too long. You could feel the bond, bright and strong, snapping fully into place as you melted into him, the two of you laughing softly against each other's lips as the world seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you.

A vixen and her High Lord.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

authors note: yayay fluff!!! a new beginning for autumn and its high lord!!! these sweeties n their mini story was so fun. all i can imagine now is eris learning the ropes of being a leader with his lil love at his side while she fights for her friendship w lucien (ouchie). but reader n eris found each other finally!! mates!!!

as always, thank you for reading <3 and a lovely, heartfelt farewell to eris week!

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[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Color Theory

Color theory is a set of guidelines for mixing, combining, and manipulating colors. Color theory includes ideas like:

Color harmony: Color harmony describes color pairings that are visually pleasing and provide a sense of visual order. Color schemes based on complementary and analogous colors are generally perceived as harmonious. But, since humans respond to colors differently depending on personal preferences and life experiences, there are no universally “right” colors for achieving harmony.

Color temperature: Color temperature deals with breaking colors down into warm colors (associated with sunset and daylight) and cool colors (associated with overcast light). Experimenting with combinations of warm and cool colors can help you mix colors to achieve a particular effect.

Color context: Colors appear to behave differently when viewed in different contexts. For instance, a rusty orange may seem dull and subdued when placed beside a vivid yellow, but when paired with a dark purple, the orange suddenly seems much brighter.

Color Wheel - a circle diagram that illustrates the relationships between different colors.

Sir Isaac Newton developed the first color wheel in his 1704 book Opticks.

Newton created an asymmetrical color wheel with 7 colors—red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet.

In 1810, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe developed a symmetrical color wheel with just 6 colors (eliminating indigo) that is similar to the one we commonly use today.

Artists and designers use color wheels to create color schemes that produce a desired artistic effect.

Primary Colors - colors that combine to make a range of other colors.

Traditionally, these are red, yellow, and blue.

In the RYB color model, the primary colors form a triadic color scheme—a group of three colors spaced evenly apart from each other on the color wheel.

When mixed, these three primary colors form many other colors.

More accurate color theories actually use different primary colors.

The CMYK color printing model deals with printed colors—cyan, magenta, yellow, and black. It is a method of subtractive color mixing in which printed colors absorb (i.e. subtract) light and combine to form a range of colors, including red, blue, and green.

The RGB color model applies to colored light—like the light that emits from a phone or computer screen; its primary colors are red, green, and blue.

The model is a method of additive color mixing, meaning that different colors of light combine (i.e. add) to form other colors, including cyan, magenta, and yellow.

Secondary Colors - the result of mixing two primary colors.

In the traditional color model, the 3 secondary colors are:

green (yellow + blue), orange (yellow + red), and purple (red + blue).

Tertiary Colors - the combination of one primary color with one secondary color.

There are 6 tertiary colors on the traditional color wheel:

magenta (red-purple), vermillion (red-orange), amber (yellow-orange), chartreuse (yellow-green), teal (blue-green), and violet (blue-purple).

Complementary Colors - colors found opposite each other on the color wheel.

Complementary color schemes include blue with orange, red with green, and yellow with purple.

These contrasting colors can make a bold statement when paired in fashion, film, photography, and other forms of art.

Analogous Colors - colors that are next to each other on the color wheel.

Analogous color schemes include yellow paired with chartreuse and green; red with vermillion and orange; and blue with teal and violet.

The 3 colors in each pairing share a common hue, so they appear to match.

Color Temperature - the way to measure the color of visible light.

The unit used to measure color temperature is degrees kelvin.

The best way to understand color temperature is to visualize a piece of metal being extended into a fire.

The color of the metal will change depending on how long it’s held in the fire and how hot it gets.

The metal will range from red to warm white to blue as it heats.

This is also the general range of colors from one end of the color temperature scale to the other.

The Kelvin Temperature Scale. The kelvin scale consists of units of measurement that relate to the color of a light source. The higher the Kelvin number, the closer it is to replicating bright sunlight. In general, higher temperatures on the kelvin scale, the whiter or bluer a light appears. The lower the number, the more yellow and red the light appears.

In order to understand the kelvin range and how kelvin color temperature applies to different light sources, it’s useful to review a few identifiable lights and their kelvin color temperature value.

Candlelight, for instance, generally has a color temperature of around 1500K.

The sunrise and sunset are usually measured around 3200K.

An overcast sky usually has a color temperature of around 9000K.

The current color temperature scale in use is known as the correlated color temperature (CCT) scale and is based around the color emitted by an incandescent bulb.

Sources: 1 2 3 ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[ratherchili]

𖹭 cw angst, fluff, briefly explicit, toxic behavior

Stalker choso didn't mean to follow you home. Not the first time, or even the second time... or any of the times after that. You just looked so small and helpless and it was nearing dark and you were all alone. Anything might have happened to you.

So he follows you, watching the evening breeze run it's icy fingers through your hair. It carries the sweet caramel and coffee bean scent of you into his nose. It makes him feel strange. Makes him imagine the way your hair might feel, brushing against his shoulders and chest.

You make it easy for him to follow you. With your headphones on, you're more or less oblivious to your surroundings. He shakes his head. He could do anything to you. You wouldn't even know what hit you. Anyone could grab you and do god knows what. That's why he had to memorize your schedule and your route. So he could always be there, just in case you needed him.

He stops across the street as he always does and watches you until you shut the front door behind you. He stands just outside the amber halo of the streetlight and remembers the first time he saw you. Like silver to a crow, he wanted you without understanding why. You were a beautiful treasure, full of light and he wanted you. Wants you. That's all there is too it.

He is still standing there when light spills out onto the front lawn through the gauzy pink curtains in your bedroom window. He was about to turn away but feels rooted to the spot when you step into the light. He knows he should look away when you begin to undress, framed in the window like the work of art that you are. But he can't. He feels like he is on fire. He stands in the dark and burns.

He knows it's wrong, but he can't stop thinking about it, especially once he is home, alone, fucking his fist to the thought of you, again. Let's be honest, it isn't the first time he's thought of you that way. Not even close. Afterwards, he feels guilty. He can't help but think that he has become the very thing he intended to protect you from: the loathsome creature in the dark. That isn't how he wants things to be.

That's why he waits around the corner of the cafe, listening for your footsteps. He doesn't mean to scare you, but he can tell he has by the way you freeze up, bottom lip trembling. The sight strikes him dumb for a moment. When he finds his voice again, he says he's sorry, as he picks up your fumbled phone from the sidewalk and hands it to you.

"You shouldn't walk alone at night," he says. "Let me walk you home."

Maybe it isn't very smart, but there's something sweet in his sad, dark eyes that has you saying yes before you can second guess it. There is an otherworldly quality to him that charms you right away, so much so that it doesn't occur to you to wonder how he knew you were going home. You even squeeze his hand before he goes and say you'll hope you'll see him tomorrow and tell him you get off at the same time. He only nods and turns away, so you can't see the way he's struggling to breathe.

[tsumuus]

just shoto todoroki being so in love with you that it hurts

The evening sun cast a golden glow over the park, illuminating the serene landscape with a warm, amber hue. Shoto Todoroki stood at the edge of the small lake, watching the ripples dance across the water's surface. His dual-colored eyes, a striking contrast of icy blue and warm gray, reflected the gentle movement. The world around him seemed to fade, the only clear image in his mind being you.

You were a beacon of light in his life, a warmth that thawed the ice within his heart. He observed you from a distance, your laughter echoing through the air as you played with a group of children. The sight of your radiant smile sent a pang of longing through his chest, an ache that was both sweet and painful. Every gesture, every laugh, every moment spent with you intensified the feelings that threatened to overflow.

Shoto's love for you was a silent storm, a force that he kept hidden beneath his stoic exterior. He watched you with an intensity that bordered on reverence, as if you were the most precious thing in his world. You had a way of bringing light to the darkest corners of his mind, filling the void left by years of turmoil and loneliness.

He remembered the first time he realized the depth of his feelings for you. It was a quiet afternoon, much like this one, and you had been sitting beside him, your presence a soothing balm to his troubled thoughts. The way you looked at him, with such genuine kindness and understanding, had stirred something deep within him. From that moment on, his heart had belonged to you, even if he couldn't find the words to express it.

Shoto's love was a constant, unwavering force, yet it was tinged with a bittersweet agony. The fear of losing you, of never being able to fully convey the depth of his emotions, gnawed at him. He wanted to hold you close, to whisper his love into your ear, to make you understand just how much you meant to him. But the words eluded him, caught in a tangle of hesitation and uncertainty.

As you turned to him, your eyes meeting his, Shoto felt his breath catch in his throat. The warmth of your gaze, the softness of your smile, was almost too much to bear. He clenched his fists, the pain of his unspoken love a sharp reminder of his vulnerability. Yet, in that moment, he found solace in the simple act of being near you.

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting a final, fiery glow over the park. Shoto knew that his love for you was both his greatest strength and his deepest sorrow. It was a fire that burned within him, a fire that he would willingly endure for as long as it meant you were a part of his life.

For now, he was content to watch you from afar, cherishing the moments that you shared, even if they were filled with unspoken words and hidden feelings. Because loving you, even in silence, was a gift he would never take for granted.

'as long as youre next to me, just the two of us'

masterlist

[aurorasgate]

when you sleep on the couch after an argument 

alhaitham x fem!reader

2.5k words | zhongli + diluc

warnings: hurt/comfort

some would say it was inevitable that alhaithams cold and arrogant personality would catch up to your relationship. how someone as sweet and loving as you could be with someone as robotic and logical as him, people didn’t understand. but it never mattered to either of you what others thought or assumed about your relationship. you knew how you felt and how he felt in return, you didn’t need anything else. 

you also knew that even if what others said did come true, even if you were on the receiving end of cold calculating words and intimidating eyes it wouldn’t sway how you felt about him. and as you stood before him, with unshed tears clinging to your lashes, under the gaze of his indifference to what he said that caused your chest to contract painfully, you know it really didn’t change how you felt about him but that still didn’t prepare you for how much it hurt to hear him talk to you in such a way, how small it would make you feel in comparison to the genius grand scribe. 

he hadn’t yelled, hadn’t used his title to undermine you, he had hardly even blinked when the words came out and pierced your heart with daggers of ice. and yet he may as well have screamed to the whole library around you that you were fighting, that you were beneath him. those feelings wrapped around you, curling around your spine like tight tendrils oozing with black smoke that echo with his hurtful words as he towers over you with folded arms and his usual unbothered expression.

your mouth felt dry, your heart beating to a rhythm that hurt; each deep thump sending an uncomfortable ache throughout your whole body. you didn’t know how to reply, there was clearly nothing you could say that would make him understand where you were coming from right now and with every passing second you were becoming weaker to the tears threatening to spill down your cheeks. being this upset you didn’t want to cry in front of him or what felt like the whole akademiya but you couldn’t stand to have him speak to you like this for another minute without breaking down and you hardly had the will to talk back to him.

all you can manage is a choked out and quiet ‘okay’ as you turn away from him and start to head for the door leading out of the house of dena. you don’t make it far before a powerful hand from your ‘feeble’ scholar wraps around your wrist and stops you. it’s gentle enough not to hurt you but still with enough strength that you’re forced to do as he willed even if you didn’t want to.

biting the inside of your cheek, trying your damnedest to not break down and cry right here and now, you look up to meet his eyes but only get a glimpse of his stern features, those seafoam orbs with amber fire, before your vision blurs and wet warmth travels down your cheek. pushing your hand against his, you pull away from his grip and quickly wipe the few tears from your face with the back of your hand before practically running from the house of dena and out the doors of akademiya. you needed to get out of here.. try to calm down and finally catch your breath, not succumb to the suffocating unease sewing between you because if you did you swore you would drown in it.

you don’t hear him following but you don’t dare to look back to check. 

with his sharp eyes and pink lips drawn in a thin line you’d never see through the express he wore that alhaithams heart was dropping into the pit of his stomach, dragging his lungs down with it. the hurt painted all over your face, the shake of your body under his touch and as you pushed him away, the tears you tried so hard to hide from him escaping and cleansing the veil of his arrogance from his eyes.

.. had you looked this hurt the whole time? he had hardly looked up from the book he was working on until his patience snapping, wanting nothing more than silence and for you to not worry, brought him from the pages but even then he hadn’t truly seen you. at least not until you turned away and he reached for you, went to tell you that this discussion was not over but the words died on his tongue quickly because as soon as he saw you, actually saw you and heard not just the words he spewed to prove a point, to be right, he found he could hardly speak at all.

how others felt about his words or tone was hardly of his concern but when it came to you..

you’re suddenly too far away for his liking and he somehow feels like the distance you put between you was not just physical but a distance of the heart as well and he felt it growing vaster with each quick step you took. but by the time his body actually moves to go after you, a few long strides in, his voice returning to call your name, a strong grip on his cloak pulls him back and keeps him in place. 

“let her go,” kaveh voice is as annoyed with the scribe as it always is but there's an air of unusual authority around him at this very moment.

kaveh hadn’t really meant to eavesdrop or step in, it was more that he had been in the wrong place at the wrong time but it was a scene that was hard to look away from and he was full of his own dejection after watching what unfolded before him. he had never heard alhaitham speak to you like that, with cold indifference as the scribe had with many but never you. it had once baffled kaveh to see the scribe being sweet, truly and genuinely loving, towards you but this.. this threw him off even more so.

why did he stop alhaitham though? he chalks it up to being such a sucker for love and well, if he’s being honest, he quite likes what you’ve done to his roommates bad personality. he didn’t need this romantic fledgling only making things worse for himself.

“this doesn’t concern you.” alhaitham can hardly contain the sneer pulling at his lips as he forces himself out of his roommate's grasp and turns back in the direction you ran but you were nowhere to be seen now. he swallows the lump in his throat to try to calm his racing nerves, clenches his fist to keep him grounded, from losing the last bit of rationality because with every erratic pulse through his veins he feels it slipping further and further from him.

he hadn’t known the absence of you could make him so.. frantic.

“maybe not,” kaveh sneers right back. “but did you ever think that when you’re being an insufferable jerk not even y/n would want to be around you? give her some space.”

give you space.. crescent shapes dig their way into his half gloved hands the tighter he clenches his fists thanks to how much he hates that yes it makes sense that he should indeed do just that. you had left to get away from him after all, even if he detests the validity of that truth. but maybe that's what he needed too. yeah, maybe logically.. but he can’t get his heart to agree, not when it’s still sitting like a boulder at the bottom of his stomach, growing heavier by the minute at the remembrance of the hurt in your eyes and the way you ran from him-

he should go after you..

as if kaveh heard his thoughts, which is both absurd and annoying, he attempts to stop alhaitham again. “i’m sure she’ll find her way to the house once she’s ready and then you can attempt to apologize for being such a royal ass.”

it wasn’t until after he had tried to settle back into his book that he actually started to see what happened leading up to this  moment. the way he spoke to you, both his tone and his choice of words, the way your own voice wavered so many times but he still didn’t stop, as if this was some kind of debate with another scholar - and this time he turned out to be the losing fool. how he had made you cry.. the fact that for all he knows you were still crying..

he tries to swallow down the unease, running his hand through his hair, readjusting and trying to find a comfortable position in his chair, rereads the same paragraph over and over because he can’t seem to retain the information with the lingering thoughts of you in his mind but it all does nothing to help quell the storm that uncomfortably knocks against his rib cage and keeps a slight bounce to his leg. 

not a single bit of his work got done from the moment you left. he tried to brush it off like he had so many other arguments with so many others but you were not others and they had never felt like this, never had someone he cares about this much hurting from his words. 

unable to focus on anything but you, he gives up on his book and heads home early but home isn’t much better. 

while you didn’t officially live here, still having your own place in the city, you slept here every night, had drawers that alhaitham cleaned out in his dresser for your things that slowly made their way here or that he had simply bought you so you could have them no matter whose place you were at. little reminders of you lay throughout the whole house and he could hardly take his eyes off of them; your tea cup sitting on the table from when you left this morning while in a hurry, your extra pair of shoes neatly placed at the front door, your favorite fruit resting in the basket on the kitchen counter waiting to be cut up and eaten, your soft blanket and fantasy books near the couch you usually sit at. and though it wasn’t what he normally read, he couldn’t stop himself from opening up one as he waited for you to come home.

but as the sun set and not even kaveh returned, it was as though he saw every calculating chance of how he could make this up to you when you finally did come back, fall to the ground and shatter at his feet. he looks into those shards of possibility, calculating his next strategy, refusing to let them piece themselves into a prospect he didn’t want to see; one where you never called this place your home again. he was left with his head in his hands, staring at the ground beneath his feet and wanting nothing more than to kiss your forehead, remind you how precious you are to him, have your head rest against his chest and remind you that he can be aloof, even cold, but he loves you so much.

they were words he rarely shared but right now he wanted to say them to you more than ever.

he had never actually used the key that you gave him to your place. there was no need when he found you beside him always, but, knowing there is nowhere else you likely are, it now felt like a life line that reeled him into you, guiding him through the dark streets of sumeru until he was standing outside your door, the first few drops of relief finally washing over him at the light coming from your living room window.  

he swiftly unlocks your door and steps inside, headed straight for the room with the light on, where you were bound to be, your name falling from his lips only to be cut off when he finds you on the couch, sleeping as unpeacefully as he’s ever seen you. he feels the regret of not coming earlier bubbling in his stomach but pushes it down because it didn’t matter, he was here now and he was going to make it right.

with quiet steps he takes long strides towards your sleeping figure, feeling somehow better and worse than he had before. to see you, reach out and touch you, delicate touches as he moves stray hairs from your face, revealing to him all the evidence of your tearful state until you had fallen asleep here. by looks of it you hadn’t meant to, with no blanket to keep you warm and the lights still on, in an old shirt he hadn’t known you took from his closet, curled into yourself, a book long forgotten on the tea table.

he hadn’t been able to part from your skin, even when your tired eyes blink slowly, finally seeing who was in front of you and the emotions held behind those lovely blue eyes, emotions he normally didn’t feel or show to anyone.

“h-‘haitham?” 

“habibti,” he replies with such tenderness.

“what’re-”

“you didn’t come home.” 

your chest feels heavy at his words and you hide your face from him, feeling like you might cry at the way he said that, not wanting to say that this was your home too. you knew it was a lie, your apartment hadn’t felt like home for a long time, not when he wasn’t here with you but how you shy away doesn’t stop him from scooping you into his arms, cradling you in his warm and strong embrace. for a moment he just stands there, holding you, his lips on the crown of your head, his nose buried in your hair, his grip around you growing comfortably tighter. you can hear the heavy beating of a heart but in this proximity, when the whole world around you was nothing but alhaitham, you didn’t know if it was his or yours. 

