#frosted panes

[maledictus-maleficus]

Oh man.

[badbitchstromboli]

it's a worse weapon, isn't it

[tranquilitybasehotelcasino]

cobra starship is translucent

[brandwhorestarscream]

Every night I try something new desperately hoping that this will be the trick that let's me sleep a full uninterrupted 4+ hours and EVERY NIGHT i am WRONG 😭

[ohcaptains]

knuckle velvet

synopsis. he walks you home, then lets himself in.

pairing. logan howlett x f!reader. tags. [18+] dubious consent, vaginal penetration, female receiving oral sex, spitting. honey don't feed it, it'll come back type beat.

Some deep part of Canada, where everything was white. Snowstorms that swarmed through the sky, and the only warmth you could find came from the bottom of a bottle.

The wood floor of the sticky bar you worked in was soaked from frost covered boots – haphazardly scraped across the welcome mat, owners preoccupied with getting their first drink than keeping the place tidy.

You existed there, behind the bar that patrons lent against, like a metal cage with leering onlookers. They paid in drinks, but you took the money home as tips, your warmth stoked in a fireplace.

How you’d ended up there in that forgotten part of the world, you didn’t know.

Perhaps you’d followed a narrow path, one strung out with thorns and rubbish, but the money was okay.

When it got slow, and there wasn’t much else to do, your boss let you read a bit, too, while you sipped on your endless supply of Coca-Cola.

At the end of your shift, your teeth were fuzzy from all the sugar. 

An easy existence, but some nights, the patrons got too friendly.

They were fresh off their trucks, looking for some place warm to bury for the night, but you weren’t offering.

So, you’d peer at them, watch them make a fool of themselves as they spewed putrid words in your general direction – alcohol and lack of sleep causing the floor to sway from beneath their feet.

It was always the new boys who would try it.

Risk it all for a chance between your thighs, unaware of the hound sitting at the end of the bar, nursing a whiskey and a vendetta.

The first time he fought for you, the air had changed. Gone cloudy with the chance of a brawl – that sixth sense that all bartenders have switching on.

“Lady said no, ain’t she?” he bellowed from across the bar.

The voice thick with smoke and alcohol, you recognised him as the guy who’d been drinking whiskey all night, but he was as sober as a nun. No stumble to his step, or slur to his cadence, either.

He was built like an oak tree. You noticed when you served him. Slid him his drink and gazed at the sheer bulk of him. At the weathered, handsome age to his face, to the spray of grey in his brown hair.

His thick arms were snugly buried under a button up shirt, and you didn’t see, but rather imagined, the way his muscular legs were stuffed into jeans, and the way his size 12’s rested against the hardwood.

His eyes though, were hiding something. Milky brown concealing his curiosity – easily done with the hard panes of his face.

You imagined letting him take you home, and you thought about being friendly, before a whisper in the back of your cranium told you to back off.

Perhaps safer.

You didn’t know where this man had come from, let alone where he’d been. So, you continued to serve him drinks, and tried to ignore the quiet hum of his presence, until the hum turned to a crash.

The patron was scorned. He paused, and turned to the end of the bar, where the brown eyed stranger was waiting. “What’s it to you?” he slurred.

But the man with the whiskey wasn’t looking to him. He sipped his drink, and said, “she said no. You don’t remember your manners?”

The bar adorned an eerie quiet. Nerves sat low in your belly, heart picking up speed.   “This guy serious?” he asked you.

You went to say something, but he was already throwing words at the stranger.

“She yours or something?” “It matter?” “Can’t blame a guy for trying.” The stranger scoffed, and brought his drink to his lips, “whatever bub.”

“We got a problem?” the man uttered, stalking towards him, but his friend took him by the arm and whispered something in his ear, forcing him to deflate.

You wondered what he’d uttered. Whether there were rumours about the guy – a reputation you didn’t know about.

Brown eyes didn’t bat an eye when the man and his buddy slid out the door, cold filling the room before the door slammed shut.

The bar exhaled.

People went back to their business, and you thought about it, you really did. Thought about leaving him alone. Going back to your measly existence. Your home – the pit for all of your things.

But it didn’t win over in the end.

You topped up his drink. He took it, and glanced at you, brown eyes ringed with mystery.

“That happen often?” he uttered, voice a gruff grunt.

You put the bottle down, and looked away, thinking back to last week when you nearly fought a guy for staring for too long. You glanced back to him. “Sometimes.” “Your boss is an asshole for letting you work here alone.” “That so?” you laughed, shocked at his candour. He nodded and downed his drink, eyeing you from over the rim.

Finished, he put the glass down on the bar, and shrugged his jacket on. He got up to leave, and you felt a chasm begin to open up in your chest.

You went to say something. Anything, to make him stay. But he paused and looked over his shoulder.

His jaw was clenched when he tentatively offered, “be safe.”

When you locked up, he was waiting for you. 

It didn’t scare you. Really, it should, but when you left the bar and saw him standing there, toking on a cigar in the cold, all it did was make you pause. He stood there, gazing at you, eyes clouded by smoke. 

“You waiting for me?” you uttered, making it real, even if the light drift of snow was giving the world a dream like quality. 

He shrugged. “Just waiting.” 

You nodded, and put the bar keys in your bag, ignoring the chasm get wider. If he was going to rob the place, he’d have to get through layers of receipts and tissues to get in. But you knew the bar wasn’t what he was after. Something about his posture, the luring look in his brown eyes — curious, like he was trying to figure something out. 

You began to walk past him, but when he didn’t follow, you paused. You peered over your shoulder, and he was still looking at you. 

Taking you in. “Well,” you started, hitching your bag up your arm, “you gonna walk me home, or what?” 

He followed you in comfortable silence.

Just you, the night, and the crunch of dirt under his boots. His cigar smoke drifted by, and it wafted through your subconscious, followed by pine, and crisp scent of the snow.

He sounded like the noise of the woods — ever present in these parts. A comfort, if one had adapted to its unpredictability. When you got to your familiar walkway, you opened the gate, but he didn’t follow you through.

Instead, he stood by the entrance, watching you unlock your door like he’d just dropped you off from a date. it was when you were halfway through that he spoke up. “You work every night?”

“Yeah,” you started quickly, looking to him. “Apart from Wednesday and Sunday.” He considered you, then gave you a sharp nod, and turned to leave.

That’s how you ended up with a wolf at your door.

Every night, he was the last one left, then he silently walked you home.

Some nights, you’d find him leaning against the entrance, and he’d quietly peel away from the door and follow you. At first, he simply walked closely behind, a looming shadow, until he began walking beside you.

Then one night, you let him in.

Made him a cup of coffee to fight off all the liquor he consumed, and he sat at your kitchen table, and drank every drop.

Watched you in the low, fluorescent lighting, and you did the same. Curiously studied him. He looked different in your home. In your kitchen. Looked a little softer around the edges, even if he couldn’t relax completely.

It went like that for a while. It was on one of these nights that he gave you his name, followed by a shitty cup of coffee. Sometimes two. Maybe a biscuit, or a piece of cake. Leftovers turned into home cooked meals. Sat at the kitchen table and watched him eat. Roast beef. Mashed potatoes. Lasagna. Sipped at your cup of tea as he slopped up his pasta, using the back of his hand to wipe the sauce off his mouth.

You left him finishing off his plate to get ready for bed, and it was when you were sorting your hair out, that he came into your bedroom and began taking his boots off.

You stood at your mirror and watched him place them near your door.

Then he reached up and began unbuttoning his shirt.

One by one, you watched his thick fingers reach the bottom. He took it off, revealing a white tank off and broad chest, and hung the shirt up on your door frame.

Jeans next.

Popped the button and shucked them to his feet -- threw them with his boots and dragged himself towards your bed.  

You went to say something. Anything.

But he looked so exhausted as he crashed onto your frilly bed, that all you could manage was, “You lock the door?”

Logan nodded. His eyes were already closed, and he was hugging the pillow when he uttered, “you coming to bed, or what?”

You let him stay the night.

Maybe it was raining, maybe he was too tired – it didn’t matter. All that mattered, was that he was warm, and sometimes, when you woke and felt the terrifying ache of being alive, he’d be there to quiet the pain.

Hush you with the soft swell of his lips and wandering hands.

You’d come with a hushed whisper, hot and sticky over his calloused fingers -- drowsy from how high he took you. Then he’d kiss you, fix your clothes, and go back to sleep.

Always the middle of the night. When it was dark and quiet out, and it felt as if you were the last people alive.

His skilled hands bringing you to the brink, a soft kiss, then back to bed.

You would wait for it. Watch him nurse his whiskey at the end of the bar, the night dragging with every drink you poured. Then, he watched you lock up.

Waited at the door for you, so you could walk home together, wordlessly taking the familiar trail.

He’d eat, you’d watch, then leave for your room.

Once, you woke to his head between your thighs. The night was quiet, room dark – slither of moonlight from your window cutting a line through your bodies.

You were slick with sweat, and as you flexed your taunt muscles, they fizzled and singed. Hot heat pushed low in your belly, rooted between your thighs.

Logan hummed, and you reached down and grabbed a fistful of his hair, whimpering his name to grab his attention.

He had palm fulls of you. Fists of your thighs, soft of your belly, leaving marks with his desire – desperation. The first thing he did was apologise. Muttered a hoarse, m’sorry, into your soaking cunt, but continued tasting you.

You used his hair as leverage, and hitched your hips up an inch, causing his nose to bump into your sensitive clit, and you hissed, as if in pain, but the sound trailed off into something similar to his name, and Logan grunted, moving your hips further up so he could twist a thick finger inside.

You took all he gave.

Moaned into the pillow beside you as you rocked your hips against his face, soaking his nose and mouth. Said shit you didn’t mean, but meant all the same, and Logan got off on it.

This mysterious man who had taken over your life, grunted your name like it belonged to him. Made you come on his thick beard and puffy lips, then made you taste yourself as he kissed you.