“i love you.”

his words break the silence between you. spoken against your skin, their truth seeping into your very being and down your spine until you are encompassed by it, by him.

you reply in earnest, clinging to him, placing soft and gentle kisses against his collarbone as he carries you to the bedroom you hadn’t slept in for so long, that felt too big without him in it but tonight, you wouldn’t be without him for another moment.

as if you were made of glass he places you into the sheets and follows immediately after you, never letting you get far from his grasp and as you drift back to sleep against his chest, a peaceful one this time around, he whispers his apologies, his promise to do better and more confessions of his unending love for you.

genshin impact masterlist | main masterlist

[neospade]

THOUGHT IT WOULD BE YOU

pairing- MODERN AU! Portgas D.Ace x fem!Reader word count- 6.8k genre- fluff and angst synopsis- We tend to plan things beforehand but never know how things will take turn. you hoped it never turned out this way. note- You're going to hate me for this one...

The summer evening drifts in, slow and golden, as the sun sinks toward the horizon. The air is thick with warmth, carrying the lazy scent of sun-warmed earth and salty waters. A faint breeze stirs the trees, your leaves whispering softly, but the heat still clings to the skin like a fading memory of the afternoon.

The sky is painted in layers of fire and silk—deep oranges melting into soft pinks, then into the dusky purple of the coming night. The sun, heavy and low, lingers for a moment as if reluctant to leave, casting long, syrupy shadows across the fields and rooftops. Everything is bathed in its amber glow—fences, windowpanes, the still surface of a lake reflecting the sky like molten gold.

Somewhere, ice cubes clink against a glass. A distant laugh floats through the air. The hum of cicadas rises and falls in waves, blending with the occasional murmur of a passing breeze. Fireflies flicker lazily in the tall grass, tiny echoes of the stars that will soon appear overhead.

You and Ace lay side by side on the shore, your bodies sinking into the sun-warmed sand, molded to the earth beneath them. The waves roll in gently, touching your feet before retreating, leaving cool trails of foam against your skin. Your fingers are loosely intertwined, half-buried in the soft grains, as if anchoring themselves to the moment.

Ace’s dark hair fell in unruly waves, thick and wild, the strands sweeping over his forehead like the gentle aftermath of a storm. His skin was pale, the kind of pale that seemed to almost glow in the fading light, a stark contrast against the deep intensity of his features.

His face was sculpted, sharp cheekbones and a defined jawline that gave him an air of quiet strength. His eyes—dark, almost fathomless—held a depth to them, like they were searching the world and finding something there that others couldn’t quite grasp. A tattoo stretched across his forearm, partially covered in sand, its dark ink a striking contrast against his fair skin.

At first, you and Ace couldn’t stand each other. It wasn’t the kind of rivalry where words were exchanged or fists were thrown, but there was something about him—something in the way he carried himself, so effortlessly cool and distant—that grated against the quiet, orderly world you were used to. His dark, messy hair and that neglectful  way he looked at everything made your skin itch. You couldn’t understand why your parents insisted on playing the role of best friends, why their close bond had to extend to their kids.

You’d been forced to spend hours together, days even, while your parents chatted over coffee or attended dinner parties that stretched late into the night.

At first, Ace would ignore you completely, his attention always somewhere else, as if the world outside your house was more important than whatever games or stories you tried to pull him into. When he did speak, it was often some sarcastic remark or a quiet laugh at your expense, a teasing that you didn’t know how to respond to. You were opposites in every way, and it felt like you were always trying to prove something—to prove that you were different, that you didn’t belong in the same space as him.

"That's no way to treat people, Ace," Rouge, his mom would scold him, her voice a mixture of amusement and discipline, though it was hard to tell if she was truly angry or just mildly exasperated by his constant distance. "You don’t get to just ignore someone like that, especially not my sweet girl Y/N."

Ace would usually roll his eyes, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, but there was always a flicker of recognition in them—he knew she was right, even if he wouldn’t admit it. Rouge’s words were direct and unwavering, like a constant reminder that, despite his effortless cool and quiet detachment, there were rules that even he had to follow.

But then one day, you just stopped trying to get close to him. You were tired of the endless attempts to break through, tired of being ignored. So, you did what felt natural—you just started to ignore him back. You stopped pretending to care if he was there or not. If he was too cool to play, then you’d play alone. If he didn’t want to talk, then you’d spend your time in your own thoughts. Slowly, his presence became nothing more than background noise.

That’s when things started to change.

Out of nowhere, Ace began talking to you. Not in the sharp, biting way he had before, but in a quieter, almost casual tone, like the wall between you had finally been noticed and, for some reason, he decided it was time to tear it down. He’d start with something simple, like asking about a book you were reading or commenting on the way the sun hit the yard in the late afternoon. At first, you’d glance at him with a mixture of surprise and suspicion, unsure of his intentions.

But he kept talking, kept finding ways to fill the silence that had once felt so heavy. It wasn’t instant, but slowly, bit by bit, you began to realize that you didn’t mind his company as much as you once did. And maybe, just maybe, he didn’t mind yours, either. By the time high school rolled around, the tension between you and Ace had reached its peak. It wasn’t just the quiet indifference anymore—it had grown into something more complicated, something thick and heavy that seemed to hang between you two at all times.

His aloofness, his sarcastic remarks, his quiet dismissal of your existence—everything about him grated on you. And yet, there was something in the way he carried himself that always pulled you in, like a magnet you couldn’t escape, even when you wanted to.

Despite the constant tension between you and Ace, there was always something odd about the way he acted in front of your families. When the two families gathered for dinner, Ace would sit beside you, his usual aloofness replaced by easy banter and a relaxed smile. He would talk to you like you were old friends, the way he would have with anyone else—casual and comfortable, as if there was no lingering tension between the two of you.

His teasing would shift from sharp jabs to playful nudges, his dark eyes glinting with a mischievous warmth that made him seem like the Ace you’d always wanted to know. He’d lean in a little too close when talking, brushing his shoulder against yours with an exaggerated grin, as if to make a point of how “friendly” you were.

"So, how’s the relations between you two going these days?" Roger asked, his voice light but with a hint of amusement. "I remember when you both were kids... you couldn’t stand each other." He chuckled, taking a sip of his wine. "Quite the transformation, huh?"

"Yeah, we’re really good friends now," Ace said casually, his tone smooth, a little too smooth.

And then, without warning, his hand moved under the table. You didn’t even have time to react before you felt his fingers lightly press into your thigh. His hand was warm, his grip tightening slightly, the subtle pressure enough to send a jolt through you, but he kept his gaze focused forward, maintaining the same easy-going smile.

"We've got a good thing going," he added, his voice soft but firm, as though it was an unspoken truth between the two of you that no one else could see. His hand squeezed your thigh once more, just enough to make your breath catch, and for a moment, everything felt dizzying. The contrast between the words he spoke and the way he was touching you sent a rush of heat to your cheeks, and you tried to keep your composure, even though the tension between you two was thick enough to cut.

Without thinking, you gently placed your hand over his and pushed it off, a quiet but firm motion. His fingers stiffened for a moment, but then he pulled away. You quickly returned your hands to your lap, keeping your eyes on your plate, pretending nothing had happened. Roger, thankfully, was still absorbed in conversation, oblivious to the tension that had just passed between you and Ace.

You didn’t dare look at him. You could feel his gaze on you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to meet it—not yet.

It wasn’t until senior year that something started to shift—slowly, almost imperceptibly, like the tide creeping in. Ace began to change. Not in any drastic way, but in small, subtle movements. He started talking to you, not with the biting sarcasm, but with an ease that was new. There were moments, in the hallways, after class, or at the lunch table, when his sharp edges softened, and he’d actually listen. He wasn’t dismissive anymore. He wasn’t the boy who always had a sarcastic comment or the one who barely acknowledged you. Instead, there was a quietness to him, a quiet that somehow allowed you to hear him, to see a side of him that no one else ever did.

You and Ace had been talking—well, arguing, really—and it was one of those moments where the frustration from years of unspoken feelings came rushing to the surface. He was saying something about how you overreacted, and you, of course, had a retort ready. The words were sharp, too sharp, and before you knew it, the distance between you felt impossibly vast again.

"I don’t need you to tell me how to feel, Ace," you snapped, trying to hold your ground, your voice trembling with emotion.

He ran a hand through his messy hair, exasperated. "I’m not trying to tell you how to feel, I just—" He stopped himself, his jaw clenched. "You’re so difficult sometimes."

"Me? I’m difficult?" You could feel the anger bubbling up, but somewhere beneath it, there was something else—something raw. "Maybe I wouldn’t be if you weren’t such a jerk half the time, you would understand my point of view-“

And then, without warning, Ace stepped forward. He reached for you, his hand finding your chin and tilting your face up toward his. You were caught off guard, your breath hitching, and before you could protest or pull away, his lips were on yours.

It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was fierce, urgent, as if he was trying to silence everything—every word, every thought, every argument—by kissing you into submission, as you kissed him back.

His kiss deepened, and that rush of feeling you’d been suppressing for so long came flooding back—everything that had been left unsaid between you two, everything you had both been hiding. When he pulled away, his eyes were soft, almost apologetic. "I don’t know how to do this," he murmured, his voice low. "I never knew how to tell you... how much I care."

You stared at him, the world around you suddenly quiet, as if the kiss had erased all the noise. "I don’t either," you confessed, your breath still uneven. "But I think I’ve known for a while, Ace."

Ever since that night, when everything changed, things between you and Ace had fallen into place. What started as an impulsive kiss grew into something real, something neither of you expected. The tension that once existed between you was replaced by an ease you hadn’t realized you both needed.

You spent your days in simple ways—drives to nowhere, lazy afternoons in the park—finding comfort in each other's presence. His teasing was no longer annoying; it was just a part of your rhythm, a connection that felt natural. There were moments when his gaze would say more than words ever could, and you’d realize you were falling for him all over again. Just like you did when you were just a child with a silly crush.

It’s been almost six years since you and Ace started dating, and somehow, it still feels as new as it did in the beginning. The days have turned into months, and the months into years, but the connection between you two remains as strong as ever.

Laying next to you, his arm behind his head, his eyes half-closed but clearly still watching you. After a few minutes, he broke the silence, his voice teasing. "Lost in your little cloud world again?" he said, his lips curling into a smirk. You turned to look at him, raising an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"You’re so up in the clouds right now, I wouldn’t be surprised if you started floating away," he said, his tone playful. "I’ve never met someone who could get so lost in the sky." You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. "Maybe it’s better than being stuck on the ground with someone like you," you shot back, nudging him with your elbow.

He chuckled, his gaze still fixed on you. "Yeah, I get it. You’re too busy thinking about your clouds to pay attention to me." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a mock-whisper. "Don’t get too comfortable, though. I might just pull you back down to Earth with me."

You laughed, but Ace only grinned wider, clearly enjoying the way he had distracted you. The teasing, lighthearted banter between you both was as familiar as the sound of the waves, and you couldn’t help but feel grateful for how far the two of you had come.

You rolled onto your side to face him, the teasing still lingering in your smile. "Oh, really?" you said, narrowing your eyes playfully. "And how exactly do you plan on doing that?"

Ace stretched his arms out and propped himself up on his elbow, looking down at you with that familiar mischievous glint in his eyes. "Easy," he said, leaning in a little closer, his breath warm against your skin. "I’ll just pull you down with me." Before you could react, he reached out, grabbing your wrist and tugging you gently on top him, his grip strong but playful. You laughed, trying to resist, but he just grinned wider, clearly enjoying the chase.

"You’re impossible," you muttered, squirming slightly to free yourself, but you didn’t really want to.  Ace’s face softened a little, his eyes meeting yours, the teasing fading as the moment turned more serious. "You know, I think I kinda like it when you get lost up there," he said quietly, the edge of his smile still there, but there was something else in his gaze now—something warmer, softer.

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden change, but the moment passed quickly, and you could only roll your eyes again, pretending to be unaffected. "I’ll take that as a compliment," you teased, though your heart fluttered a bit at the sincerity in his voice.

Ace chuckled, leaning back into the sand, his arm once again behind his head. "You should," he said. "But still, don’t stay up there for too long. I might start missing you down here." You laid back beside him, the two of you silent for a moment, the quiet comfort between you filling the space. The world seemed to fade away, leaving just the sound of the waves and the warmth of his presence beside you.  

Ace pushed himself up first, a mischievous grin spreading across his face as he extended a hand to you. “Come on, let’s get in the water,” he said, his voice teasing, but warm with excitement. You hesitated for a moment, the cool evening air brushing against your skin, but then you took his hand. His grip was firm, steady, and for a brief moment, you allowed yourself to be pulled up with him.

You both walked toward the edge of the water, the gentle waves rolling in, sending shivers through your feet as they met the wet sand. Ace, with his usual daring grin, ran into the shallows first, laughing as the cold water lapped against his legs.

You followed, unsure at first but soon swept up in the carefree moment. Ace turned toward you, his eyes glinting with playful energy. “You’re so slow,” he teased, splashing water toward you. You retaliated by splashing back, the playful tension between you both rising as you laughed together, carefree as the ocean around you.

It wasn’t about anything other than the moment—the way the waves seemed to carry you both away, erasing everything else but the feeling of the cool water, the warmth of the sun setting behind you, and the sound of each other’s laughter blending with the rush of the sea.

The vacation had been a perfect escape, a brief reprieve from the usual pace of life, filled with lazy days on the beach, quiet nights under the stars, and moments where it felt like everything between you and Ace was exactly as it should be. But as the days passed and reality began to creep back in, things slowly started to shift.

It started with little things. Ace had always been the one to keep things light and carefree, but suddenly, there were moments where he seemed distant. His attention would drift when you spoke, and the playful teasing had begun to feel more like avoidance than affection. When you asked about it, he would always offer the same excuse: "I’ve got work to do," or "I’m just caught up in duties, you know how it is."

At first, you tried to brush it off, telling yourself it was just temporary, a byproduct of his busy schedule. But the days turned into weeks, and nothing seemed to change. He would come home late, always with the same excuse, and when you tried to talk about it, it was as if he was listening to you through a fog, distant and distracted.

"You’re just overreacting. Everything’s fine. I’m just busy, that’s all. You knew how this was going to be when I started taking on more responsibilities. I’ve got a lot on my plate right now." Is what he would say everytime  you  would try to discuss something with him.

The tension between you two grew, but it wasn’t the playful kind you were used to. It was something quieter, sharper—a weight that neither of you acknowledged, but both of you felt. Ace’s preoccupation with "his job and duties" had started to feel more like an excuse than a reason, and the space between you two widened, even though you were physically together more than ever.

You’d catch him staring off into space, his mind clearly elsewhere, and when you tried to reach out, he’d brush it off with a tired smile, muttering something about "being busy." His smile didn’t reach his eyes anymore, and it was becoming harder to ignore the coldness creeping into his words.

"You’re making this into something bigger than it is, I’m fine. We’re fine."

It wasn’t until that moment—the silence stretching between you two—that everything clicked into place. Ace’s coldness, his avoidance, his constant excuses—it had all been a way to hide the truth. The truth you had been blind to, even though the signs had been there all along.

You had been holding onto the idea that things would get better, that he’d snap out of whatever funk he was in. But now, sitting across from him, you realized how foolish you’d been to ignore the little details—the late nights, the odd behavior, the way he’d always seem to be “busy” or “working.” His preoccupation with “his job and duties” had always felt like a convenient excuse, and now you could see it for what it truly was.

The pain of that realization hit you like a punch to the stomach. All this time, the coldness, the emotional distance, the shift in his behavior—it hadn’t been about work or stress. He’d been cheating on you. It had been going on even before the vacation, long before you started feeling the cracks between you. And now, in the quiet of this conversation, everything came into focus.

You could feel the heat rising in your chest, the overwhelming mix of betrayal and disbelief. How had you not seen it before? All those late nights when he was “working late,” the way he’d never let you near his phone anymore, the random trips he’d make out of town with no explanation. It all clicked now, the pieces falling into place like a puzzle you’d been too afraid to finish.

You swallowed hard, trying to hold onto your composure. “It’s not just work, is it?” you asked, your voice quieter than you intended. “You’ve been seeing someone else.”

Ace froze, his expression faltering for the first time. The look on his face confirmed everything you needed to know. There was no denying it now. His eyes shifted uncomfortably, and the guilt was all too clear in the way he avoided your gaze.

“It’s not what you think,” he muttered, his voice low, but it was weak, the words lacking any conviction. The excuse was coming, and you already knew it wouldn’t be enough.

“Don’t,” you snapped, standing up from the table, your heart pounding in your chest. “I don’t want to hear it. I see it now. All of it. You’ve been lying to me.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but you didn’t let him. “Don’t try to make this my fault. You’ve been lying to me for months, Ace. And all this time, I’ve been here, thinking everything was fine. Thinking it was just work, that you were just stressed. But this… this is something else.”

The anger and hurt bubbled to the surface now, no longer something you could hide. “You’ve been cheating on me, haven’t you? And you’ve been using ‘work’ as an excuse for weeks. No more lies.”

His silence told you everything. It was the final nail in the coffin. There was no denial, no apology, just the heavy weight of his shame hanging in the air.

“I’m done,” you whispered, your voice breaking despite your best efforts to stay strong. “I can’t do this anymore.” Without waiting for him to respond, you turned and walked out, every step feeling heavier than the last. The pain of betrayal, the crushing weight of realizing you’d been fooled for so long—it was almost too much to bear. But you couldn’t stay there, not with him, not when everything had been shattered.

In the days that followed, Ace’s attempts to reach out to you started almost immediately. His calls flooded your phone, each one unanswered. The texts came in waves—at first, they were apologetic, full of excuses, each one more desperate than the last. “I’m sorry. Please, just talk to me.” “We need to fix this, I swear I can make it right.” But you didn’t respond.

The silence was the loudest thing in the room. You weren’t sure what hurt more—the betrayal or the fact that he thought his words could make it all go away. That his pleas could somehow undo everything.

After a few days the phone buzzed with an incoming call from Rouge. You knew what it was about, but you answered anyway, the weight of everything hanging heavy in the air.

"Hello?" you said, trying to keep the tremor out of your voice.

"Hey, sweetheart," Rouge’s voice was gentle, but there was a sense of urgency underneath. "I’ve been talking to Ace, and he’s really struggling with everything that’s happened. I know you’re hurt, but I just wanted to check in and see how you’re doing."

You sat back, pressing your fingers against your forehead, trying to push down the emotions that threatened to overwhelm you. You’d heard Ace’s apologies. You didn’t need to hear it again from his mother.

“I’m fine,” you said, trying to sound calmer than you felt. “But I can’t just pretend everything’s okay. What Ace did… it’s not something I can just move past.”

“I hear you,” she said, her words slow and measured. “And I’m not going to push you. You have every right to feel the way you do. I just… I just thought you should know, he’s really struggling. He never meant to hurt you.”

You swallowed hard, closing your eyes. "I know he’s struggling. But so am I. And I don’t know if I can ever trust him again. I can’t just pretend everything’s fine."

Rouge didn’t try to change your mind, didn’t ask you for anything more. There was a long pause, and you could feel her letting go of the fight, accepting what you were saying, even though it was hard for her to hear.