You hugged his sweat slick frame to you, fingers scratching his scalp, mindlessly grinding against his clothed cock. You were content to just kiss him, until he dragged his fingers between your thighs again.

You startled, gasping into his hot mouth, but Logan hummed, near smiling against your lips.

“’think there’s another in there for me,” he drawled.

When he fucked you, there was so much of him that you went blind with it. Eyes half lidded, delirious as he pushed inside, making himself fit. Stuffing you full, then pulling out, just to feel it all over again.

Again and again. You moaned his name into his soaked, scarred chest. Felt yourself leave your body, so hot, so wet, that it was all sensation. Just the slap of his hips against yours, the feel of his hands on your tits, in your mouth, telling you to open wide.

He spat, and when he missed, he smeared the mess off of your chin and rubbed it into your cunt.

Made you come, then filled you with his own. Leant back, and watched it drip out of you. You were so consumed by him, that you didn’t have enough energy to feel self-conscious.

No, when he had his wild eyes on you, you reached between your thighs and stuffed it back inside.

The next evening, and he was back at the bar, waiting for you to bring him his whiskey. When you placed it in front of him, those wild eyes were on you again.

Waiting. Always waiting.

Waiting to play out your usual routine.

masterlist | ask | reblogs appreciated endlessly

[academyoftheheartandmind]

Suncakes and Other Poems

By Joan McNerney Suncakes Do you know how to make them? They’re supposed to be light bright and full of vitamin C. Everyone says you just glow after eating one. My friend had a shining recipe I kept asking for. Suncakes stop you from being cold and lost in avalanches. I remember something about filling golden pans with flowers seeds sunflower seeds…bake at high noon, of course. If only there…

[da-rk-ac-ad-em-ia]

“December’s wintery breath is already clouding the pond, frosting the pane, obscuring summer’s memory…”

- John Geddes, A Familiar Rain

[jezebelblues]

dress to impress | h.s

summary: in which you're a famous streamer n you finally let harry join one of your streams. (though the evening ends a bit differently than you expected)

cw: smut18+ oral (m receiving), daddy kink if u squint, spitting, fem!reader, unedited

word count: approx 3k

| yes yes i know that dti didn’t come out till last year just pretend 😔 also btw if this is cringe random then pretend i don’t exist fr i got this idea cause caseoh randomly posted a dti update while i was at the gym so thank u caseoh

December 2021 | London

Snow dusted the window softly, frosting the glass and sending melting droplets downward against the pane, dancing in the direction of the wind. The world was still in the throes of the pandemic, which allowed the lines between professional and personal to blur a bit. 

YN had been a popular streamer for a few years now, but her numbers only grew once her relationship went public with the award winning, globe-trotting man that was Harry Styles. 

She had been avoiding this moment for months. Not because she didn’t want it to happen—oh no, she had definitely wanted Harry to join her on a stream, like a thousand times—but Harry had this way of throwing himself into new situations with such confidence that it was bound to lead to some seriously chaotic results.

But her fans, their fans, had been relentless. Every single time she went live on Twitch, no matter what game she was playing—among us, fortnite, mario world—the chat exploded with one resounding request: Get Harry on the stream!

At first, she’d brush it off with a smile and a laugh, always saying something like, he’s busy in the studio, or, he’s still getting in the hang of gaming, you don’t want to see him struggling on stream, trust me. But by the time December rolled around and the UK was stuck in another lockdown, YN realized she ran out of excuses to give. It was time to bring Harry on camera.

And so, on a cold December evening, she caved.

Harry was sitting in the same room. It was originally supposed to be an office, but since YN’s online career began to take off, it slowly transformed into a streaming room. Three monitors sat on a white desk in front of a large window. The one that sat in the middle showed the view of the stream and chat, while the other two were to be used for whatever.

Harry sat on a small couch in the center of the room, his head against the arm as he lazily scrolled through his phone, completely unaware of the chaos he was about to unleash on the internet. He looked effortlessly perfect, as per usual, in his gray sweats and oversized lavender hoodie, His growing curls were clipped into a tiny bun that sat on top of his head, a pair of brown glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose. 

The glow of the computers illuminated the room as she finished up last minute technical checks, string lights twinkling around the edge of the room for a warmer glow. YN adjusted the camera, smiling brightly as the viewers started to pile in, the chat exploding from the sight of Harry in the background. “So,” she began with a giggle, averting her eyes from the screen to her boyfriend that sat comfortably behind her. “y’ready to join us, lovey?”

He looked up from his phone, his features softening as he shut it off. His eyebrows quirked in that familiar way as he chuckled. “Oh, honey.” He sighed playfully as he stood up, ambling over to the spot behind her chair. “I was born ready.”

“Uh-huh.” She laughed, tilting her head backward to catch a glance from underneath him. “Sure you were.”

He placed a quick kiss against her forehead before he sat in the chair beside her, settling in and staring at the center monitor which revealed the chat that moved in an insane quickness. He leaned over toward YN, shoulders barely touching as he waved at her camera with a wide smile.