“I understand,” she repeated softly. “I’m not going to ask you to forgive him or to talk to him. I just wanted you to know that he’s... he’s not okay. But you don’t have to fix that. You don’t owe him anything, not after what he’s done.”

You felt the weight of her words settle in. She wasn’t trying to convince you, wasn’t offering any more excuses. She wasn’t defending him. It was almost as if, in that moment, she had finally understood your decision.

“Thank you,” you said quietly, the weight of the conversation settling over you.

The call ended, and for the first time, you felt a sense of finality. Rouge hadn’t pushed, hadn’t tried to reason with you. She had heard you, truly heard you, and she had accepted what you had said.

You didn’t have all the answers yet, but at least for now, you knew you were done trying to explain. It was over. And now, all that was left was finding a way to heal from it.

A few years had passed since that last conversation with Ace. The days had stretched into months, and those months had turned into years, each one gradually pulling you further from the life you had known, the person you had once been.

You had moved abroad, leaving behind the echoes of your past, the memories of Ace, and everything that had once felt so real. It wasn’t a sudden decision—more of a quiet, inevitable one. It had been about distance, about time to breathe and rebuild.

At first, the distance had felt like a weight lifting off your chest. It was easier, somehow, to not be reminded of him every day, to not see his face in the crowd, or hear his voice in every corner of your thoughts. But as the years had gone by, the absence of him had settled in—a quiet ache, a ghost of the past you couldn’t quite shake.

Now, living in a different city, surrounded by new faces, new experiences, it was almost as if you had shed that old life entirely. You had built something new. Your own space. Your own routine. Your own life, separate from the ties of the past.

And yet, every now and then, you would catch yourself thinking of him. You’d see a pair of dark eyes in a crowd, or hear a laugh in the distance, and for a split second, your heart would stutter. Then, just as quickly, you would remind yourself of the reasons why you had left, why you had walked away, and the quiet reminder would fade.

You had moved on.

The decision to return had been a quiet one, almost accidental. You hadn't planned it. It had been years since you had been back in your hometown, years since you had set foot on the streets that used to feel so familiar, so comforting. But now, standing at the edge of the familiar skyline, everything seemed distant, altered by time and distance.

The reason for your return was simple: family. Your parents had asked you to visit, and despite everything, the pull of home, of the people who had shaped you, was something you couldn't ignore. Your parents missed you, and after everything that had happened, you had missed them too.

It felt strange, stepping back into the house where so many of your memories had lived. The rooms were the same, the furniture worn in the way only years of use could wear it, but everything felt different now. You weren't the same person who had walked out that door years ago.

When you walked in, your mother looked up first, her eyes lighting up when she saw you. "There she is!" she said, rising to greet you with open arms.

You smiled, your chest tightening slightly at the sight of her warmth. You let her pull you into a hug, feeling the familiar comfort of being held by her, even as a part of you hesitated.

"It’s so good to see you, honey," she murmured, stepping back to look at you, her hands brushing your shoulders. "You’ve grown up so much since the last time we saw you. How’s everything been?"

You nodded, taking a seat beside her. "It’s been good," you said softly, your voice not quite matching the smile you tried to offer. "Busy, but good. I’ve… been settling in."

Your father smiled at you from across the room, his expression softer than you remembered. "I’m glad you could make it back. We’ve missed you around here." His voice was steady, comforting in its usual tone, but you could sense the underlying question—what had happened? Why hadn’t you come back sooner? You could feel their eyes on you, expectant, and for a moment, a wave of guilt washed over you.

The conversation drifted between family updates, work, and life in general. Your mother asked about your new place, and you found yourself telling her about the little details of your life now—your favorite coffee shop, the parks you’d started running in, how much you had gotten into reading again. Your father chimed in with a few stories about old neighbors, making you laugh.

Your mom had moved around the kitchen, preparing lunch with the same practiced ease that you had always remembered. The scent of fresh ingredients filled the room, and for a moment, it felt like no time had passed at all. She hummed softly to herself as she chopped vegetables, the warmth of the kitchen wrapping around you like a familiar hug.

Suddenly, she stopped mid-chop, her eyes widening as she looked at the counter. “Oh no, I completely forgot to pick up something from the store,” she said, putting the knife down. “I need cream for the sauce and—oh, some more potatoes too.”

Without missing a beat, you stood up from your seat, offering a reassuring smile. “I’ll go. I don’t mind,” you said, heading toward the door. “I’ll grab everything for you. Plus I wanna take a walk around the area to see what has changed”

“Thank you, sweetheart.” You gave her a quick hug, and stepped out of the kitchen, the door clicking softly behind you. The air outside was crisp, carrying with it the scent of earth and the familiar quiet of the small town.

You started down the street toward the market, your footsteps slow, giving yourself a moment to breathe. It wasn’t a big deal, just a simple errand, but something about it felt oddly grounding—like a tiny, fleeting return to the part of your life that had once felt so natural.

You walked through the narrow aisles of the store, picking up the items your mom needed—cream, potatoes, a few other things she’d mentioned. The shelves seemed the same as always, stocked with familiar brands and colors, but there was a slight unfamiliarity to it now. As you turned toward the dairy section to grab the cream, a voice broke through the soft murmur of other shoppers.

"Sorry, can I passthrough pleas-"

Your heart stuttered for a brief moment, and you turned toward the voice, your eyes scanning the aisle. There, standing with a cart half-filled with groceries, was a man you had once known so well.

His presence hit you like a rush of cold air, catching you off guard. He was older now, of course. His features were sharper, more defined, but that same dark intensity still lingered in his eyes. His hair was shorter, styled neatly, no longer the messy waves that used to fall over his forehead, but the same familiar shape of his jawline, the same confidence that used to make your heart race, was unmistakable.

“Hey,” he started after noticing it was you, his tone much lighter than before. “It’s really good to see you, actually. It’s been... what, a few years?”

You nodded, allowing the small smile to return. “Yeah, a few. It’s kind of strange being back here, but it’s nice. My mom’s been wanting me to visit for a while now, so I finally made it back.”

He chuckled, his hands casually resting on the handle of the cart. “I get it. Sometimes it’s nice to just come back home for a bit, even if it’s just to catch up with family. I’m glad you’re doing well.”

You shifted slightly, feeling a little more at ease as the conversation shifted. “I’m good, yeah. Settling in, you know? I’ve been living abroad, so it feels a bit like a homecoming.”

Ace nodded, his gaze thoughtful. “Yeah, I can imagine. I’ve heard from some people around town that you’ve been doing really well. It’s good to hear.”

You smiled, feeling a little warmth in the exchange. “Thanks, it’s been a big change, but it’s been good. And your family? How are they?”

He seemed to soften a little more, his expression changing from casual to genuinely thoughtful. “They’re good. Roger’s still... well, Roger. Same as ever, and my mom’s doing well, too. You know, keeping busy, but always there to give advice whether you ask for it or not.” He laughed softly, a fondness in his voice.

But then, just as the conversation seemed to settle into an easy rhythm, a soft, high-pitched voice interrupted.

“Daddy!”

Both of you turned toward the sound. It came from a little girl, maybe four or five years old, standing a few aisles over. She had her arms stretched out, calling out to Ace with wide, excited eyes.

“Daddy!” she repeated, her voice full of joy.

Ace’s face shifted in an instant—his smile turning to one of pure affection as he looked down at her. “Hey, sweetie,” he called softly, and immediately the little girl came running toward him.

You stood there, feeling a soft pull in your chest as you watched the scene. Ace bent down to scoop her up into his arms, the little girl wrapping her arms around his neck and giggling as he lifted her effortlessly. She kissed his cheek and smiled brightly.

“This is Ann,” he said, looking over at you with a sheepish grin. “My daughter.” You already knew whose choice the name was. Roger always would mention that if he had a daughter he would name her Ann.

You couldn’t help but smile at the sight of him with her, the love between them undeniable. “She’s adorable,” you said, your voice soft, the smile lingering.

Ann looked up at you with wide, curious eyes, the innocence in her gaze disarming. She couldn’t say much, but her gaze spoke volumes. Her small hands reached out toward you, almost as if asking who you were. You smiled at them both, feeling a quiet warmth spread through you.

 “She’s lucky to have you.” Ace’s eyes met yours, and for a brief moment, the past felt like yesterday. You stood there, watching Ace with Ann in his arms, a soft smile still lingering on your lips. The moment felt strangely peaceful, the distance between you and him gradually shrinking in ways you hadn’t expected.

But then, as Ann fidgeted slightly in his arms, Ace’s expression shifted. He looked at her for a moment, his gaze soft, almost protective, before turning back to you.

“I thought it would be you,” he said quietly, his voice tinged with something unreadable. The words hung in the air, and for a moment, you weren’t sure if you had heard him right.

You blinked, surprised by the weight in his voice. “What do you mean?”

Ace hesitated, his fingers absentmindedly brushing through Ann’s hair, but his eyes never left you. There was something vulnerable in his gaze, something raw. “I thought it would be you,” he repeated, this time more clearly, his words wrapped in an apology. “You were... always the one. The one I thought I could get it right with.”

You felt your chest tighten, the years of distance between you both suddenly feeling so close, so real. His admission, the quiet honesty in his words, hit you in ways you hadn't expected.

"I'm sorry," he added softly, the weight of his regret lingering in the simple phrase. “For everything. For how things turned out... I never wanted it to end this way.”

A woman’s voice broke through the moment—sharp, familiar, and warm, but with an edge of impatience. “Ace, I was looking all over for you,” she said, her voice a little breathless as she walked up to him. Then, her eyes landed on you, and she paused for a moment, a flicker of recognition passing through her expression.

“Ace,” she repeated, looking at him curiously. “Who’s this?”

Ace shifted, his expression faltering for just a moment before he regained his composure, his hand still holding Ann’s small hand. “Someone I knew a long time ago,” he said with a stern look. “We grew up together.”

The woman raised an eyebrow, still holding a warm smile, but now there was a glint of curiosity behind it. “Oh, I see. Nice to meet you," she said, extending her hand to you with a polite but cool gesture.

You shook her hand, her grip firm and confident. “Nice to meet you,” you replied, though something about the interaction made the air feel charged, almost awkward.

"Well," she said with a small nod, clearly not pressing further, but her gaze lingered for a moment too long. "I guess it's been a while. It’s good to see old friends reconnecting. Anyway, I was just finishing up with the shopping, and I thought I’d find you before we head out."

Ace nodded, his posture shifting slightly, clearly more at ease with her presence. “Yeah, we should get going.”

As the woman turned to leave, she gave you one last smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “It was nice meeting you,” she said, her voice carrying a hint of politeness but something that seemed slightly guarded, too.

You excused yourself from the store, feeling the weight of the encounter settle in your chest. The smile you had worn so easily just moments before had faded, replaced by a quiet uncertainty. The warm, light atmosphere of the store now felt stifling, and the chatter around you sounded distant as you pushed your cart toward the self-checkout.

The drive back to your parents’ house was a blur. Your thoughts kept circling back to that brief moment at the store, replaying every word, every glance, trying to make sense of it. The town you once called home suddenly felt foreign, as if everything had shifted without you even realizing it.

Taking a deep breath, you grabbed your bags and walked up to the door. Your mom’s voice greeted you from inside, muffled by the closed door, her usual energy filling the space. You opened it and stepped inside, the familiar scent of your mom’s cooking filling the air, mixed with the softness of home. She looked up from the kitchen, her face lighting up when she saw you.

“Welcome back, sweetheart,” she said with a smile, though her eyes searched yours for something more. You couldn’t help but give her a smile, but it was fleeting.

“You alright?” she asked, noticing the subtle shift in your mood as you began unpacking the items from the store.

"I ran into Ace at the store."

Her expression shifted slightly, but her face remained neutral. She didn’t ask how it went, or if it had been awkward. Instead, she just nodded, waiting for you to continue.

“His wife was with him," you continued, feeling the words spill out before you could stop them. "She called him over, and he... he introduced me to her. I never thought I’d see him like that, you know? Like... a different person."

Your mom didn’t say anything, just watched you carefully, her hands folded in her lap. Her face was calm, but her eyes seemed to hold a depth of understanding, as if she knew what you were feeling without you having to explain.

“ ‘I thought it would be you’ he even told me” you add with a smile, holding back tears from the feelings of the past that are rushing into you right now.

“Oh my dear, we all thought it would be you…”

all author rights go to @neospade

[damneddamsy]

second sight | cregan stark x fem!oc (bonus iii)

a/n: MDNI, rated 18+ (bottom king Cregan) :=> ding, ding, ding! another bonus feature! a special episode of the Stark-fluff, Cregan and Claere are craving some *ahem* "privacy" after the kids, they just cannot seem to get the fuck away from all this.

The halls of Winterfell were cloaked in shadow, the occasional torchlight flickering against the stone. Snow whispered against the windows, and the chill seeped into the air, though the ancient keep held strong against the heart of winter. Cregan Stark moved through the corridors with a hunter’s step, his cloak swaying behind him. It had been a day without incident—a rare blessing—but the quiet only reminded him of what had been missing.

Claere.

She was always busy—lost in her own mind or the needs of their people. If not with their children, she could be found in the godswood, among the crypts, or tending the glass gardens. She had a way of drifting, even when she was right in front of him. Chasing the solace of her own thoughts. It was part of her charm and the source of his greatest frustrations. He could never truly pin her down. Not her spirit. Not her thoughts. She was both his home and his mystery.

Cregan understood it—had always admired her depth—but tonight, he wanted her with him. No duties. No distractions. Just them.

A faint sound drew him to the solar: the unmistakable lilt of a harp. He paused in the doorway, leaning against the frame, and watched her unnoticed. Claere sat by the fire, her harp resting against her lap, fingers dancing over the strings. She wasn’t playing for anyone—only herself, violet eyes closed for the world, her lips barely parted as if the melody had carried her away. The amber of flames kissed her face, highlighting the curve of her cheek, and the line of her jaw.

After nearly sixteen years of marriage, she was still a force of nature. Her beauty had not faded; it had deepened, tempered by years and laughter, her soft edges sharpened by motherhood and the onus that was Winterfell. Yet in moments like these, she seemed untouched by time, still the ethereal girl who had walked into his life with starlight in her eyes. She belonged to Winterfell as much as the snow, the woods, the wolves.

“Have the spirits called for you again, Lady Stark?” His voice broke the silence, teasing.

Her fingers stilled on the harp. She opened her eyes and turned, a smile lighting her face. “No spirits,” she replied, setting the harp aside. “Only the cold. And my lord, it seems.”

He stepped closer, his boots heavy on the stone. “The cold I understand, but why me?”

“Why not?” She rose gracefully, her skirts brushing the floor as she crossed to him. “What brings you out tonight, Cregan? Shouldn’t you be upstairs, dreaming?”

“Dreams are quieter than my wife,” he quipped, his eyes gleaming with humour. “And far less interesting.”

She tilted her head, her gaze sweeping over him in that way of hers—sharp and thoughtful, as though she could see the bones beneath his skin. He raised an eyebrow, half amused and half wary. It'd been long since she'd looked at him like that. He almost felt like he was nineteen again, wishing this quiet, strange dragon princess would grant him the honour of sleeping by her side.

“What are you looking at?” he asked.

Claere tapped a finger to her lips. “You.”

“Have you found something worth your study?”

“Perhaps,” she mused, her eyes lingering on his chest. “You’ve grown... broad.”

He snorted. “Broad?”

“Big,” she clarified, her voice lilting with mischief.

“Big,” he repeated flatly. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

She shrugged, her expression maddeningly serene. “Wide, then. Broader than when I first met you.”

“Are you calling me fat? Is that how you talk to your lord?” His brows knit together in mock offence.

“I dare not,” she said, her lips twitching with barely concealed laughter.

Cregan took a step back, spreading his arms as if to display himself. Indeed, time had taken its toll on him—his shoulders ranging more like mountains now, his jaw sharper, his gait heavier, and the scars on his hands and knees aching in the frost. His hair, once the dark shade of wolf fur, began to slightly streak with silver, and though he still carried himself with strength, he bore up his longsword, Ice, yet the years of war and rule weighed on him.

“Big, is it? A lord of Winterfell should be big. Winter demands it.”

“Winter demands many things, my lord,” she said, her tone far too serious for her words. She stepped closer, circling him now like a wolf sizing up prey. Her eyes sparkled as she added, “I’ve no complaints. None at all.”

He rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide his grin. “You’ve a strange way of flattering your husband.”

“Flattery?” she echoed, feigning innocence. “I do not flatter. I speak facts.”

He shrugged off his cloak, tossing it carelessly onto a chair, and placed his hands on his hips. “Hmm. Maybe I have grown plump,” he admitted, rubbing at the scruff on his jaw. “Too much love. It’s fattening.”

She laughed then, her shoulders shaking as she covered her mouth. “Is that what you tell yourself?”

“Well, you said it yourself—I’m broad.”

She reached out, her fingers brushing his arm. “Strong,” she corrected softly, her humor fading into something gentler. “You’re strong, Cregan. You always have been.”

“Strong... and fat.”

Her laughter softened into a hum against his chest, her breath seeping through the leather of his coat, warming him in ways no fire ever could. For a fleeting moment, the room belonged to just them—the crackle of the flames and the rhythmic drumming of his heartbeat the only sounds. He held her as though anchoring himself, one hand at the small of her back, the other brushing up to the curve of her neck, fingers threading through the silver strands of her hair.

“You’ve made me mad, Claere,” he murmured, his voice gravelly, the words laced with frustration that didn’t quite reach his eyes. His thumb ghosted over her jaw, pausing just at the corner of her mouth. “Since the day you walked into these halls.”

Her hands splayed against his chest, firm yet tender, her gaze lifting to meet his, stormy grey to rich violet. Her smile widened, her teasing spirit undimmed.

“Perhaps I should try harder.”

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head, though his hand didn’t stray from her face. “You would. Just to see what happens.”

Her gaze dropped, lingering over the broad expanse of his chest. Her fingers traced lazy patterns across the leather, the calluses on her fingertips catching faintly. “And what would happen if you did snap?” she murmured, her voice dropping to something softer, almost daring.

His lips twitched into a smile, but his eyes burned. “You wouldn’t have to wonder long.”

The teasing faded from her face, replaced by something quieter, deeper, as though the air between them grew heavier, richer, in an instant. And without another word, he bent his head, capturing her lips in a kiss that was both fierce and tender, a reclamation of something neither of them had quite lost. Her lips parted for him, and her body softened, melting into him as though it had always been meant to.

The leather of his coat creaked beneath her grip, her hands tightening against him as his own slid to her waist, pulling her flush against him. Her sigh mingled with his, the sound filling the space between them as the firelight flickered against the stone walls.

When he pulled back, just enough to rest his forehead against hers, his breathing was uneven. His voice was thick, heavy with need. “You’ve no idea how maddening you are.”

“Good,” she replied, her words carrying an edge of heat.