She snorted, pushing against her boyfriend as she leaned over to point to the other monitor with a smile. “Look, baby.” She said softly, adjusting the camera that belonged to that computer before pulling up the game roblox. She gently explained to him the set up of the stream, informing him that all he had to do was sit in his space and the chat would see him just fine. 

And they would, it took YN over twenty minutes to set the stream up in a split screen sort of way, which would allow the viewers to see both YN and Harry, and their respective screens for gameplay. 

“Oh.” Harry giggled, as he scrolled throughout the roblox website randomly. His gaze shifted between his screen and the center monitor, reading out whatever messages he could since the chat moved so quickly. He scoffed, shaking his head. “How hard can this be? Look at this!” He laughed, nodding toward his screen.

His girlfriend snorted, shaking her head as she pulled up the game dress to impress. “This isn’t grand theft auto or fifa, I don't think you'll magically be good at this.” She grinned as she leaned over again toward Harry, pulling up the same game on his monitor.

“Oh ye of little faith.” He chuckled as he watched the game load in, wiggling his eyebrows at the camera. “I’ve got this.”

harryfan1: OMG ur kidding i literally knew it

ynfan2: no WAY LMFAO

harryfan2: HES ON 

YN couldn’t help but laugh as she read the chat aloud. “You guys are way too excited for this,” she teased. “Harry’s not that big of a deal.” 

He feigned offense as he looked into the camera with his jaw slack, a huff escaping his lips. “Absolutely bonkers.” He laughed breathily, referring to his girlfriend that sat beside him. He let his shoulders falter as he settled in a bit more, a grin spreading across his lips as the neon lobby of dress to impress loaded in.

YN’s eyes flickered between both the camera and Harry as she explained the premise of the game, smiling at his cocky eye rolls and the flood of heart emojis and keysmashes from the chat that seemed to express a collective internet scream.

“Would you like my help?” YN asked, humor lacing her words as she stared at the theme that flashed over the screen, winter wonderland.

Harry cracked his knuckles, tongue in cheek as he shook his head, darting around the game’s lobby in search for the exact outfit he envisioned. 

She laughed at him, quickly putting on a cute outfit with hair and makeup that went along perfectly. Something elegant, a cream colored warmth. Her smile grew as she glanced at the chat, then to Harry’s screen.

user3: whos gonna tell bro

user4: oh honey…

His avatar was dressed in white, baggy jeans with a puffy winter jacket that had a hawaiian pattern on it. Harry could feel her eyes on him as he placed a santa hat on his avatar for the finishing look. The skin tone of the character was still a default gray, completely bald with no face. His smile began to falter as he looked over toward his girlfriend’s screen. “How’d you do that?” He pleaded, his mouth falling into a frown as he watched the timer go down. “I’ve got no face!”

She laughed again as she showed him how to put hair and makeup on, as well as put an actual skin tone on his little avatar. She couldn’t help but ask what the hell he was envisioning for his outfit.

He grinned as he spun his avatar around the lobby. “She’s wishing for Florida.” He said, pointing toward the screen. “She’s dressed in warm clothes but the patterns show she wishes to be elsewhere.”

user5: this guy has got to stick to writing songs

When the voting started, YN’s outfit was praised by the chat and those in the server—many of whom were fans who were able to join the same lobby.

And then came Harry’s turn.

The second his avatar strut down the runway, there was a moment of lag in the chat before it quickly exploded once more. 

“Oi!” Harry exclaimed, pointing at the camera with a snap. “Five stars or m’not releasing the third album.”

YN’s mouth fell agape as she watched Harry place first, watching her boyfriend fold his hands together and shake them in victory as he hummed the tune to as it was. (a tune his fans were completely oblivious to) which only let his smirk grow wider. 

The next theme was royalty, and YN figured this one would be easier for Harry. After all, the man was basically British royalty in his own right. Surely he could nail this one.

But once again, Harry’s choices were questionable, but of course it made complete sense to him in his own mind. 

While YN opted for a pretty gown and tiara, Harry—ever the wildcard—dressed his avatar in what could only be described as a pirate. For royalty.

She stared at his screen, dumbfounded. “H..that’s a pirate.”

“Royalty of the seas, love.” He winked, “captain Styles at your service.”

The chat went ballistic again, loving every second of Harry’s presence on screen.

user6: h pulled out the arrgh 5000s

user7: HARRY PLEASE

They played a few more rounds, with Harry’s outfits growing increasingly outlandish each time, much to the delight of the viewers. The banter between them never let up, and the stream quickly became one of YN’s most popular broadcasts ever.

As the night wore on and the final round came to an end, YN leaned back in her chair, stretching her arms over her head. “You guys are so spoiled.” She grinned in the direction of the camera. “I hope you enjoyed.”

Harry nodded, his smile unwavering. “And what did we learn tonight?”

“That this is why you have stylists?”

He scoffed before he muttered out a no, raising a finger like he was about to make a profound statement. “We learned that I am a roblox fashion icon in the making.” 