He growled softly in response, the sound rumbling low in his chest as he lifted her with ease, her weight nothing in his arms. Her laughter spilled out, light and musical, her legs kicking playfully as they swung over his arm.

“Cregan!” she gasped, half-giddy, half-protesting, her hands clinging to his shoulders for balance.

“Hush, love,” he teased, his voice a husky murmur near her ear as he strode toward their chambers. “Unless you’d like the whole castle to know what I intend to do to you.”

Her lips curved, a wicked gleam lighting her eyes. “What do you intend?” she challenged, though her voice was breathless, the question hanging between them like smoke.

His answer was a heated glance, dark and smouldering, as he nudged open the door with his boot. The wooden slab creaked on its hinges, revealing their private sanctum bathed in the sweet light of nighttime. He stepped inside and kicked the door shut behind him with deliberate finality.

He carried her forward, setting her on her feet with a gentleness that belied the storm in his veins. For a moment, he simply looked at her, his hands lingering on her waist as though unwilling to let go. The moonlight softened her features, glowing her flushed cheeks and tousled hair. She was breathtaking—his Claere, unchanged in some ways, yet more of herself in others. Her hips were fuller now, her body strengthened and shaped by the years and the children she had borne, but to him, she was no less the quiet, strange Targaryen princess who had first stepped into his life.

“You're a torment.” His hands smoothed over her sides, tracing the curves that he knew better than his own heartbeat. “One I wouldn't wish away for anything.”

Her hand rose, brushing his jaw where silver threaded his beard. Her touch was learned, tender. “I have missed this.”

He swore softly under his breath, his hand sliding to her jaw, tilting her face up to his. His mouth found hers, and she sighed into the kiss, her hands fisting gently in his tunic. Her coyness lingered, even now, even after all these years. He felt it in the way her movements hesitated, her touch tentative, as though she were still learning to give herself fully. And he loved her all the more for this delicate, unspoken offering of herself, not because she must, but because she chose to.

“You’ve shared my hearth and bed for nigh on half your life, what is left to hide from me?” he murmured against her lips, his tone laced with a fond teasing.

She laughed softly, a breathless sound, her head ducking against his chest as though to hide. “I can not help it.”

“And I wouldn’t want you to,” he said, his voice gentler now, his hands tracing the curve of her back as he pulled her closer. “I’ve come to love all of it.”

Her blush deepened, but she didn’t pull away, her arms slipping around his neck as he bent to kiss her again. This time, she gave a little more, her hands tangling in his hair, her lips parting beneath his with a shy eagerness that made his chest tighten. He eased her back toward the dresser, their movements slow, unhurried, as though savouring every moment.

Claere gave a quiet gasp, her fingers tightening against his shoulders, but she let him guide her. His hands slid to the laces of her gown, deftly working them loose as his kisses moved along the side of her neck, the rasp of his stubble drawing a soft, shivering sigh from her lips.

Her breath hitched as the loosened fabric slipped over her shoulders, pooling around her waist. He turned her gently, her back pressing against his chest, his rough hands sliding down to rest at her hips. His lips hovered near her ear, tongue tasting the hot skin there, his breath sending gooseflesh across her skin.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice low and gravelly, a reverence in the words that made her shiver. His hands slipped along her sides, firm yet measured, as though he meant to memorize her at this moment. “Every time I think I’ve seen all of you, love, you undo me again.”

Her blush deepened, but she didn’t shy away, her hands lifting to brace against the dresser's edge as he pressed closer. His mouth skimmed along the curve of her neck, her shoulder, his teeth grazing just enough to make her gasp. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth, her violet eyes fluttering closed as he nudged her hair aside to kiss the nape of her neck.

Cregan’s hands roamed lower, roughened palms against soft skin, tugging the fabric of her gown further down her hips. He lifted one of her legs, guiding her knee up onto the edge of the dresser, and his hand slid between her thighs, his hardness digging into the small of her back. Claere’s breath stuttered, her fingers gripping the wood, but she let him draw her body into his as though they were one.

“Do you know what you do to me?” he growled softly, his lips brushing her ear as he spoke. “Do you feel it?”

She could only nod, her voice lost to the way his hand claimed her. The wood bit faintly into her palms as her body arched instinctively against him, dragging against his hardness, his name slipping from her lips like a prayer.

And then—just as the world narrowed to only them, the sharp, insistent knock at the door shattered the moment.

“Ma! Da!”

The sound shattered the air between them like an icy gale, and Claere stiffened. She turned her head, her breathing uneven, her cheeks flushed.

“By the gods, not again,” Cregan muttered, his head dropping to her shoulder as he fought to steady himself, his hands resting possessively at her hips.

Claere’s body shook with silent laughter, her hands resting on his shoulders. “Our little wolves are nothing if not determined.”

“Determined,” he echoed, lifting his head with a resigned sigh. “They’re fucking relentless.”

“They’re your children,” she reminded him, her smile soft as she adjusted her gown, the fabric slipping back over her shoulders.

Cregan rose, running a hand through his hair, his gaze fixed on the door as though he might burn it to ash with sheer will. The insistent pounding continued unabated, accompanied now by muffled sobs. His jaw tightened.

“One day,” he said, low and grumbling, “I’ll bar this door with iron. No, steel. Or maybe Valyrian locks.”

Claere chuckled softly as she secured her laces. “Until then, duty calls.”

He sighed, stepping toward the door with all the grace of a man facing execution. Claere followed, her hand brushing his arm as though to soften his scowl before it frightened the children.

When the heavy door swung open, the scene outside was a tableau of chaos. Eddric, the youngest of their brood, stood sobbing into his hands, his tiny shoulders shaking with every gasp. Beside him, Rickon stood in staunch defiance, his arms crossed over his chest, his lips pressed into a tight pout as though daring anyone to question his role in the debacle. And peering from behind them was Brandon, his elder brother, his head poking out from the shadow of the hallway, eyes wide with curiosity but no intention of stepping into the fray.

“Ma…” Eddric choked out between sobs, his tear-streaked face lifting to hers, every inch of him trembling with the desperate misery only a child could feel. His small arms reached for her, a silent, aching plea that melted through Claere’s resolve like frost under sunlight.

“My poor lamb,” she murmured, kneeling swiftly to gather him up. He clung to her as though the world itself had turned against him, his fists twisting in her gown. His tiny, hiccuping cries buried themselves into her shoulder, and she stroked his back with soothing circles, her brow furrowing in sympathy.

Behind her, Cregan crossed his arms, his grey eyes narrowing on Rickon, who stood stiff and unrepentant, though the flicker of guilt in his glare betrayed him.

“Well, if it isn’t my favourite troublemaker,” Cregan drawled, his tone dry but weighted. “What mischief have you stirred this time?”

Rickon’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t flinch, his gaze meeting his father’s with the stormy defiance of a young wolf testing the boundaries of the pack.

“He kicked me off the bed!” Eddric wailed, lifting his blotchy face just long enough to level a trembling finger at his brother. “It hurts, Ma. Look, it’s everywhere!” He twisted to display his bruises, as though bearing the marks of a battlefield defeat.

Claere gasped, her hand flying to cup his cheek. “Oh, no,” she cooed, her lips brushing the scrape on his elbow with all the care of a healer attending to a grievous wound. “There, mummy's kiss will make it better.”

Rickon groaned, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “He stole my pillow, Da!” he snapped, his frustration spilling in sharp, indignant tones. “It’s mine! He always takes it because it's bigger!”

Cregan exhaled, long and slow, dragging a hand down his face. “Rickon,” he said, his voice tempered with the deep patience of a father stretched thin, “you’re old enough to know that is no cause to toss your brother off the bed.”

“But Da—”

“Enough,” Cregan cut in, his tone firmer now. Without ceremony, he stooped and swept Rickon into his arms, the boy letting out a startled grunt. “Come on. There’s no glory in warring over bedding. Let’s see you to sleep before you declare another rebellion.”

Rickon squirmed briefly before resigning himself to his father’s grip, his head drooping against Cregan’s shoulder as his earlier indignation began to ebb. “It wasn’t fair,” he muttered, though his voice lacked its earlier bite.

“Life seldom is,” Cregan replied, his tone carrying the consequence of hard-earned wisdom. “The sooner you learn that, the better.”

In the warm glow of the hearth, Claere settled herself into a chair, cradling Eddric close. His cries had quieted to soft sniffles, his little fingers clutching her gown like a lifeline. She kissed his bruises, convincing Ed of their healing power, her lips lingering as she murmured something low and soothing, the words meant for him alone. Slowly, his breathing evened, his eyes growing heavier in her arms as sleep claimed him.

Cregan paused in the doorway, Rickon still perched on his arm, and watched her. She looked radiant there, bathed in firelight, the lines of her face softened with love and care. There was a strength to her, a steadiness that seemed to anchor the chaos around her, and he felt the familiar ache of adoration stir in his chest.

Rickon shifted, breaking the spell. “Will you tuck me in, Da?” he asked, his earlier bravado dissolving into the plaintive vulnerability of a child seeking comfort in the safety of his father’s arms.

“Aye,” Cregan said softly, his voice a promise. He gathered the boy close, his small body warm and limp with sleep. “But mind me, lad—no more skirmishes with your baby brother. You’re nearly of age to hold a blade, yet here you are, waging wars over feathers.”

Rickon’s sleepy protest was little more than a grumble, his head drooping against Cregan’s chest. Cregan smiled despite himself, the boy’s weight a familiar and comforting reminder of how fleeting these years would be.

When both boys were finally settled—Rickon snuggled under the heavy quilt with his arms wrapped around a stuffed pillow, shaped like a direwolf, heartfully stitched by his mother, and his younger brother already deep in the dreamscape—the halls of Winterfell grew quiet. Rarely did the great stone keep know such peace, and even then, it felt borrowed, as though it would be whisked away at any moment.

Cregan closed the door to the boys’ room with care, letting the latch click softly into place. The warmth of the fire from their chamber pulled him forward, a beacon after the weariness of the day.

Claere sat curled in the chair by the hearth, her head tilted back against the cushion, her eyes closed. The firelight painted her features in hues of gold and amber, dancing across her skin and catching the loose strands of her silvery braid. The faintest smile curved her lips, a soft and private peace resting there, as though she had tucked it away just for herself.

Cregan leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms, a wry grin tugging at his mouth. For a moment, he said nothing, content to watch her. She was beautiful in a way that wasn’t just about her face, though gods knew that alone could set him spinning. It was the way she carried herself, even in the quiet moments. The love for their children, the unspoken strength she wielded without ever showing it. The way she simply existed in his life was steady and grounding, yet she could still surprise him.

“They’ll drive us off the edge before winter’s through,” he said, his voice breaking the silence but low enough not to startle her.

Her eyes fluttered open, those familiar violet irises finding him across the room. Her smile deepened when she saw him, softening the lines of her face. “And still, we love them.”

“Aye,” he admitted, pushing off the frame and striding toward her. “But tomorrow, I’m hammering iron bars across that bloody door.”

She laughed, soft and warm, and it lit something in him that not even the fire could match. “And what good will that do? They’ll only find another way in.”

He bent low, brushing a kiss to her temple, his hand finding her cheek. Her skin was warm from the fire, and she tilted her face into his touch like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Then perhaps we’ll run off,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a rumble. “Let Winterfell fend for itself.”

Her laugh softened into a smile, her eyes glimmering with both affection and exhaustion. “You’d miss them before the sun rose.”

“Not before I had one night alone with my wife,” he countered, his thumb tracing the curve of her cheek. The delicate flush that bloomed there made his chest tighten with something that felt far too big to name.

She averted her gaze, a shy smile tugging at her lips as her hands fidgeted with the folds of her gown. Even now, after everything—after children, battles, and endless winters—she could still make him feel like a boy with his first love. And gods, he loved her for it—loved the way that quiet modesty clung to her, no matter the hard times they had weathered together.

“On that one night, Claere,” he murmured, leaning closer, his lips grazing the shell of her ear. “You will not escape me.”

Her breath hitched, and when her eyes met his again, they were softer, violet raging darker. The smile she gave him then was small but certain, a silent promise that mirrored his own.

“Oh,” she whispered, her voice trembling with just a hint of laughter, “you’d better start planning your escape now, Lord Stark. Because I don’t intend to make it easy for you.”

His laughter rumbled low in his chest as he leaned down to kiss her properly, the warmth of her lips stealing the cold from his bones. In her arms, the long night ahead felt like the shortest one yet.

X

The Great Hall of Winterfell was alive with warmth and mirth, the heavy timber beams echoing with laughter and the soft strains of a fiddle accompanied by a drum. Outside, winter’s chill pressed against the stone walls, but within, the roaring fire and the camaraderie of the evening held it at bay. Soldiers and bannermen of the Stark household, gathered at the long trestle tables and shared hearty portions of bread, cheese, and venison. Tankards clinked, and stories were exchanged in the low hum of good company.

At the high table, the Stark family gathered under the warm glow of the hearth. The fire crackled softly, adding a golden hue to the rustic stone walls of the great hall. Bran, ever the mischief-maker, had turned his fork into a trident, wielding it with dramatic flair as he jabbed at invisible foes across the table. His shoulders hunched with exaggerated ferocity, his face twisted in mock seriousness.

“Yield, foul beast!” Bran declared, his voice echoing theatrically. “You’ll not escape the mighty trident of House Stark!”

Rickon nearly fell off his bench with laughter, clutching his sides. “You’re poking the air, Bran! What are you even fighting—ghosts?”

“Ghosts of the past, brother,” Bran shot back, waving the fork like a sword. “Or perhaps the ghosts of your dignity after I trounce you at the training yard tomorrow.”

“Ha, you wish!” Rickon retorted, puffing up his chest. “I’ll be the last one standing!”

Edd, the youngest of the boys, let out a delighted giggle as he mimicked Bran’s movements, his tiny fork barely lifting a piece of bread. “I fight ghosts, too, Bran!” he announced, swinging wildly, nearly toppling his goblet.

Cregan, seated at the head of the table, watched the exchange with quiet pride. His sharp features softened as he carved another slice of cheese pie, the aroma filling the air. His lips tugged into a wry smile as he set the pie onto Edd’s plate.

“You’ve a fine sword arm there, Edd,” he said, his voice warm, steady. “But mind the goblet. No knight worth his salt spills his drink before the feast is done.”

Edd straightened in his seat, nodding gravely as if his father’s words held the weight of a king’s decree. “Yes, Da,” he said, before immediately returning to his chaotic fork-wielding.

Luce, ever the bold one, stood on her bench with a flourish, her dark ringlets shimmering in the firelight. “That's nothing!” she declared, pointing dramatically at Bran. “You might be a knight, but I’m a dragon! Watch me!”

Bran rolled his eyes but stepped back with a half-grin. “Go on then, baby dragon. Let’s see you impress.”

Luce didn’t need more encouragement. Lifting the hem of her little gown, she twirled in place, her feet tapping in rhythm to the faint music that drifted from the corner of the hall. Her arms stretched out gracefully as she spun, her movements surprisingly fluid for one so young.

Cregan leaned forward, resting his chin on one hand. “Now there’s a sight,” he mused aloud in equal parts admiration and amusement. “A dragon taking flight in Winterfell’s halls.”

Luce beamed, soaking in the attention. “See, Rickon? That’s how it’s done!”

Rickon made a face. “You’re just spinning in circles.”

“It’s a dance, you numpty,” Luce fired back, stomping her foot for emphasis. “You wouldn’t know a proper dance if it bit you on your big nose.”

“I don’t need to,” Rickon shot back, smirking. “Dancing’s for—”

“Careful now, lad,” Cregan interjected, his tone mild but his gaze sharp. “I’d choose your next words wisely. Your brother and sister both dance far better than any warrior I’ve seen wield a blade.”

Rickon muttered something under his breath, but the redness creeping up his neck gave away his embarrassment.

Before Rickon could fully retreat, Bran stepped up beside Luce. “Don’t mind him,” Bran said with a wink. “Let’s show them how dragons really dance.”

He took her hand, and together they moved into the Targaryen dance of dragons as taught by their mother, a series of sweeping, elegant steps punctuated by dramatic turns. For all their playful rivalry, the siblings moved together in harmony, drawing cheers and applause from their small audience.

Cregan leaned back in his chair, his smile broadening as he turned his gaze to Claere. She was seated beside him, her violet eyes distant as she stared into the hearth, lost in her thoughts. Her fingers absently traced the edge of her goblet, and for a moment, she seemed untouched by the revelry around her.

Cregan noticed, as he always did. Reaching out, Cregan placed a hand over hers, stilling her movements. “Claere, love,” he said softly, drawing her attention. She blinked, her eyes meeting his, and he gave her a small, knowing smile. Picking up a piece of cheese pie, he set it gently on her plate.

“Shall we dance?” he asked, his voice low and inviting, his hand lingering over hers.

“Dance?” she echoed, her tone faintly incredulous, as though the idea was something foreign at that moment.

Luce’s voice rang out, breaking the moment. “Come dance, Mummy!” she pleaded, spinning in place with her skirts fanning out.

Claere’s gaze swept over the scene—Bran and Luce moving in harmony, Rickon and Edd clapping along, the soldiers cheering—and something in her softened. Slowly, she stood, smoothing her gown as she turned to Rickon with an inviting smile.

Claere’s gaze swept over the scene—Bran and Luce moving in harmony, Rickon and Edd clapping along, the soldiers cheering—and something in her softened. Slowly, she stood, smoothing her gown as she turned to Rickon with an inviting smile.

“Come, my wolf,” she said, holding out her hand. “Would you like to dance with mummy?”

Rickon’s face lit up as he scrambled to take her hand, his earlier teasing forgotten. Together, they stepped into the centre, laughter and music enveloping them. Luce and Bran laughed, twirling around her, and even little Edd toddled after them, his hands grasping at the air.

Cregan watched from the table, his chest tightening with a feeling too vast to name. Love, pride, gratitude—it was all there, woven into the laughter of his family. Edd tugged at his sleeve, his small voice piping up. “Da, come!”

With a laugh, Cregan stood, scooping Edd into his arms and spinning him in a wide circle. The boy’s delighted giggles rang out as they joined the dance. Cregan moved easily, his large frame surprisingly agile as he passed Edd to Luce and took her tiny hands in her twin's. Around and around they went, trading partners in a joyous whirl of movement.

At last, Claere found herself in Cregan’s arms, the warmth of his hand at her waist anchoring her to him as the music swelled. He pulled her closer, just enough that she could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against her own. His palm splayed over the fabric of her gown in a way that felt far too intimate for the setting. His fingers traced idle patterns, teasing at her side, each stroke sent shivers rippling across her skin, though she worked hard to keep her composure.

“Cregan,” she murmured, a quiet warning, though it lacked the conviction to be truly stern. Her voice was low enough to stay between them, a secret shared under the cover of music and candlelight. “You are playing a dangerous game.”

His lips quirked into that roguish, wolfish grin she knew far too well. “Am I?” His thumb brushed slow, maddening circles against her spine, just above the curve of her hip, each movement making her skin prickle with heat. He dipped his head slightly, his words a gravelly whisper meant only for her. “Or am I simply enjoying a dance with my wife?”