She burst out laughing again, and this time, she didn’t stop. Her laughter was infectious, and soon Harry was laughing alongside her, neither of them able to take the game—or themselves—too seriously. 

“Well baby, fashion icon or not.” She said, poking her boyfriend’s cheek gently. “I think we all learned this might not be your true calling.”

He gasped in mock offense, swatting her hand away and clutching his chest dramatically. “Rude. Just y’wait—next time I’ll come prepared. I’ll have a roblox fashion strategy ready t’go.” 

She smirked, titling her head in his direction. “Next time, huh?”

He paused with a smile, considering. “It was a bit of fun, but next time it needs to be guitar hero or something. I’ll wipe the floor with you on that one, gorgeous.” 

The chat immediately lit up again, the fans going wild at the thought of Harry in the streams more often than not, especially if he got to show off his musical side. Some were already throwing out more ideas for the future: 

Play minecraft!

Get this man on the sims! 

Releasing an album simulator (but irl) 

YN smiled again, clearly amused by the flood of suggestions. As the stream began to wind down, she and Harry took a few moments to read some of the comments and thank the viewers for tuning in. They said their goodbyes, waving at the camera and promised to do something like this again soon—though YN wasn’t sure if Harry had fully processed just how much the fans would hold him to that.

As she logged off, Harry stood from the chair and stretched his hand above his head with an exaggerated groan, revealing his belly button and the ferns peeking out from the hem of his sweatpants. She rolled the chair in his direction, resting her head against his waist with a content sigh. “Everyone loves you.”

He smiled, letting his hands fall onto her shoulders and rub them gently. “What can I say?” He hummed, a cocky sarcasm laced in his words. 

“You’re impossible.” She whispered against the wrinkled fabric of his hoodie, though the words held no bite. 

“Oh, please.” He laughed, “You enjoyed it, watching me flounder around.”

She shrugged innocently, tilting her head upward so her chin rested against his abdomen, their gaze fixed onto each other. Her smile was lazy as she parted her lips, “It was funny watching you struggle.” 

His breaths caused her head to jut softly back and forth as she continued to lean against him, his fingers running through her hair as he hummed. “Funny huh?” His tone was gentle, delicate, as his fingers ran down from her hair to caress her cheeks, making her shiver. “Y’think its a game to tease me, hm?”

She felt her pulse quicken, a tension settling around them that replaced the previous banter. “I wasn’t teasing.” She said, her voice softer than before, but the hint of a smile still played on her lips.

Harry took the teeniest step back as his hand fell from her cheek to her chin, gripping it ever so slightly. His thumb brushed against her bottom lip, beckoning her mouth open. “No? Cause you’ve been doing it all night.” His voice was low, authoritative, and sent a rush of heat through her. He tutted toward her as he gazed down at her through his eyelashes, wanting her to part her lips a bit wider. His thumb slips into her mouth, the pad of it pressing down against her tongue.

“I think y’like pushing me.” He murmured, his breaths even and slow as he continued to hold her mouth open–which only allowed it to salivate even more. His eyes flickered from her lips to hers, a smile beginning to play upon his lips.

“What should we do about that, hm?” He cooed as he dragged his thumb away from her tongue, wetting her chin as his hand dropped to the side of her neck. Her own salvia glistened in the warm glow of the fairy lights around the room.

Her breath hitched as he bent at the waist, pressing a kiss onto her lips with his hand still cupping her neck. She melted into it, a heat pooling between her thighs as she felt his tongue against hers. His breath was cool with peppermint, his hair the scent of lavender and vanilla. 

They part slowly, strings of saliva snapping from the mutual disconnect. His bottom lip tucks between his teeth as he reaches him, gripping the back of his hoodie’s collar and pulling it off overhead. His chest rises and falls quicker than before as YN’s fingers lightly trace over the ink of the moth of his abdomen, the wings fluttering with every breath. His hands find hers as he pulls it toward the hem of his sweats. “Now,” He sighs heavily, watching her through half-lidded eyes, “be good f’me.”

She nodded as looped her fingers underneath both his sweats and his boxers, tugging them down in one continuing, slow motion until his cock slaps against the skin underneath his belly button. 

Her eyes find his, to which he grabs her chin once again, jerking it to face upward toward him. He leaned down as her lips parted, kissing her hungrily before pulling her bottom lip down gently. “Open.” He muttered, watching as she held her tongue out for him. She watched as his lips curled before spitting onto her tongue, saliva drooling from his lips to pool onto her tongue. 

She could feel her heartbeat in her core as he straightened back up, especially when he combed his digits through her hair and gripped as he reached the crown of her scalp. With her tongue still out, she neared the head of his cock—slick with precum already and the prettiest shade of pink. She swirled around the slit, watching through her eyelashes as his jaw clenched shut, a heavy exhale falling from his nose.

Her lips formed an ‘o’ as she enveloped the tip completely, closing her eyes as she savored the taste of him. She started off slow as she bobbed up and down his length, closing her inner cheeks around his cock with a hum. “Fuck.” He grunted, tightening his grip on her locks as he bucked his hips slightly. YN wrapped her hand around his length as her lips fell from his tip with a wet pop. She spat onto his cock, stroking him as she dipped her head down toward his balls, lapping and gently sucking the skin there, which had him tilt his head back in pleasure. Veins were more prominent in his neck as he groaned, the coil in his belly tightening. “Such a good girl.” He moaned softly as she wrapped her lips around his cock again, taking him deeper, her throat convulsing around the head that swelled with the threat of release. “Taking daddy’s cock so good.”

She hummed again, the reverberation causing his toes to curl against the carpet. He gathered her hair into a makeshift ponytail in his fist, guiding her movements as moans continued to fall from his lips. She could feel him begin to twitch in her throat as she gagged on his length, his movements sloppy. She could feel his quickened breaths from the way his lower abdomen fluttered against her forehead. “M’close baby–” He grunted, loosening his grip on her hair only slightly. “W-where.?” He choked out in pleasure, his abs rippling and tensing under the glow of the fairy lights, glistening from sweat. 

She only trailed her hands up his bare thighs, gripping his hips as if to keep him in place. She wanted to taste him, to suck him of every drop entirely. 

His cock pulsed against her tongue as he thrusted once more into her throat, shooting white ropes of come into her mouth with a moan. Her head continued to bob as she swirled her tongue around him, licking every drop of his release to the sound of his whimpers–the prettiest sound she’s ever heard. 

He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding as she parts from his cock, placing a few lazy kisses along his navel with a smile. He swallows hard, brushing strands of hair from her face with a lopsided smile. “I could get use to this.” He teases breathlessly, watching as his girlfriend shrugged his pants back up his long legs with a grin. 

She stood from her chair, pulling Harry into a kiss. His tongue brushes past her lips, his knees weak at the taste of himself mingled with her saliva. She hums against him, cupping his cheek as she parts. “Don’t get use to it, pretty boy. You still sucked.”

He laughed, his cheeks flushing a shade of pink as he shot a haphazard wink toward her. “Actually baby, that was all you.”

[maledictus-maleficus]

SPITS OUT DRINK

[badbitchstromboli]

worshipping us is a full-body workout

[yanderefarm]

DUDE SILVAN IS SO…sigh. I need him lowkey..wanna reassure him and tell him he’s a good pet when he gets all insecure and upset :( ik he’d taste so good

comforting silvan

cw;; blood, vampires, dehumanization, hurt/comfort

this isn't a direct sequel to the last one but i wanted the illusion of that by setting it in the greenhouse during a rainstorm. enjoy just some simple comforting and reassuring your pet... before i hurt him again

the manor is too quiet. it's not like it's usually bustling with life considering it was full of undead creatures. but usually your pet, the only human in the manor, was making some kind of noise. silvan would be looking around for you or he would be entertaining himself with something. you tried to not pry into his life too much, it seems a bit foolish but you didn't want to accidentally take away anything that was still his. maybe you shouldn't leave him alone too much.

you couldn't find him. he wasn't in his room, he wasn't in your room, and he wasn't in the punishment room. you got concerned when he hadn't come to visit you for lunch in your office and according to your staff he hadn't even gone to have lunch in the dining room today. now you found yourself in his shoes, wandering from room to room trying to find your pet. you had looked in almost every room in the manor but he just wasn't anywhere.

you heard thunder crash outside drawing your gaze to the storm raging. you looked out the window watching as the rain pelted against the greenhouse. the lit greenhouse. you touched the frosted glass, your skin sticking slightly to the cold pane as you searched for a shadow inside the greenhouse. aside from the usual plants there was an odd shadow of what looked like it could be a pot on the floor. if you were a gambling man you'd bet that's where he was.

with your umbrella in hand you made your way outside, the rain growing ever louder. when you finally reached the greenhouse doors you could hear the wind angrily shuttering the windows of the building. it was unlocked like you had expected and you hoped that you weren't about to find the gardener at work. the light flooded the dark cold outside and greeted you with the sweet scent of your flowers. you took a deep breath to appreciate it before you stepped into the building.

you walked past rows of planters and pots filled with different flowers, herbs, and other greenery. your eyes finally caught a bit of silvan's pants leg and you stopped before you reached him. he had been able to hide himself under the sound of the rain and scent of the flowers, almost like he'd been trying to hide from you specifically. you could hear his heart was racing now, the sound like thunder in your ears.

you hesitated to open your mouth but you didn't want to leave him alone out here. "silvan, if you don't want me to be here I can pretend I didn't see you but please come inside for lunch."

you heard him whimper from his spot before the bit of his legs you could see disappeared. you let out a heavy sigh and lowered yourself to sit on the ground where you stood. you were certain now that he was hiding from you but you still didn't feel like you could just leave him.

"did something happen? are you worried I'm going to punish you?" that earned you another whimper.