She shot him a pointed glance, though the edges of her irritation softened with amusement. “The children…”

“Are perfectly distracted.” He nodded toward the far side of the hall, where Rickon and Edd were spinning each other in clumsy circles, their laughter rising above the lively tune. Bran had taken to mimicking Luce’s dance steps with exaggerated precision, his little feet shuffling as he bowed dramatically to his giggling sister. Even the bannermen were caught up in the children’s antics, clapping along with indulgent smiles.

“They’re always watching,” Claere countered, though her tone was soft, her violet eyes flicking to his with equal parts exasperation and delight.

“Not closely enough.” His lips grazed the shell of her ear as he spoke, his voice low and teasing. “And certainly not closely enough to see what I’m thinking right now.”

Her breath caught as his hand slid just a touch lower, the heat of his palm searing through the fabric of her gown. She could feel the strength in his fingers, the deliberate way they lingered near the dip of her hip. He was maddening—utterly, delightfully maddening.

“You frustrate me,” she whispered, the faintest curve tugging at her lips despite her best efforts.

“I do?” He tilted his head, feigning offence, though the mischievous glint in his eyes betrayed him. His thumb brushed dangerously close to her ribs, just beneath the curve of her breast. “That’s a bold accusation, my love.”

Before she could respond, the hall doors groaned open, and a familiar figure entered, cutting through the haze of their quiet intimacy. The maester stepped in, his long grey robes swishing against the stone floor as he carried a scroll marked with the familiar dark imprint.

Cregan’s hand stilled against her, his attention reluctantly pulled away. He sighed, his brow furrowing as duty called to him once more.

“I'll be right back,” he murmured, his voice laced with quiet regret as he stepped back, releasing her from his hold.

Claere watched him go, the absence of his touch leaving her feeling unmoored for a fleeting moment. She turned to the children instead, scooping a squealing Edd into her arms before spinning him around in time with the lively tune. Laughter bubbled up around her, infectious and unrestrained, as the children danced circles around her.

From the corner of the hall, Cregan stood with the maester, the scroll unrolled in his hands. His jaw tightened as he scanned its contents.

Another summons to the Wall. Another month away from home, from her, from all of them.

Once, the call of duty had been a point of pride, a badge of honour he bore without question. But now… now, it felt like a curse. The thought of leaving his family—of enduring endless days without their laughter, their warmth, their very presence—made his chest ache with something akin to grief.

He glanced up from the parchment, his gaze drifting back to the scene before him. The hall was alive with light and music, the children’s laughter echoing off the stone walls. Bran twirled Luce, who curtsied dramatically before breaking into giggles. Rickon and Edd were caught in a mock swordfight, using wooden spoons as weapons, while Claere spun around with them, her hair coming loose from its braid, her smile brighter than the flames in the hearth.

It was a vision of home, of everything he cherished, and yet it was incomplete without him in it. He hated this—the thought of being an outsider to his own life, of missing the moments that made it worth living.

For a moment, he considered crumpling the scroll in his fist, tossing it into the fire, and letting the Wall fend for itself. But duty was duty, and the North would not wait for his whims.

Still, as he folded the parchment and handed it back to the maester, his gaze lingered on Claere. She glanced over at him, her eyes softening when they met his, as if she could sense his misdoubts.

“I’ll come back,” he murmured under his breath, though he wasn’t sure if he was saying it for her benefit or his own.

And gods help him, he hoped it was true.

X

The Glass Gardens stood on the edge of winter, its warmth still holding against the cold creeping in from the North. Frost laced the edges of the glass panels, but inside, the air was thick with the scent of damp earth and the last of the season’s growth. Claere knelt among the pepper stalks, her fingers working deftly as she plucked the ripe ones for the larder. Nearby, Bran huffed, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his silver curls damp with sweat as he fumbled with a stubborn stem.

He grunted as the stalk gave way, nearly tumbling back onto the stone path.

“Careful,” Claere chided, her tone warm with amusement. “You’ll crush the good ones.”

Bran frowned at the small basket at his feet, woefully emptier than hers. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve, determined to work faster, but his hands weren’t as practised as his mother’s. Precision was something he’d yet to master, though he tried, keen to impress her.

“Ma?”

She glanced at him from behind a few stalks, pausing in her work.

He hesitated before speaking, his voice careful. “Is Da traveling to the Wall soon?”

Claere stilled for a fraction of a moment, but she nodded, the gladness in her face giving way to something quieter, something closer to grief. She knew this was his duty, the burden that came with his name, but it didn’t make parting from him any easier.

Bran watched her closely, saw the way her fingers tightened around the pepper in her hand. He'd heard the stories—of her voyages beyond the Wall, of the White Dread soaring through the sky where no dragon had ever flown, of how she kept silent about what she had seen. It made him wonder.

“What’s it like out there?” he asked, curiosity bright in his young eyes. “Past the Wall?”

She exhaled slowly, rolling the pepper between her fingers as if weighing the memory. “Cold,” she said at last. “Empty.”

His brows furrowed. “That’s it?”

She hummed, amused. “What were you expecting?”

Bran’s voice picked up with excitement. “Did you see those huge spiders Lord Manderly talked about? And the dead people? And—”

“Bran,” Claere cut him off gently, managing a shaky smile. “What’s all this about?”

His ears pinked slightly, but he lifted his chin, emboldened. “I want to see the Wall, Ma. And the rest of the North.”

Claere tilted her head, watching him. He had always been this way—restless, seeking. They had called him the White Wolf of the North before he had even learned to wield a blade, a name heralded upon him too young, but he had embraced it all the same. He wanted to prove himself to his people, to see the lands he would one day rule. When Ice would come into his hands and the Stark brand across his chest, he wanted to feel as though he had earned it.

There was fire in his voice, the same fire his father carried when he spoke of duty, of oaths, of the weight of the Stark name. Claere tilted her head, watching him closely.

He was growing. He was only eleven, but she already saw the man he would become. The boyhood roundness had begun to fade from his face, his features sharpening into something more severe, more Stark. He was no longer a babe at her breast, no longer the child who would curl into her side on the coldest nights. And yet, when he spoke, she heard the ache of a boy who felt caged.

"They never let me come with them," he muttered, stripping a leaf between his fingers. "Not to the hunts in the Wolfswood. Not even to sit with them in the Great Hall when Da holds judgment. He—" Bran stopped himself, pressing his lips into a thin line.

Claere understood in an instant.

Cregan loved his son—loved him fiercely, protectively. But he was the heir to the North, and his father, in his worry, kept him wrapped in furs, tucked away from the bitter winds of the world, shielding him from the lessons that should have been his to learn.

She sighed, brushing her fingers through his sweat-damp curls, a feature he had stolen from her. “What is it, Bran?”

His nose scrunched, but he didn’t pull away. "I want to know it all," he said earnestly. "The mountains, the rivers, the villages that call our name their shield. I want to know the land before I’m meant to rule it."

There was steel in his words, a quiet stubbornness she knew all too well. It was a little something he'd picked up from his father dearest.

Her fingers stilled against his hair, and something deeper stirred in her gaze. “The North is vast,” she murmured, smoothing a curl from his face. “And cruel, sometimes.”

“I can be strong,” he insisted. “Like you. Like Da.”

Claere sighed, her palm coming to rest against his cheek. She had given him life, but Cregan had given him a duty, and between the two of them, he would never be anything less than honourable. Still, honour alone could not shape him. He needed more than rules, more than lessons spoken from the mouths of men who had already lived their lives. He needed to step into his own.

He needed to be allowed to try.

"Ma?" His voice was softer now, uncertain.

"Hm?"

"Will you talk to Da?"

She tilted her head. "About?"

Bran hesitated, then squared his shoulders. "I don't need to be coddled. I'm not weak. I want to be out there—I need to be. Da's always telling me what I must be, what I should become. How can I, if I'm never given the chance?"

Claere saw it now—how this had been weighing on him, how the bitterness sat heavy on his tongue.

He wasn’t wrong. And Cregan, she knew, would never let their son feel weak, not if he understood what he was doing to him.

"I'll speak to your father," she said gently. "I am truly sorry you feel this way, Bran. I'll make it up to you."

Bran looked away, guilty. "Not your fault, Ma."

“No, love.” She cupped his face, tilting him back toward her. “Your father loves you very much, but he can't see past his own fears. I swear to you, I will fix this.”

He nodded, lips pressing together, but she could see the hope rekindling in his eyes.

"Thank you," he said, and then—without hesitation—he wrapped his arms around her, dirt-streaked sleeves and all.

Claere smiled, holding him close, her hand stroking the back of his silver head.

"Oh, my sweet boy."

And though she knew the world would try to shape him, to harden him, she prayed that some part of him—the warmth, the earnestness, the light—would never fade.

X

The water was still warm, steam curling lazily into the cold morning air of the chambers. Cregan sat back against the edge of the wooden tub, the heat licking away at the tension coiled in his shoulders, though it did little to soothe the storm brewing in his mind. He rested his arms on either side, droplets cascading off his skin and into the bath with quiet plinks.

The room smelled faintly of pine and ash from the hearth, the scent mingling with the lingering lavender oil she’d left behind on the table by their bed. Her touch was everywhere—on the neatly folded throw draped over the chair, on the intricate carvings of dragons and wolves in the wooden headboard she had commissioned from the artisans of White Harbor. Even the small porcelain vase near the window, filled with wildflowers, was hers.

It was infuriating, how much he already missed a place he hadn’t yet left.

The Wall, the raven, the Wildlings—his duty, gnawing at him like a wolf to bone. For the first time in years, the honour he once carried so proudly felt more like a chain than a badge. He could feel its significance, cold and unrelenting, pressing against his chest.

He ran a hand through his damp hair, pushing it back from his brow, his gaze settling on the door as it creaked open. His wife stepped in like a shadow carried on the wind, her figure cutting through the flickering light of the chamber. Claere’s riding leathers hugged her frame, dark and worn from years of use, the supple material creaking faintly as she moved. The sight was arresting—always had been.

Cregan let himself look, unashamed in his admiration. It was too early for their little rascals to storm in with their endless energy, and for once, he could simply take her in. Her hair, still loosely plaited, caught the faint light filtering through the frost-glazed windows, glinting like spun silver. Her steps were unhurried, carrying herself with that same quiet intensity that made even the most seasoned men hesitate in her presence. That had not changed one bit.

“You’re up early,” she murmured, low but clear as if the morning itself bent to her tone.

He tilted his head slightly, watching her as droplets from his arm traced rivulets down the tub’s edge.

“The same could be said of you. You reek of dragon,” he rumbled.

“Mine is expected. Yours isn't.”

Claere paused by the table, her fingers brushing over the small vase of wildflowers she’d placed there days ago. She glanced at him, her violet eyes unreadable.

“You didn’t sleep last night,” she said simply, her gaze not accusing, merely observant as if she’d caught him in the act of something far less honourable than stewing in his thoughts.

His brow furrowed, his grey eyes narrowing in faint surprise. Claere rarely commented on him—let alone noticed him enough to remark on his habits. It stirred something unexpected in his chest, though he’d sooner die than admit it.

A brazen smirk tugged at his lips as he shifted, leaning back and letting the water lap lazily at his chest. “No, I didn’t,” he admitted, his tone softer now. “Too much on my mind.”

She didn’t reply, not immediately. Instead, she began to unhook the clasps of her riding leathers softly. His gaze followed the motion of her hands, deft and practised, until she slipped the jacket free, revealing the loose linen shirt beneath. There was a calm precision to her movements, the same as when she drew a fork and knife, or mounted her dragon. Everything Claere did seemed deliberate, as though she gave thought even to the air she breathed.

“You could join me, you know. I'd appreciate the pleasure of your company,” he drawled, the hint of a smile curling at the corners of his mouth. His voice was teasing, but there was a warmth in his gaze that betrayed something deeper, something softer.

She cast him a glance, one eyebrow arching, though her expression remained otherwise unreadable. “It’s barely sunrise,” she replied, setting the jacket neatly on the chair. “And I doubt the water’s warm enough for two.”

He let out a low chuckle, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest. “Oh, it’s warm enough. I've kept it warm for you,” he countered, his gaze dropping to her hands as she rolled up her sleeves. “You’re always complaining I keep this place too cold.”

Claere moved to the edge of the tub, folding herself onto the wooden step beside it with that same fluid grace he’d come to know so well. The firelight cast shadows along her cheekbones, softening the sharpness of her features, though her eyes never lost their edge. She rested her hands on her knees, her fingers tracing faint patterns against the fabric.

Cregan studied her, the curve of her mouth, the way her hair framed her face. He reached out, his hand dripping and warm, and cupped her cheek. She didn’t flinch, didn’t move away, even as his palm left a faint, damp imprint against her skin.

Her gaze was unyielding, quiet and searching. She knew him too well.

“The raven?”

He nodded to her, letting his hand drop back into the water with a soft splash. “I am not ready,” he said, as though it had been sitting on his chest since the letter arrived.

She said nothing, only shifted closer, her fingers beginning to trace idle circles on his forearm where it rested against the rim of the tub. Her silence was infuriating, as it always was, but it also steadied him in a way he’d never admit.

“They want me to see to the Free Folk,” he said, his voice carrying the bitterness of old grudges and honour-bound duty. “The ones you opened our gates for. They need assurances that the North hasn’t turned on them. They say there’s unrest. Whispers in the winds beyond the Wall.”

“It’s been a long while since you’ve been up there,” she murmured, her tone calm, almost detached.

“Aye.”

Claere’s fingers moved absently, tracing small geometric shapes against his arm. “Take me with you.”

Cregan huffed out a sharp breath, his frown deepening. “Pains me to refuse, but Luce and Edd need you here.”

Her gaze didn’t waver, but her lips thinned. “Then take Bran along.”

He barked a short, mirthless laugh, rubbing at his temple. He exhaled heavily, leaning back against the tub. “Bran's a boy, love.”

“One and ten,” she countered, her tone sharp enough to bite his resistance. “He’s nearly a man grown.”

Cregan stared at her, her words lingering in the heavy air like the echo of a distant horn. Claere’s violet eyes burned with an intensity that could have melted the frost clinging to Winterfell’s walls, and for a moment, he forgot the bath’s warmth as her words settled over him.

“You think I don’t know what he’s capable of?” Cregan’s voice was low, a growl beneath his breath. “He’s strong with the sword, quick on his feet, and gods know he can shoot better than I could at his age. But out there”—he gestured vaguely, his wet hand scattering droplets across the room—“it’s not just about skill. It’s about surviving, about looking into the eyes of a man who would gut you just to see how deep the blood runs, and still standing tall. You think I don’t see the boy still in him?”

Claere’s jaw tightened, her arms crossing as she leaned against the edge of the tub. Her hair glimmered in the dim firelight, a halo of silver against the shadows, but there was nothing soft in her stance. She looked like she belonged atop a dragon, unyielding and fierce.

“He won’t learn survival from sparring swords and the yards,” she said, her voice quieter now, though no less pointed. “You’re his father, the Lord of Winterfell. You’ve shown him how to swing a blade, how to aim a bow. But have you shown him the North? The real North? The Wall, the rivers, the Wolfswood? He needs more than stories and practice, Cregan. He needs to see what it is to be a Stark.”

Cregan’s fingers flexed against the rim of the tub, his calloused knuckles whitening. “You’d send him to the Wall? To see wildlings and brothers who've taken the black and a land that doesn’t care if you live or die?”

“I’d send him with you,” Claere insisted, leaning closer. Her voice softened, though the steel in it remained. “With his father. The man who survived it all, who brought the North back stronger than it was before. Show him what that strength looks like. Show him that carrying the North isn’t just his duty—it’s his legacy.”

Cregan stared at her, the firelight casting shadows over the planes of his face. His chest rose and fell with slow, measured breaths, the lines of worry etched into his brow deepening.

“And if it breaks him?” he asked quietly, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Claere’s expression softened, her fingers reaching out to trace the line of his damp jaw. Her touch was warm, a lifeline in the sea of doubt swirling inside him. “Then we'll be there to put him back together. That’s what parents do, isn’t it? You’re not sending him alone, Cregan. You’re leading him. Let him follow.”

For a long moment, he said nothing. The room was silent but for the faint crackle of the fire and the quiet ripple of water as he shifted. Finally, he exhaled, a sound heavy with resignation and something else—acceptance, perhaps.

“You’d make a fine wolf, Claere,” he muttered, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “Sharper teeth than mine, I think.”

“I've got fire, I have no need for teeth.”

Her lips curved, faint but real, and her hand lingered at his jaw for a moment longer before she stepped back, her expression turning devilish in that understated way she often employed. Her fingers moved deftly to the fastenings of the final layer of leathers, undoing the ribbons one by one, her movements intended as though she meant for him to watch. And watch he did.

Cregan’s arms tensed at the edge of the tub, his eyes darkening as he took in the sight of her, each piece of leather peeled away and set aside, revealing inch after inch of smooth, pale skin kissed by the faint glow of firelight, softened by time. She didn’t rush, letting his gaze settle over her. Basking in it.

When at last she stood bare before him, becoming winter itself, he tilted his head slightly, the faintest smirk on her lips as though to say, What are you waiting for?

The water rippled as she stepped into the tub, testing, graceful and slow. Steam curled in languid tendrils around her legs as she sank in, the warmth pulling a soft sigh from her lips. Cregan reached for her, his large hands steady as they found her waist, drawing her fully onto his lap. The water surged over the edges, cascading down the wooden sides and pooling onto the stone floor, but he didn’t care. His laughter rumbled low in his chest as he pulled her close, her bare skin pressing against his. He'd found heaven for a brief moment.

“There you are,” he murmured. “Much better.”

Claere’s fingers ghosted over a scar on his collar bone, the faint line of it cutting pale against the weathered bronze of his skin. Her touch lingered, as though her fingertips could feel the memory etched there, as though it might speak its story aloud.

“This one,” she said, “I remember.” Her fingers traced the ridge again, reverently, unflinching. “A missed arrow?”

“Missed by half,” Cregan replied, his grin sharp and laced with that wolfish pride she knew so well.

He let his hand glide up her spine, warm from the water, catching at the loose braid that framed her face. With a deliberate tug, he undid it, her silver-streaked hair spilling like moonlight over her bare shoulders, the strands dampening where they kissed the surface of the bathwater.

She hummed faintly, her lips twitching at the corner. “Your pride, your stories—they weigh on you like old armour,” she said, her tone teasing but threaded with something heavier. Her hand pressed flat against his chest, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breath beneath her palm. “What happens when the wolf grows too weary to wear them?”

“A wolf never does,” he countered, but there was no edge to it, no sharpness. Only affection as his thumb brushed against her cheek, tracing the faint flush of warmth brought on by the steam. “And what of you, dragon-rider? Does your fire burn low, or will you fly until your wings fail?”

Her brow arched, her lips curving faintly upward. “I would burn the sky if it meant keeping this family safe,” she said softly, but the fire within it was unmistakable.

She let her fingers trail down his chest, tracing old scars, each mark a story only she was privy to.

Cregan’s hand lingered between them, tracing absent patterns along the damp skin of her shoulder. As he worked water through her hair with slow, deliberate motions, he drew in a steadying breath and tried his tongue at the language that still sat awkwardly on it, the words as foreign to him as the heat of Dorne in winter.

“Skorī dōron ēza... ao gevive iā.... drīvo, nyke... brōzi hen... gevivys,” he said slowly, his Northern accent thick, the flow of the words more like the creak of a winter tree than the silk of fire. If a man is shaped by stories, I burn with them.

Claere paused, her fingers lightly brushing his forearm as her lips twitched at the corners. “Brōzi? Truly?” she murmured, her voice laced with restrained amusement. She tilted her head back, looking at him with those violet eyes that always seemed to see through him, to the marrow of the man beneath. “You meant to say sīragon, didn’t you?” From.

Cregan grunted, his jaw tightening in mock frustration. “Let a man try, Claere,” he muttered, rolling his eyes skyward, though a wry grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “It’s like twisting my tongue into a knot. And here you are, ready to skin me for it.”

She chuckled and leaned closer, brushing damp hair from his forehead. “It’s good to see you stumble now and again,” she teased lightly, her lips brushing his ear as she added in her mother tongue, “Ziry kesir iksis gevivys hen gevivys syt īlva tolvio.” That is what stories are for—for our struggles.

“I caught that,” Cregan shot back, his grin widening despite himself. He reached for her waist, pulling her flush against him in the water, which sloshed dangerously close to the edge of the tub. “And I’ll tell you what I’m good at regarding stories, love. Living them.”

“Oh?” she arched a brow, her tone a mockery of scepticism even as her fingers skimmed down his chest. “What tale do you think you’re writing now, my lord?”

“One where the winter's queen joins the king in the North for a bath,” he growled playfully, his voice low as he pressed a kiss to the hollow of her throat. “And he doesn't misspeak.”

“Not often, anyway,” she quipped.

Her laughter faded, but the warmth of it lingered between them. She leaned into him, her forehead coming to rest against his shoulder. He felt her sigh, her body melting into his like snow against the sunlit stone. His hand moved rhythmically, pouring water, untangling her hair, each stroke of his fingers careful. But there was something about her quietness now that unnerved him. The silence between them wasn’t hollow—it was heavy, as though the air itself waited for something to break.

“Cregan,” she said finally, her voice quiet but heavy, like a snowstorm building on the horizon. “I want to fly past the Wall again.”

The words didn’t land immediately. For a moment, the fire crackled, the faint scent of woodsmoke filling the air, and her voice hung there, unacknowledged, like a raven circling a battlefield. But then, like an axe cleaving through frozen bark, the meaning struck. His hands stilled against her back, and the silence between them became brittle.

Slowly, he moved, setting the water aside. His fingers lingered on her shoulder, reluctant to let go, as if even that small gesture might allow her words to take root. She turned just enough for him to see her face, her profile illuminated by firelight. The high cheekbones he’d traced with his thumb a hundred times, the proud line of her nose, the haunting violet of her eyes—all of it was familiar. And yet, what burned behind her gaze now was something foreign. Something he didn’t want to know.

“The Wall?” His voice was calm, but the sharp undertone betrayed him. “Why?”

“I need something,” she murmured, the words nearly swallowed by the crackle of the fire. Her eyes softened, but her jaw tightened, her resolve solidifying even as her voice quavered.

Cregan stiffened. The memory of her last flight past the Wall came rushing back, vivid and unforgiving. The days of waiting, the weeks of sleepless nights after her return, when she woke gasping for air, her hands clutching at her throat as if warding off unseen terrors. The Wall hadn’t just taken from her—it had nearly swallowed her whole.

“You needed something the last time, too,” he said, his voice low and cold as iron. “And it nearly destroyed you. I will not allow this.”

“Cregan—”

“No.” His hand caught her chin, tilting her face toward him, his gray eyes meeting hers with unflinching force. “Don’t ask me this again, Claere.”

“But—”

“Please.” His voice cracked, his plea pulling it down to little more than a whisper. “Don’t.”

For a moment, she looked like she might argue, her lips parting, her breath hitching. But then, something inside her faltered. Instead, she pressed her face into his chest, her trembling fingers clutching at his sides. He wrapped his arms around her instinctively, as if by holding her tightly enough, he could keep her anchored, stop her from drifting toward whatever shadowed place she sought.

“I just…” she began, her voice muffled against his skin. “Have you ever wondered, after I’m gone, what I’ll leave behind?”

Her words were a blow, swift and unexpected. Cregan stiffened, his arms tightening around her as though she might slip through them.

“Gone?” he echoed, his voice faint, disbelieving. He tried to summon a chuckle, something to lighten the moment, but it came out jagged and hollow. “You’ll leave Luna, of course. That terror of a beast. It'll live another ten centuries. And our children—wolves with their mother’s fire, gods help us.”

She didn’t laugh. Instead, she pulled back, her hands resting on his chest, her face shadowed with an intensity he couldn’t meet without flinching. “I do not jest,” she said softly, each word carving into him like frostbite.

His smile faded entirely, replaced by a deep furrow in his brow as he searched her face for answers. “What is this about?” he asked, his voice soft, coaxing. His hand came up to brush through her damp hair, a gesture as soothing for him as it was for her. “Does something trouble you, love?”

Her gaze dropped, her teeth catching at her bottom lip—a small, vulnerable tell that cut deeper than any words could. “Cregan, we don’t have long in this realm,” she said, her voice steady but low. “None of us do. And we must do what is needed for the future.”

“And the Wall offers you a future?” His voice hardened, anger creeping in now. It wasn’t the wild, hot anger of a battlefield, but a cold, slow-burning fury. “It’s taken enough from you already.”

“I’ve seen the aftermath,” she said, her tone calm but unrelenting. She lifted her gaze to meet his, and there was something in it that chilled him to his core. “After me.”

Her words cut deeper than the sharpest blade. He understood now. She wasn’t speaking of leaving—at least, not in the sense he wanted to believe. She was speaking of her absence. Her death.

Cregan’s jaw tightened, his arms pulling her closer as though he could tether her to him, to the present, to life itself. His chest felt tight, and his breath became shallow.

“You won’t leave me behind,” he said again, the faintest crack betraying his fear. “You can’t.”

Her gaze held his, unwavering, but he saw the glint of severity there, refracting the firelight like shards of ice. He swallowed hard, trying to push down the rising tide of dread that threatened to overwhelm him. She’d seen something—he knew it. And it gnawed at him like a wolf at a bone.

The thoughts came unbidden, tumbling over each other in his mind. Had she seen it? How had it come for her? Was it a blade, sharp and sudden, cutting her life away in an instant? Was it poison, insidious and slow, stealing her breath while he was too far to help? Or a fall, her body broken on the frozen ground before he could catch her? His hands clenched at his sides, his jaw tightening as he struggled to contain the frantic thoughts spinning wildly out of control.

He didn’t want to know, not truly, but the thought of not knowing was worse. He searched her face, his heart hammering against his ribs like a storm battering at a gate.

“Death is not something we must fear,” she said softly. Her hand came up to his face, cupping his cheek with a gentleness that belied the weight of her words. “Not for Northerners. The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.”

“And what am I without you?” he asked, his voice a mere breath. He grasped her hand where it rested against his cheek, holding it as though it might anchor him. “If you leave me, I have nothing. I am nothing. No dreams. No fight. No life. If you manage to leave me somehow, you will not go alone. I will follow.”

Her expression softened, a sorrowful smile curving her lips. She reached up to brush her thumb along his cheekbone, catching the tear he didn’t realize had fallen. “I know,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

He swallowed hard, the words clawing their way up his throat. “How... does it happen?”

For a moment, she didn’t respond. Her gaze dropped to the space between them, her fingers still lightly tracing his cheek. When she spoke, her voice was soft but resolute.

“Not for a long time,” she said.

The words struck him deeply, unraveling the tension that had gripped him like a vice. Not for a long time. He exhaled, his breath shuddering as though he had been holding it for years, his shoulders loosening from the weight of dread. It wasn’t a dismissal of the future, but a promise that there was more to come—more moments, more life, more everything.

His thoughts slowed, anchoring on the here and now. The curve of her lips, the heat of her body pressed against his, the faint lavender scent that clung to her hair—this was what mattered. This was the life they had yet to live, the future she spoke of, not just a far-off end but the fullness of days between now and then.

He tilted his head, studying her with a crooked grin that didn't quite hide the lingering edge of his earlier unease. “You’ve got a real talent for ruining a perfectly good bath,” he muttered, his voice low.

Her lips quirked, amusement flickering in her violet eyes. “Do I?”

“Aye,” he said, his hand sliding to her hip beneath the water, his touch firm but playful. “But I’m not letting you turn this into some talk of doom and death.” He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear as he added, “You’ve got better things to focus on.”

She arched a brow, her lips curving into that sly smile that always managed to disarm him. “Better things?”

“You, in my arms, all beautiful lips and legs,” he murmured, his other hand slipping up to cradle her jaw. “I’d say that’s better than any talk of what’s to come.”

Her blush deepened, but her smile didn’t waver. “Is this your way of distracting me?”

“It’s my way of reminding you,” he said, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth, his lips brushing against her skin with deliberate slowness, “that we’ve still got tonight. And tomorrow. And the day after that.” He kissed her fully then, a slow, lingering press of his mouth that carried everything he didn’t want to put into words.

When he pulled back, his grin had turned roguish, his grey eyes gleaming with mischief. “Besides,” he added, his hand slipping lower under the water, “I’m not done with you yet.”

She let out a soft gasp, her hands pressing against his chest as she gave him a mock glare. “Lord Stark, you are incorrigible.”

“Incorrigible, aye,” he murmured, tilting his head as if in thought. His fingers teased along her waist, drawing her closer until their bodies pressed together. “But you’ve yet to complain about it.”

“I could start now,” she quipped, her voice light despite the way her breath hitched when his hand slid lower, brushing against the bare curve of her hip.

He smirked, unrepentant, leaning back against the tub's edge as he pulled her onto his lap, water sloshing around them. “Could you, though?” His voice was a low rumble, filled with a teasing warmth. “Or would you rather stay like this, letting me remind you how much you love a Stark who doesn’t know when to quit?”

Her laughter bubbled up, soft and unguarded, and she settled against him, her legs folding to either side of his hips. “You have an awfully high opinion of yourself.”

“It’s hard not to, with you looking at me like that,” he said, his hands splaying against the small of her back. His thumbs drew slow, deliberate circles against her skin as he tilted his head to catch her gaze. “Like you’d fight the gods themselves to keep me.”

Her teasing smile faltered, something softer blooming in its place. “Don’t make me admit to such things,” she whispered, her fingers trailing over the scars on his chest. “Your ego’s insufferable enough.”

“I’ll admit it for you,” he said, lowering his voice as his fingers danced up her spine. “You’d have my heart torn from my chest if it meant keeping it beating for you. Don’t deny it.”

She didn’t. She couldn’t—not with the way her silence spoke louder than words, her hands trembling slightly as they cupped his face. She held him there, staring into the storm-grey of his eyes as though she could lose herself in them.

“Don’t think this means I’ll forget what we were talking about,” she said at last, her tone soft but resolute.

“Not tonight,” he replied, his voice thick with emotion as he cupped her face in return, his thumbs brushing over the high planes of her cheekbones. “Tonight, it’s just you and me. No ravens, no Wall, no ghosts of what’s to come. Just us.”

Her gaze softened, her lips parting as though to argue—but the words didn’t come. Instead, she leaned into him, her forehead pressing gently to his, her breath mingling with his in the quiet intimacy of the moment. “I'd like that very much,” she murmured, her voice a whisper of surrender.

For a moment, he let the world slip away. Let himself drown in the feel of her—the press of her body against his, the scent of her hair, damp and clinging to her shoulders, the contrast of her warmth against the chill curling through the room. He would not let himself dwell on the shadows of the future—not tonight. Not when she was here, flesh and fire, burning bright enough to chase away every dark thought.

His fingers found her chin, tilting her face up until her violet eyes met his, wide and searching. He kissed her slow, deep, savouring the shape of her mouth, the softness that yielded to him even as he felt the quiet strength beneath it. When he pulled back, his smile had returned—soft, but still edged with mischief.

“Enough of death and despair,” he murmured, tracing the seam of her lips with his thumb. “I’m more interested in seeing if you’ll laugh again.”

Her brow arched, though the corner of her mouth lifted in something close to amusement. “Laugh?”

“Aye.” His hand slipped beneath the water, slow, sliding up the length of her thigh. Finally, he cupped the warm space between her legs. “That sound that could warm even these stones.”

Her breath hitched—a sharp, stuttered thing as if caught between surprise and surrender. Cregan felt the way she tensed beneath his fingers, her thighs clenching around his hand, for a moment before they eased, parting wider beneath the water. The heat of her, the slickness, the way she yielded to him even after all these years—it sent fire curling through his veins, made something primal in him stir.

He pressed a kiss to her temple, slow and lingering, his lips trailing down to her cheek, her jaw, the curve of her throat. She smelled of the oils in the bath, the faintest hint of spiceflowers and winter roses, but beneath that, she was still just Claere—his Claere, the woman who had given him everything.

His fingers moved again, curling inside her, stroking, pressing in deep. She made a sound then, quiet but breathless, her nails digging into his shoulders, her head tilting back against his chest. He could feel her heartbeat against his lips, a wild, fluttering thing, the way it always was when he touched her like this—like she wasn’t a mother of his children, wasn’t the Lady of Winterfell, but just the woman who had always been his.

Her thighs shifted, parting wider beneath the water, as if trying to push his fingers deeper within her, a silent plea. He chuckled, low and dark against her ear, dragging his teeth gently over the delicate skin there.

“I wish you could see yourself now,” he murmured, nipping at her lobe before soothing the spot with his tongue. “Undoing yourself against my hand.”

A whimper slipped past her lips, her fingers tightening where they gripped his arms. He felt her shift against him, pressing back, as if seeking more from his palm, that spot beneath her belly, as if she couldn’t stand the slow, torturous rhythm of his hand.

“Cregan,” she whispered, his name a plea, a demand, a prayer.

He groaned softly, his free hand smoothing over her hips, lingering over the faint scars left behind by the life she had carried for him. Evidence of the children she had borne, of the pain she had endured, of everything she had given him—and yet, still, she was here. Still, she was his.

She turned slightly in his arms, enough for him to see the flush rising high on her cheeks. “The scars won't go. No matter how much I scrub.”

Cregan chuckled, low and deep. “Let them be,” he echoed her earlier words, dragging his nose down the slope of her neck, breathing her in, “it's like a map. To my favourite place in this realm.”

His fingers slid from between her thighs, and she whimpered softly at the loss. He didn’t tease her for it, not this time. He only gripped her hips, turning her in the water until her back was flat against his chest, straddling his lap.

Water sloshed against the edges of the bath, spilling onto the stones again, but neither of them paid it any mind. He caged her there, wrapped in the warmth of his body, his mouth ghosting along the curve of her neck. A slow, heated drag of lips and teeth, a quiet claim.

His hands wandered, splaying across her stomach before gliding lower, fingers tracing the soft curve beneath her belly button. “Do you remember the first time?” he murmured against her ear, his voice rough, teasing.

She shivered, her fingers tightening where they rested on his thighs beneath the water. “Of course I do.”

His teeth grazed her earlobe, playful, before he pressed a kiss just below it. “Do you remember how you trembled for me?”

She huffed a breath, both exasperated and breathless. “Cregan—”

He chuckled, low and deep. “Still do, I think.”

His fingers dipped lower, finding her again, teasing, stroking with lazy intent. Her head tipped back against his shoulder, a quiet moan slipping from her lips as he dragged his knuckles along her most sensitive place, slow and deliberate.

“That’s it, love,” he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction. “Let me have you.”

Claere’s breath stuttered, her fingers digging into his forearm, bracing herself against him as he eased her into it, as he coaxed her open with unhurried patience. His other hand smoothed over her stomach, pressing her back more firmly into him, grounding her as she trembled, adjusting to the steady, claiming stretch of his fingers.

She burned for him. Even after all these years, after all the nights spent tangled in each other, he still made her feel this way—like he was the only thing that existed, like her body was made to welcome him and only him.

Cregan exhaled sharply against her neck when she rocked into his touch, a breathless, greedy motion, chasing more, chasing him. He let her, let her take what she needed, let her move with him until she was slick and wanting, until her body was soft and eager against his own.

Then, with a quiet groan, he withdrew his fingers, shifting beneath her. As he tasted his fingers on his tongue, he realized how he would've preferred dryer ground than this tub, to let himself simply savour the taste of her for as long as he pleased.

She gasped when he aligned them, a sharp "ah!", a shudder running through her as he pushed inside, slow, stretching her inch by inch. She clenched around him instinctively, her hands flying to his thighs beneath the water, nails pressing into his skin as she sucked in a breath, caught between pleasure and the sheer, unbearable ache of taking him entirely into her.

Cregan groaned, his own body taut with restraint, his grip on her hips firm but gentle as he gave her time.

“It's alright, love,” he soothed against her ear, his lips brushing the shell of it. “I’m here. Slow.”

She exhaled shakily, letting herself sink back against him, letting herself adjust, letting herself feel every inch of him as he seated himself fully inside her. He swore he could feel her heartbeat right there.

He stayed still for a long moment, his breath hot against her damp skin, his hands smoothing over her stomach, her hips, her thighs, feeling her, waiting.

“Cregan,” she whispered, desperate now, the stretch melting into something unbearable in a wholly different way.

His arms manacled around her. “Move for me,” he murmured, coaxing, his hands guiding her hips, helping her find the rhythm that was theirs alone.

And when she did—gods. The heavens itself. Thunder crashing. Rain falling. A fucking avalanche. None of those phenomena came close. Every time, it was as if she had never known him at all.

And then—

A sharp, unsteady breath left her as she rocked against him, slow at first, a careful slide of bodies beneath the water, the movement languid and fluid like the tide. Cregan groaned low in his throat, his grip tightening on her hips, his fingers pressing into the curve of her neck, as if to keep himself from losing all restraint. It almost slipped past him.

“Just like that, Claere, yes,” he murmured against her temple, the praise breathy and rough, setting off a shiver down her spine.

Claere inhaled sharply as she pushed down again, the stretch of him sending pleasure curling deep in her belly, sharp and intoxicating. Her hands found his arms, clutching at the thick muscle beneath damp skin, seeking something to hold onto as he guided her into the rhythm, his body meeting hers in slow, wet thrusts. Every inch of him burned to go harder, faster, make her fall apart for him, But he wouldn't rush this—not when he had her, not when he could savour every second.