"mm... i don't know what it is so i can't guarantee you won't be punished but if you tell me now we can figure it out together." you reached out your hand far enough that he could see it.

you opened your mouth to speak again when his warm hand grabbed yours. just the small contact of his soft skin was enough to bring you a welcomed warmth. you gave his hand a reassuring squeeze which spurred silvan to finally crawl out of his hiding spot. as his face came into view you could see his tear stained cheeks and bloodshot eyes tell tale signs he'd been crying for a while. he sat in front of you, his hand holding onto yours as tightly as his human strength allowed.

"im sorry, master..." he didn't dare to look up at you, his eyes fixed on the ground between you two.

"tell me what happened." you ran your thumb over the back of his hand to encourage him.

"I'm the most worthless useless..." his voice cracked as tears brimmed in his eyes again.

you'd heard him talk about himself like this a thousand times. "silvan. why do you say that?"

"its true..." he fidgeted a bit under your gaze. "the noble that visited you this morning..."

you remembered the conversation you'd had this morning. a greedy fool wanted to bolster his small human farm by presenting you with a new pet and in the process he put down your current pet. you hadn't dignified him with a response at the time because you found it too stupid and braindead to comment on. you should have.

"i know I'm not impressive or prestigious... the only thing im good for is my blood and im sure someone else would taste better than me.." he sniffled as he tried to hold his tears back in his burning throat. "i didn't even feed you today.. worthless useless garbage... garbage, garbage, garbage..."

"are you done?" your tone was a bit harsher than you intended it to be but you were getting annoyed at yourself and the idiot you'd seen this morning.

you pulled his hand back towards your body, pressing your lips against his knuckles. "you keep insulting me.. you might need punished after all."

"n-no i-"

"an insult to my property is an insult to me. do you understand?" you looked up at him, your lips still pressed against his hand. his olive eyes met your gaze and the tears he'd been trying to keep back burst forth like a dam had broken.

you used your grip on his hand to pull him into your arms, his head tumbling into your chest. "my beautiful pet.. you are the most precious thing i own. your taste is better than even the highest quality human farm. your warmth sparks inside of me the last vestiges of humanity. your voice is like a sweet melody that I need to play at all times."

his hand had let go of your own to instead claw at your back while he sobbed. you held him just tight enough you wouldn't hurt him, one hand petting his hair so softly while the other was around his waist. you pressed a tender kiss into his hair.

"it hurts to know that you'll never be able to accept how much you mean to me. how i would do anything if for a moment you could feel how deeply you're loved." you heard his voice crack into louder sobbing as he wailed into your chest.

"my beautiful pet." you kissed his head again.

you two sat like that for so long you assumed the day had creeped into the evening already. your sweet pet had cried until he couldn't anymore, his tears dry on his cheeks and his voice so raw and hoarse it'd be a wonder if he could talk tomorrow. you moved him to sit in your lap like you usually did to feed on him, your hand rubbing soothing circles into his back. his head had fallen to rest on your shoulder and his eyes were trying to fight back sleep with languid blinks.

"silvan, dear, I'm sorry to ask this of you." you could feel a familiar blood thirst trying to tug at your mind.

he lazily lifted his head to look at you, his olive eyes were empty with dark bags under them. "master?"

"i know you're so tired, my beloved. if you want to say no you can, you won't get in trouble. but could I drink from you?" you felt bad when you saw him struggling to understand what you were asking for a moment. you moved your hand up his back to slide a finger up under his ribbon and press right against his pulse.

his eyes finally registered what you wanted and he nodded lazily. "pleash-"

you gently undid the ribbon exposing his scarred neck to you. you ran your finger along one of the old fang marks enjoying the way he gave you a delayed shiver. you retied his ribbon around his eyes earning a soft moan from him.

"i love you, pet. now rest.. I'll drain all the pain from you."

[ddejavvu]

Animagus reader tucking herself into Sirius’s bag when she doesn’t feel like walking down to Hogsmeade on the weekends? He happily carries her around as they enjoy their weekend together 🥹

part 1 / part 2 / part 3 / part 4 / part 5

--

To passersby, Sirius Black looks certifiably insane, head ducked to his side as he croons at his messenger bag. Occasionally, you pop your tiny, furry face out of the side, and he looks slightly less strange, but you spend most of your time bundled in the warm, dark tote as it bumps rhythmically against his thigh, so Sirius is stuck talking to thin air.

"D'you want some chocolate, darling?" He asks, passing by the humidity clouded windows of Honeydukes, the frost chilling the window panes to obscure the store's sugar-filled insides, "Or- can cats eat chocolate?"

After a plaintive meow from the depths of his bag, he adds, "I know you can, babe. But I don't wanna take any chances with you now."

A fourth-year gives him a wary glance and a wide berth as he tries maneuvering around Sirius in the doorway, but Sirius steps into the store regardless, and the girl dashes off to a shelf away from him. Sirius pays no mind to the strange glances he receives, only beelining for your favorite sweets, a corner of the store that he knows by heart.