She arched into him, her head falling back against his shoulder, exposing her throat. He took advantage of it immediately, his lips dragging along the delicate column of her neck, tasting the salt of her skin, nipping, soothing, marking her as his own.

“I've missed this, missed you, missing being inside you,” he whispered, voice hoarse, strained, a kiss on her shoulder for each punctuation. His hands slid up, tracing the swell of her breasts beneath the water, rolling a peaked nipple between his fingers until she gasped, her body clenching around him.

She whimpered, pressing her hands over his, guiding them lower, needing more, needing everything. He gave it to her, rolled his fingers at that very spot, his touch rough and knowing, his pace quickening just enough to make her moan, to make her toes curl against the marble beneath them.

Her name fell from his lips like a prayer, reverent, desperate. He had touched her like this a thousand times, had kissed every inch of her body, had watched her unravel in his arms more times than he could count—and yet, every time felt like the first.

And every time, he was wrecked for her. Ravaged. Devastated. Left lost in her.

She was close now, he could feel it in the way her muscles tightened around him, the way her breath grew uneven, in the way her hands trembled against his own. He gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to let go, to chase his own pleasure, determined to take her there first. It was his taste of paradise, to see her explode onto him.

“There's my girl,” he rasped, his fingers slipping lower, finding the place that made her break. “Give it to me, love. All of it.”

She did.

Her body tensed, her back arching as pleasure crashed over her in a sharp, shuddering wave. She clenched around him so tight he swore he saw stars, her moan breathless, mouth falling open into a silent scream, her nails digging into his skin.

Cregan groaned, his control snapping, his grip on her tightening as he thrust into her once, twice, before he was spilling into her with a ragged sound, his entire being wrenching inside out, his head dropping against her shoulder.

For a moment, as colour flooded back into his sight, there was only the soft lap of water against their skin, the slow rise and fall of their breaths. Home, home, home, was all he could think about. She was his home.

He let out a long, satisfied sigh, his grip on her loose but lingering, hands still smoothing over the curve of her waist, as if he wasn’t quite ready to let go. Claere slumped against his chest, her body boneless, skin flushed, hair damp against his shoulder.

“Well, Claere,” he murmured, voice thick with amusement, “you’ve officially fucked me out.”

Claere hummed, half-lidded and pleased, her fingers idly tracing the ridges of his forearm. “Mmm.”

He huffed a laugh, nosing into her damp hair. “Mmm?”

She grinned, stretching out in his lap like a cat, unabashed, utterly content. “I like seeing you like this.”

“Like what?”

“Spent,” she purred, tipping her head back to meet his gaze, mischief dancing in her eyes. “Sweet. A little ruined.”

Cregan groaned, leaning his head back against the rim of the tub, but he was smiling. “Give me a moment to recover, woman, before you start making me hard again.”

Claere hummed, trailing a slow finger down his chest, tracing the scars and muscles that she knew as well as her own skin. “Recover already?” she mused, tilting her head, feigning innocence. “What a shame. I thought the mighty Lord Stark had more verve than this.”

Cregan cracked an eye open, giving her a look—half amusement, half warning. “Watch yourself.”

“Oh, I am,” she whispered, shifting in his lap just enough to feel the lazy thrum of heat still there beneath the surface. She smirked. “But are you?”

Cregan exhaled sharply, hands tightening at her waist as she rolled her hips against his thigh, slow and teasing. He was already hardening again, the ache not quite gone before she threatened to stoke it back to life.

Claere leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to his jaw, then lower, trailing heat down the column of his throat. “No need to rush,” she murmured against his skin, voice silken, taunting. “We have all morning.”

Cregan growled, deep in his chest, tipping his head back, eyes fluttering shut as she moved against him. “Gods help me,” he muttered, but his hands slid lower, gripping her, guiding her.

Claere laughed, warm and wicked. Unlike anything he'd seen, once or twice.

“I think you’ll survive.”

And just like that, the hunger stirred anew.

X

The courtyard of Winterfell had become a storm of movement—horses stamping against the frost-bitten ground, men checking their saddles, the clink of steel and murmurs of last-minute preparations. The banners of House Stark stirred in the biting wind, a reminder of the legacy they carried Northward.

But in the midst of it all, Cregan Stark found himself shackled—not by duty, not by the weight of his furs or the steel at his hip, but by the small, determined hands of his children.

Rickon clung to his left arm, Edd had his fingers curled into the fabric of his cloak, and Luce—his wild little pup—had scaled his back like a mountain cat, arms looped around his neck in a stubborn vice. The three of them, strong and sharp, but still young enough to make their sorrow known in the way they gripped onto him, as if holding him would stop him from leaving. Their sighs and sniffles echoed in his ears, though none of them would dare cry—not properly. A Stark did not wail, but they knew how to make their sorrow known.

“You best come back fast, Da,” Edd grumbled into his father’s shoulder.

“I’ll be counting the days,” Rickon muttered, arms tightening.

Luce, face buried against his shoulder, huffed, "Then bring me redcurrants from White Harbour this time. The big, fat ones. You forgot last time, and I still haven’t forgiven you."

Cregan chuckled, shifting her weight easily, bearing all three of them as if they were nothing. "I’ll bring you all the redcurrants in the North, my love," he promised.

He crouched, easing her to the ground alongside her brothers, taking each of their faces in his hands. His thumbs brushed over their cheeks, memorizing the weight of them, the warmth. He wouldn't feel this for a long time.

"I'll come back quick as the wind," he said, pressing kisses to their brows, and their hair, one by one. "And when I do, I'll have stories for you. The kind you’ve never heard before."

"Will they be true stories?" Rickon asked, eyes narrowing.

Cregan grinned. "Aye. And the best kind of true stories—the ones that sound like lies."

The boys exchanged glances, considering, before they nodded solemnly.

Meanwhile, Bran had not let go of his mother.

He was pressed into her embrace, face tucked against her shoulder, silver curls gleaming beneath the pale light. Unlike his siblings, he was quiet in his sorrow, but Claere knew. She rubbed slow, soothing circles over his back, whispered to him in a voice only for him to hear.

"Listen and stay close to your father," she murmured, her lips against his temple. "Mind the men. Never stray too far past your people. Write to me often."

His arms tightened around her waist. "I know, Ma."

Cregan reached out, and rested a hand on his son's shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze. "Say your goodbyes to your brothers and sister, lad," he said. "They'll be missing you, too."

Bran nodded, swallowing hard.

Cregan's gaze lifted to Claere's, and the sight of her nearly undid him. She was holding herself still, the grief of parting written in the tight set of her mouth, the sheen in her violet eyes. Gods, he hated leaving her. Especially her.

But before she could speak, he grinned, and in one swift motion, he pulled her into his arms, his grip firm around her waist. The strength of it startled a soft laugh from her lips, though her hands instantly found his chest, holding on.

“You’ll not let me go without a proper farewell, will you?” he murmured against her mouth.

She huffed, exhaling sharply as his lips found hers—soft at first, then lingering, warm and slow. He kissed her once, twice, savouring the taste of her, the press of her body against his. She made a quiet noise against his lips, and he swallowed it down, trying to burn the memory of her into his bones.

And then, between kisses, his voice dipped into something smug, something playful.

“We may have made a babe last night.”

She let out a startled little laugh against his mouth, her fingers tightening in his cloak. “And how would you know that?”

He tilted his head, brushing his lips along the shell of her ear, letting his teeth graze just enough to make her shiver.

“Because I’m sore all over,” he murmured, amused. “And the last time I felt this way was when we had Luce. And I vaguely remember a warm bath, too.”

A sharp breath left her, and she buried her face into his neck, laughing despite herself. Her hands clutched at him as if she could hold onto him for just a moment longer.

"Seven hells, Cregan," she whispered, voice unsteady.

His arms tightened, and for a breath, for a single moment, he allowed himself the weakness of wishing he didn’t have to go at all.

A sniffle interrupted them.

Both of them turned just in time to see Luce dramatically rubbing at her nose with the edge of her sleeve, her expression twisted into one of exaggerated disgust. "Ew."

Rickon made a retching sound. "Could you not, Da? Please?"

"Spare us," Edd groaned, burying his face in his hands.

Bran only flushed, shifting awkwardly. He was still young enough to find it embarrassing but not young enough to pretend he didn’t understand.

Cregan threw his head back, laughing deep and loud, the sound echoing through the courtyard. "Little shits, the lot of you," he rumbled, pulling away from Claere just enough to face them. "You'll understand one day when you have husbands and wives of your own."

Luce wrinkled her nose. "Not if I can help it."

Rickon nudged her. "You’d be the worst wife, Lucy."

"And you'd be the worst husband, cretin," she shot back.

Bran cleared his throat, mounting his horse with a smirk. “You’re both the worst.”

Cregan clenched the reins in his hands, the leather biting into his palm. It was a hard thing, being a father, harder than war, harder than ruling. He had spent years keeping his children safe, but now, as he watched his children watch him, he wondered if he had been holding him back instead.

"Goodbye, Da!"

"Bye, Bran! Tell me if you catch any white-walkers!"

"We'll miss you, Bran!"

The North called. Duty answered.

But love… love hesitated.

With a final breath, he turned his horse, Bran following suit. The moment he did, something inside him clenched—an ache deep in his ribs, in his very bones. He felt the pull of them all, the invisible tether tying him to this place, to these people, and it took everything in him not to turn back, not to look one last time.

Because he knew himself.

If he looked, if he caught another glimpse of his wife’s sorrow, of his children standing there, waiting for him to return—

He would not go at all.

So he rode forward, his men falling in beside him, their horses’ hooves muffled against the frost-covered earth. The great gates of Winterfell groaned as they shut behind them, sealing him away from the warmth of home, from the touch of his wife, from the laughter of his children.

The road stretched long and endless before him. The Wall loomed in the distance, a cold and unfeeling thing. And though he did not turn back, though he did not let himself break—Gods help him, he had never longed for home more than he did now.

X

Bran had always known his father was a great man. Lord Cregan Stark, the Wolf of Winterfell, the Warden of the North, the man who held the cold in his hands and never let it break him. He had grown up listening to the stories, the songs, the whispered words of men who spoke his name like a legend, like something larger than life.

But it was different to see it.

Riding south, he had always known the reach of their name, but now, as they travelled north to the Wall, he saw the weight his father carried.

At every holdfast they passed, at every village, people stood straighter when Cregan rode through, their voices full of deference, their eyes filled with something between admiration and fear.

At the inns where they stopped for the night, men lifted their cups in salute. They asked after Winterfell, after the family, after the North itself as if his father carried the realm itself on his back.

But none of them asked about Bran. They called him the White Wolf, they spoke of the name that had been given to him since birth, but it was just that—a name. A heavy, hopeless name.

Cregan Stark was not just a name. He was a man. A man that people followed, a man that people obeyed, a man that Bran had to become. To live up to that man felt impossible.

That night, he could not sleep.

The inn was warm, the furs thick, but rest did not come. His body ached from the ride, from the stiffness in his limbs, but his mind whirled too fast. His father’s shadow loomed over him, over everything he was meant to be, and pressed down like a mountain.

He rose quietly, careful not to wake the others, and slipped outside.

The night air was crisp, the scent of pine and smoke lingering as he stepped into the clearing beyond the inn’s outer walls. His fingers itched, restless, so he grabbed his sword from where it rested by his belt and gave it a few testing swings.

The blade felt foreign in his hands, unfamiliar despite the years of training. He tried to remember what the master-at-arms had told him—balance, precision, patience. He went through the motions, cutting at the air, but it all felt wrong.

“You’re holding your wrist too stiff,” came a voice behind him.

Bran was startled, turning to find his father standing there, leaning lazily against one of the wooden posts, watching him with something close to amusement, head tilted.

“You should be asleep,” Bran muttered, lowering his blade.

Cregan smirked, stepping forward. “Sleep comes slow without your mother by my side.”

Bran huffed a quiet laugh. “Ma barely sleeps at all.”

His father chuckled, shaking his head. “Aye, that she doesn’t. It’s a wonder I’ve ever had a peaceful night’s rest.”

Bran knew that was true. His mother’s sleepwalks, her quiet steps in the hallways, the distant sound of her harp intoning at odd hours—she was never still. Sometimes, when he was younger, he would wake and hear her voice in the dark, murmuring songs under her breath, half-lost to sleep. He had never found himself unsettled, it felt wrong only when she did not do such things.

And his father had never seemed to mind. Cregan never seemed to mind anything about her. How she didn't speak unless it was her family around her. How she spoke in riddles, sometimes communing far beyond this realm.

They stood there a moment, father and son, the night quiet around them, the stars distant and bright. Then Cregan reached for his own blade from his side. Not Ice, but a smaller sword he must’ve borrowed from the men.

“Come,” he said, gesturing. “Show me what you’ve learned.”

Bran hesitated. “You’ll only beat me.”

“Probably,” Cregan agreed, grinning.

Bran narrowed his eyes, then lunged.

His swing was quick, sharp, aimed for his father’s side, but Cregan merely shifted, barely moving before steel met steel. The impact jarred up Bran’s arm, and his strike knocked him aside as if it were nothing at all.

Bran clenched his teeth, adjusting his footing, and struck again. Faster. Harder. His father met him just the same, fluid, smooth as if he were dancing.

Bran was breathing hard, his muscles tightening with every deflection, every parry that sent him stumbling back. Cregan wasn’t even trying. He could tell.

“Again,” his father said, voice low, patient.

Bran’s frustration snapped like a bowstring. He stepped in, aiming high, but his father pivoted easily, meeting him before he could complete the strike, catching Bran’s wrist in a swift motion that sent his sword spinning from his fingers.

The blade clattered onto the dirt.

Bran stared at it, chest heaving, fists curling at his sides.

Cregan rested the flat of his sword against Bran’s shoulder, light, teasing. “Dead.”

Bran swatted it away, scowling.

His father only laughed, ruffling his curls like he was still a boy in the training yard. “You’re not bad, boy,” he admitted. “But you’re forcing it. You need to stop thinking so much.”

Bran let out a breath, his jaw tight. “I am feeling it.”

Cregan’s grin widened. “Then why do you keep losing?”

Bran released a sharp, frustrated noise, stepping away to retrieve his fallen weapon. The truth was, it wasn’t just the fight weighing on him tonight. The unease had been growing inside him since they’d left Winterfell, a slow, creeping thing that settled deep in his bones.

He bent down, fingers brushing the hilt.

“It will be hard,” he muttered, half to himself.

Cregan cocked his head. “What will?”

Bran swallowed, fingers tightening around the sword. Then, quietly, he said, “Living up to you.”

He exhaled, standing straight. “Taking care of the keep. My brothers, Luce. You, Ma. Holding Winterfell. Fighting battles. The Wall. The Iron Throne. Protecting the North.” His voice was quiet, but steady. “It all seems… larger than me.”

A silence stretched between them.

Then, instead of speaking, Cregan raised his sword.

“Pick it up,” he said again.

Bran hesitated only a moment before stepping back into position, blade in hand.

Cregan took a stance. “Come at me again.”

Bran exhaled, adjusted his grip, and lunged.

Their blades met with a sharp clang, but this time, Cregan let the fight last longer. He let Bran push forward, let him move, let him feel the rhythm of it. Not just swinging wildly, but measuring his steps, learning the weight of steel in his hands.

“Hard?” Cregan said between swings. “Aye. It is.”

Bran pivoted, stepping quickly, but his father was already there, blocking him before he could complete the strike. His father fought like the wind, fast and untouchable. But this time, Bran did not let himself falter.

“You will learn,” Cregan said.

Another strike, another deflection, but Bran kept moving.

“You will grow.”

He was sweating, his arms ached, but he wasn’t stopping.

“You will be strong.”

Bran gritted his teeth, his next swing sharper, and more measured, and his father grinning.

“And gods help the poor fucker who stands against you.”

Bran’s breathing steadied. He wasn’t there yet. He wasn’t his father yet. But maybe, one day, he could be.

He grinned, lifting his sword again. “Again?”

Cregan barked a laugh, stepping forward to meet him. “Again.”

X

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[azrielwingspan]

SOON (THEO NOTT X READER)

Summary : Theodore Nott was just another Slytherin asshole to most of Hogwarts. But to you, he was something much much more.

Themes : Mild kissing and swearing.

A/N : This is my first Theo fic AHHH. Just thought I would give it a shot. Let me know how it is!

P.S.- This is strictly a one shot. There will be no part 2.

"He is quite charming isn't he?" Ginny commented sneaking a glance at Theodore Nott. Seated at the Slytherin table between his usual rowdy gang of friends, he smirked at something Lorenzo had said.

"I think the word you're looking for is enigmatic, Gin. For all we know, he could be Voldemort in disguise." you stated flatly, stabbing a piece of potato on your plate. Earning a smack on the arm for using You-know-who's name so boldly, you ignored Ginny's attempts at convincing you to attend the party being thrown tonight.

"Help me understand why you're so bloody against the idea?! Is it because you have to bring a date?" she raised her eyebrows in question.

"That may be a part of the reason." you refused to meet her owl like stare, instead choosing to focus on the copy of the Daily Prophet in front of you.

"Why would that be an issue ? I can name five people off the top of my head who would say yes instantly." she prodded further, thankfully choosing to redirect her gaze towards the mail she'd received. Taking advantage of her momentary distraction, you snuck a glance at Theodore again. The sleeves of his uniform were rolled upto his elbow and you greedily took in the sight of his veiny forearms.

"What are you looking at?" Ginny broke you out of the reverie, your eyes immediately flitting towards the shawl Pansy was wearing.

"Pansy's new shawl. I can't recall which store I've seen it in but it looks very familiar." The lie rolled out smoothly, misleading Ginny. The pang of guilt ,that never lessened in impact, hit you yet again.

"Oh. Yeah, it does look quite familiar now that you mention it." She went off on a tangent about clothes and you let out a relieved sigh.

Ginny couldn't know. Not for now atleast.

The morning went on, your focus elsewhere during most of the classes. Ginny hadn't brought up the party again but you knew it was unavoidable. You were definitely acting quite strange. Not being the one to turn down an invite, your sudden refusal to attend this massive party did come as a surprise to your friends.

You had your reasons. Utterly selfish reasons.

However as the evening rolled by, Ginny had cornered you into agreeing. On bringing up the issue of the date, she'd simply shrugged and said "I took care of it."

That did not sound very reassuring.

It was worse than you had expected.

"CORMAC MC FUCKIN LAGGEN ?!?" you hissed at Ginny , your back to the boy in question.

Ginny looked away sheepishly and said "He told Hermione who told me that he had a thing for you. So I thought you guys could talk? I mean you don't have to really. Just drop him off in a corner."

"Drop him---" pinching the bridge of your nose in frustration, you whipped around to face Laggen and gave him a saccharine smile.

"Nice to meet you Laggen but I'm not interested."

He looked astounded, trying to wrap his head around the rejection. After a few seconds, he managed to sputter out "We haven't talked yet. How can you--"

"Yes. Yes I can. You have my permission to tell everyone I'm your date but please don't approach me again. Bye." you sauntered off into the party, Ginny keeping up behind you.

"Where's Harry anyways?" you asked, straining your neck to see past the crowd.

"Running late. Neville set his pants on fire so Ron and Harry are helping him out."

Shaking your head in amusement, you let your eyes run around the room searching for him.

There.

Theo sat on the couch near the fireplace, one arm thrown around the back , a glass of amber liquid in the other. The smoke from Mattheo's cigarette made his figure hazy.

"I'm gonna go grab a drink." Ginny said her voice floating by. You nodded distractedly , your attention held captive by Theo.

As if sending your presence behind him , he turned his head around and met your eyes. Slight confusion marred his face making his eyebrows furrow. He hadn’t expected you to be here.

Signalling to you with a quick nod of his head, he excused himself from his group of friends and made his way to his dorms. You stayed down for a couple more minutes , getting yourself a drink to throw off suspicion.

“Hey, I didn’t think you’d come tonight. Ginny change your mind?” Pansy popped out of the blue , startling you.

“Uh.. Pansy, hey. Yeah you know how Gin is.” Pansy was a bit of a talker. Aware that this conversation could go on forever , you tried to come up with an excuse. “Hey listen, I’ve got to use the bathroom real quick. I’ll find you again alright?”

Not waiting for a response , you made your way in the direction of the bathrooms and took a sharp turn in the opposite direction once you made sure Pansy had redirected her attention. Sneaking up the stairway to the boys dorm, you took a moment for yourself outside Theo’s dorm room, straightening out your clothes.

“Took you long enough.” His voice drawled as you entered his room, the familiar surroundings providing a sense of comfort.

“Pansy almost started a conversation.” You said laughing lightly at his wide eyed expression.

“Didn’t take you long then.” He corrected his previous statement , prowling towards you.

“No. I guess it didn’t.”

Wrapping an arm around your waist, he pulled you into a searing kiss that had you holding onto his shirt for balance. The words 'I missed you' played at the tip of your tongue struggling to be let out.

He nipped at your lower lip , a breathy sigh leaving you as you tangled your hands in his hair.

"Cormac Mc fuckin Laggen? Seriously?" Theo muttered , lowering his head to place soft kisses across your jaw. Leaning your head back to give him more access, you let out a soft laugh. "That's exactly what I said. Ginny is the real culprit."

A strangled moan left your lips as he sucked at your neck, immediately soothing it with a sloppy kiss. "T-Theo..you idiot. That's gonna leave a mark." He just hummed in response seemingly lost in the pleasure. Tugging his head back, you made him meet your gaze head on.

"If we stay up here for any longer, they'll suspect." A shiver passed through you as his hands trailed lower and cupped you arse, pulling your hips to his. "Let them." he said dropping his head to capture your lips once more.

"THEO, YOU IN THERE ??" Blaise Zabini's voice boomed through the door making you jump. A string of Italian curses left Theo's mouth as he ran a hand through his hair.

"Yeah give me a minute!"

Cupping your face in his hands, he leaned down to your face placing you at eye level. "It'll all be over soon alright? We won't have to hide anymore. We can be free." The promise in his eyes lit a spark of hope within you, a rush of adrenaline coursing through your veins.

"Soon." you whispered , your eyes fluttering shut as you placed a kiss on his Dark Mark.

[kamisama1kiss]

Hello:}

This is, uh, a Ninjago request:}

Um, I wanna request how the Ninjago characters react to their lover acting like a wife or husband to them, like, basically, the ninjas came back from a very tiring mission and when they came home they saw reader standing on the other side of the table that filled with food as they said, "welcome home, dear." And the reader is just babying the ninjas with lots of love. Oh, I want reader to kiss their forehead while they eat:D

Idk if I did a good job explaining but I hope you can understand it all XD

Thank you, lots of love, and take care of yourself<3

Stop this is so cuteee! I hope that I was able to execute your idea well when writing 🙏

Ninjago Headcanons °Love like home°

~Lloyd Garmadon~

Placing down the last plate on the dining table right as the shoji slid up revealing an exhausted Lloyd, halting in his steps before the expression fell into a look of softness and gratitude. "Welcome home hero" spoken in a gental tone from yours truly along with a small upward lipcurl.

"You made all this.. for me?" Questioning outloud as he moved across the room for a seat. In awe and love struck him as he reached to assemble his favourite meal, feeling the gaze of his lover lingering on every move. "Of course I would." Circling the table to stand by his side, brushing the blond fringe to the side along with a plant of a kiss blossomed on his forehead.

Having sat down next to him to redo his action onto your own plate, "You're truly amazing." Could be heard mumbling from the green man himself, turning to look and finding him already facing you with a hint of pink. "And I'll gladly do it every chance possible." Speaking in a hushed tone and a gental smile.

~Kai Smith~

Swung open the shoji with a frustrated groan. "It was an absolu-.." Pausing in all movment to see a whole meal prepared for him, "Babe?" He asked with both brows raised. Staring in awe of his lovers' dedication, "I figured you'd need some refuil after today."

Taking a few longer strides to greet his lover with a side hug, kissing your cheek softly. "You really are a saint, babes." He chuckled softly, the fire shining in his amber eyes dimmed to a soft crackling. "Thank you." Whispering gently.

"You're welcome." Greeting in the same tone as you switched to hold his face, storking his cheeks with your thumbs in a repetitive motion before pulling him down a little to peck his forehead in a quick yet affectionet motion. "Come on, let's eat before it gets cold." Lighly pushing at him before taking a seat with him following short. "About time!"

~Cole Brookstone~

The creek of the wooden shoji snapped your focus to the entrance. It was a suprise he'd shown up at such an early time then expected. "Welcome back home, sweetheart. I'm almost done, so you can just go ahead and sit down." Motening to the table with a smile having seem his suprise experience.

"Love? You made all this for me?" Speaking as a huge grin grew on his lips, sitting down without a spark hesitation lingering. "Yeah, I know how tired you've been after the last missions." Humming with reply and putting some cooked rice into a bowl as the last part.

"You truly are a life saver." He chuckled, but the sweetness in his tone wasn't missed either, his chocolate brown eyes focused on your form moving around as eventually stood next to him with a bowl of rice. Leaning over to give his forehead a peck before placing the bowl down. "Seeing you happy makes me happy."

~Zane Julian~

"Hello dearest, I've arrived home for the evening." Spoke the nindroid with a soft smile resting on his face as the shoji was slid to the side, shifting his head to the side from the view of a whole meal prepared for his arrival. "I'm glad to hear that. Welcome home, dear." You hummed, patting your hands on the aprin with a gleeful smile.

"I've made dinner tonight. Usually, you insist on making, but now it was my turn." His lover chuckled lightly before shifting over to him, grabbing a hold of his hands. "I, in fact, very much appreciate your efforts, but this act wasn't needed." Keep the tone soft but also gentle, can't lie, but his heart was overheating just a little.

"Still, I wanted to do it for you.. Kinda, as a thank you for all the times you it." Soften even more in your hold as his baby blues fell to the table. "Shall we get started before it gets the chance to catch cold?" As you smiled and gave him a hug, pulling him down for a kiss at the corner of his lips. "Now you're speaking my language."

"But I've always done so-"

~Jay Walker~

"Welcome home, sunshine," his lover spoke aloud as a whine came out, turning the corner, having thought that he hadn't been noticed. "Awe, you're too good at this game, babe." Nonetheless, a small boyish smile plasterd to his face, hands on both hips.

Returning with a chuckle, shaking your head at his silly act. "Even after your missions, you're full of life." Turing his nose with a shrug of his shoulders, acting as he'd had no clue. "Go ahead and sit down, I've been waiting for you to come back."

In a blink of the eye, he was sat next to you with a look of pure joy. "Did you know you're the best?" Whisper yelling, placing his scarred hand on top of yours. "So you've said before." Smiling at the motion before moving to kiss his freckled cheek, watching as the blue ninja turned pink with an evident avoiding of eye contact.

~Nya Smith~

As you were cutting up some last bits of vegetables yet being careful, not having heard their water lover quietly gliding into the kitchen. "It smells amazing, babe." She smiled along with a small chuckle as her arms wrapped around your waist, placing her head on your shoulder.

Jumped slightly as you had been spaced out but laughed it off. "Welcome home, sweetheart. How was it?" A tone so filled with love, turning around to face her properly as she then rested her hands on either side of your waist. "Tiring, as usual.. is that what I think it is?" Raising a slight brow

Her loved hummed with a nod while wrapping their arms around her neck. "Yes, it is." The couple now both smiled as Nya leaned for a stolen kiss, "I love you so!" You laughed from her tone and plasterd on even more kisses on her face, the last one on her forehead. "Let me cut up the last part and settle down, yeah?"

~~~

It's so good being back to writing, and I'll be working on the requests in my drafts now! I'll come around to them all when I get used to writing again!! 🫶

[coltcassidyy]

I know this is probably gonna get annoying, but I can't help it. I'm hyperfiated on invincible atm. But a lapis lazuli inspired male reader.

Mark finds his gem in space or something and frees him, and now he has this strong ass gem alien living with him, trying to learn human customs and stuff.

It’s not annoying my g don’t worry bout it. I like writing for people … but I need to get some non invincible requests soon before I crash out and explode my kitchen

Mark Grayson x Lapis Lazuli/reader

TW: reader is male, No nsfw (I wasn’t sure if you wanted any or not). Non-sexual nudity. Includes romantic HCs.

I’m writing this at fucking 3 am. On the night before Easter. I’m trying to catch the fucking Easter bunny

Mark thinks you’re so fucking cool. You’re a gem? With water powers? And blue skin? Sure you occasionally remind him of the mauler twins but mark is happy to have somebody Oliver can look up to … having … odd skin, and all …

The way you behave is just so silly to him sometimes. This ranges from eating basic foods wrong (eating cake in layers, eating burritos / tacos sideways , etc), behaving so formal in the least formal places possible, saying odd things because you don’t quite understand English yet. ( Ex: “you know what, mark? I could care less.” “Then … care … less?” “… you know what I mean.”)

There’s some behaviors of yours that mark doesn’t find as silly. Like your ptsd. From the war (I think a war happened in Steven universe? I don’t remember). Yeah he hears you murmuring in your sleep.

Being not human and all, you never really understood the idea of being polite. You’re extremely blunt in all situations, and if marks there, he tries to spare you— to explain your situation. But honestly, it just makes things work. Sometimes when you go out in public with mark, he’ll beg you to let him do all the talking.

When mark first saw your powers in combat he was absolutely entranced. It was beautiful— the water itself was already gorgeous, but watching you contort it so elegantly is just the icing on the cake. Watching you maneuver and use the water to the crescendo of its abilities was so satisfying and so breathtaking. Sometimes, he’ll have you play with your powers simply because he likes to watch the water move.

Speaking of water! When you came to earth for the first time, you kind of … smelled. You didn’t stink … but you didn’t necessarily smell good. Mark tried to explain to you in words how to bathe, but it wasn’t really getting through to you. So your first actual bath was with mark.

This is one of those moments where mark had you play with your powers just so he could watch. Sometimes when you shower together or bathe together he’ll have you change the temperature or the water pressure. You didn’t think of using your abilities in such a way before, but now that you’ve discovered it, you never want to stop.

Your first bath together was where mark got to get a really good look at your gem placement, too. Right smack dab in the upper middle of your chest- a little below your collar bones. Mark always liked crystals and gems— he thought they were pretty, and he thought it was interesting how the earth could produce something so aesthetically pleasing just from minerals and dust. He thinks yours is pretty especially, the way the water reflects or the light catches in it sometimes, it’s hard to miss— and hard to ignore.

Mark finds your powers to be incredibly convenient. Taking down low level fire goons, or whenever he needs to wash his hands, get a drink (you thought this was quite nasty, but apparently mark doesn’t mind), or just when he’s hot or dirty and needs a refresher.

Mark had to teach you social interaction. It was insanely embarrassing— but thankfully, he really only used his mom, atom eve, amber, or William to practice. Mark assumes that after spending so much time with William that it gave you a bit of a … sass.

You’ve eaten the soap from marks bathroom before. You coughed up bubbles for weeks. (Smells good ≠ tastes good. He had to teach you that as well.)

Romantic HCs

Sometimes, after a really bad day, mark will ask to lay down with you and he’ll trace his fingers around the gem in your chest. It’s satisfying and smooth against his fingertips, and it’s a nice feeling for you too.

He enjoys having a partner who can fly. Sometimes the both of you will just go on flight trips together, flying over cities or hovering in the night sky to look at the stars. You don’t ever do this without holding hands though. Holding hands makes you feel closer and more connected, and without that simple gesture, sometimes you get quite uncomfortable.

You weren’t necessarily comfortable with PDA at first. To your culture, touch and affection is an incredibly intimate and sacred thing. Though you didn’t necessarily agree with it, you obeyed anyways. So when mark broke the news to you that PDA is actually quite normal, you went a little overboard with it. You love the idea of displaying to others that mark belonged to you and you alone, letting the world know of your love— of your unbreakable bond.

Similar to mark laying you down and tracing over the gem in your chest, after a bad day or a particularly rough fight, sometimes you’ll have mark trace his fingers over your body, just gentle touches to remind you that not all super-abled humans (or viltrumites.) are out to hurt you— to remind you that at the end of the day, mark will always be there to soothe your wounds.

The both of you don’t really kiss mouth-to-mouth a lot. Only on special occasions. You don’t like it— you think it’s nasty. So the both of you opt for kisses to the forehead, the hands, the inner wrist, the cheek, the nose … anywhere but the lips, basically. (Mark believes that kissing each others hands is much nastier than kissing on the lips, but he doesn’t want to confuse you, or make you even more grossed out by humans then you already are. He just keeps his hands washed.)

((This is kinda short but holy fuck Easter bunny give me chocolate))

[trulyumai]

To Love and Forget

Pairing: Messmer x Reader

synopsis: The red haired knight didn’t love easily, but with his wife, it was thoughtless.

Warnings: None

A/N: Can you tell this man has me in a trance? Cause I’m Messmerized ;) (Okay I’m sorry enjoy the story)

Will his wife adore him, even with the scorched bodies left in his wake?

“We should visit soon, my love. I need to restock the kitchen.”

Messmer sat by the fire, watching as crimson and amber flames caressed the wooden logs. It crumbled under such intense heat, yet he observed regardless, as the pile turned to ash.

His beloved wife stirred a worn silver pot in the kitchen. The aroma of something savory wafted, momentarily drawing him from his troubled thoughts.

“Hm? Where to?”

Pale fingers brushed the man’s chin lightly, out of habit.

Truthfully, he hadn’t been listening as attentively as usual. On any other occasion, Messmer would be beside her, aiding and showering his wife with kisses as he deemed fit. She would giggle, flashing her bright smile, and likely try to push him away before resuming her culinary duties.

But this night was different

His patience wore thin; and so did his soldiers. They lay fallen in the yellowed wheat fields, swords piercing their backs. A surprise attack had sealed their fate, led by whom? Messmer didn’t know, flames began to dance across his pink and white knuckles with a methodical rhythm.

“The town, my love! I ran out of yeast the night before.”

“The town?” The knight gripped his knee harshly with his right hand. Unbeknownst to him, his wife hummed in agreement and turned to gaze at him.

“Mmh, I thought I would go in the morning. Save myself the trouble for—”

“Darling, I’m sure whatever you think you need can wait.”

His neck turned slightly towards her, earning a frown. She grasped the light blue apron around her middle, looking confusedly at her husband through her lashes. The room grew unbearably warm, a telltale sign of Messmer’s anger—disappointment, occasionally.

She could see his blazing eyes from here. Hells, they illuminated most of the living room.

“But… darling, our—”

“Enough. Wife.”

He stood taller now; she had to crane her neck back to meet his fiery gaze.

“It’s not safe. You’ll wait.”

Messmer approached, his maroon hair swaying with each step. In seconds, he was before her, appearing torn between worry and contempt.

She refused to meet his gaze any longer, unable to comprehend his displeasure.

Yet Messmer persisted. His index finger traced the skin around her chin, urging it upward with gentle pressure.

Now he stood with a gaze of love, mingled with sympathy. How swiftly he could change—she would never understand. His emotions had become less predictable lately; just the other day, he incinerated a field when a direbear had ventured too close.

She had regarded him then with the same eyes—worry, concern. He hadn’t acknowledged it, merely placing his hand back on her waist and continuing.

Just a he was doing now, ignoring the present.

“Forgive me, my love, I’ve been ah— distracted.” Noticing the change in atmosphere, his fingers found home in her hair, they stroked and smoothed over it with newfound patience.

“Distracted?” Her head rested upon his hand now, it engulfed it instantly.

“With what?”

He laughed.

It was small— and not the humorous kind.

“It’s nothing that should ail you, darling.”

His form bent over, and she felt the man’s forehead tap hers adoringly.

His eyes stared right into her own, they were half lidded and the knight held a light smile upon his face.

“Let me do the worrying, hm?”

His nose bumped with hers, and soon their lips touched. She felt his breath waft across her lips— her cheeks.

It was warm, and smelled of a cider he had made earlier that day.

“Kiss me, darling?” He pleaded.

And who was she to deny such a man of power?

The girl leaned in, now on her tiptoes as her soft mouth collided with his chapped one.

The maroon knight let out a groan, his knees almost buckled for how much he had to hold back from the poor girl.

So as a distraction, he pulled away, and began to kiss and suck the skin of her neck, making his way to her perfect jawline.

“But what about ah— “

A light kiss.

“The food—“

Another bite.

His chin met her shoulder, his lips grazed the bottom of her ear.

“Should you worry about that now, dear wife?”

His voice was deep, gravelly from the amount of lust bestowed upon his body.

The woman squeaked, embarrassed such an action would fluster her so.

“Its just ah— what would we do for to— morrow?"

Sharply, his arms sagged down, and his hands met with the back of her legs.

Quickly he acted, and pulled each of her legs across his muscled torso.

Now face to face, the man walked backwards, towards the well worn stairs leading to their shared bedside.

She laughed, her head bobbed to the side and he couldn’t help but let out a timber one of his own.

His wife’s arms looped around his wide shoulders, and met just behind his neck.

“Do not concern yourself with such frivolous tasks, my love.” He began his kisses once more,

each laid a different love bite.

One pink

One purple

“For tonight, I found my feast, mmh?”

She poked at the pale man’s cheek.

“Who knew you could hold such a flirtatious remark?” She teased, and Messmer clicked his tongue before tossing her lightly upon the mattress.

His wife’s hair engulfed the pillows, it surrounded her like a halo and he swore he’d remember such an image for the rest of his days. No matter the cost.

He’ll see her eyes before his future slumbers

Hear her laugh before the numerous fights to come on the battlefield

Eventually, when his last breath graces his lips, he’ll taste her there, feel the breath of hers brush past his vicinity.

He’ll remember such love filled eyes

He’ll remember what she smelled like— elder flowers and apples.

He’ll remember she loved him.

And that he loved her.