Paying for your candy means that he has to open his bag, and you hiss resentfully at the light that floods your safe haven. He digs for his coin purse, dangling the tasseled ends against your nose for a moment while the person in front of him rings up his stash. He laughs when you swat at it, but has to detangle the fraying thread from your claws when it's his turn to pay.

The cashier gives you an adoring glance over the counter, a sweet smile on her aged face as she rings up Sirius's total, "She's lovely. What's her name?"

Sirius flounders for only a second, knowing that the cashier knows you well, and giving her your real name would not be a wise decision. Instead, he looks at your paws, fur stark white against the rest of your coat, and he blurts, "Mittens."

"Mittens," The cashier gushes, and Sirius is certain that you only spare her the wrath of your claws because she's kind and elderly, so when she reaches over to smother you in a generous pat, you let her. But Sirius can tell you're not pleased, so he quickly wraps up the transaction and bids her good day.

"Get over it," Sirius mutters to his messenger bag, "Couldn't tell'er your real name, love. She'd know it was you. But I got you candy, so I think you should just forgive me."

You seem to deliberate it, deathly still inside his bag while he hurries away from the shop to find somewhere to sit. When you prove docile he grins, opening your candy and sticking it into the messenger bag for you, "You're welcome, Mittens-" And when your claws dig sharply into his leg as a very firm warning, "-Ow!"

[damneddamsy]

second sight | cregan stark x oc (part v)

a/n: on this episode of Stark Fluff, claere gets a visitor, and cregan has mixed feelings about threesomes. also, cregan learns the harp.

Winterfell wore the slow creep of winter like a familiar cloak. The skies had grown paler, casting the looming walls of the castle in a sallow light, while the cold nipped steadily at its people, urging them to quicken their preparations. From the kitchen to the stables, grain stores were replenishing, the last of the harvest before frost could claim the fields. Blacksmiths hammered iron, the women mended at worn cloaks and men bundled hay for the livestock. Winter was not yet here, but its shadow lingered on the wind, always whispering its warning.

In the heart of the keep, the Glass Gardens had begun to take shape. The towering structure Claere had envisioned stood as a defiant tribute to life in a place where death crept so close. As the days passed, the curved iron frames of the brilliant garden grew taller, and panes of glass steadily fitted into place, though fewer hands worked than before. Claere's journey to the Wall and the ominous silence she had shared upon her return had compelled many away. And yet, those who remained—the builders and labourers still assigned to the task—seemed to grow fond of her, drawn to her quiet kindness, the way she listened with impossible patience to the complications.

But today, the hour she usually spent overseeing the glass gardens came and went. Claere was nowhere to be found.

Cregan noticed her absence first, though no one else seemed to. He strode through the courtyard, determined footsteps echoing through the Great Keep as he searched for her. He had asked the guards, the servants—none had seen her. There was concern in his chest, though his outward manner remained calm, and controlled. His pace eased when he finally came across a group of children playing by the kitchens. They must know something.

He crouched to their height and asked, “Have you seen Lady Stark?”

One of the girls, with red cheeks and tangled braids, blinked up at him. "She must be in the crypts, my lord. She's there on the third day of every sennight."

“The crypts?” Cregan frowned, his confusion evident. “Why?”

The girl only shrugged, her young eyes widening with uncertainty. “My lady says it’s of great benefit.”

A vague answer, but there was little else to go on.

The cold air within the cavernous crypts was still, undisturbed by the world above. As Cregan descended into the darkness, his eyes adjusted to the flickering glow of torches, casting long shadows over the stone effigies of his ancestors. He passed the statues of old kings and queens of the North, of Starks long gone, their direwolves carved faithfully at their feet. Their vigilant, stone eyes seemed to follow him as he walked deeper into the crypts, past his forefathers and mothers, the ancient guardians of Winterfell’s legacy.

It was then that he saw her, like a blossom of blue satin and grey furs in the black earth.

Claere sat on the cold stone floor by the statues of his parents, Lord Rickon Stark and Lady Gillianne Glover, her small form dwarfed by the towering effigies. Candles burned softly around her in quiet vigil, casting a gentle glow over the garlands of winter roses she cradled in her lap. A sea of wilted, woven flowers lay swept to the side—a ritual she had tended to every night, and with a pang in his gut, he realized her abnormal habit had all been for his bygone parents.

His breath caught, a warmth spreading through his chest. She had been honouring them. His own parents. In a way that even he had long forgotten to do. Though why would she, of all people, care?

As he approached her, he heard her familiar song, her voice faint, carrying a resonant yet soothing melody through the crypt. They never rhymed anymore; just lines scrambled and sung to confound.

A rose of blue in the cold earth lay, A fire burned bright, Silver threads in the night. A crown of dreams, A heart of flame, Forgotten now, Yet still the same.

"Claere," he called softly, his voice echoing against the stone walls.

But she didn’t answer. She stayed motionless, her fingers deftly weaving the garlands, her eyes distant, lost in a trance-like reverie. Cregan stepped closer and gently cupped her shoulder.

“Love?” he murmured again, more intent.

This time, she stirred, blinking slowly as if emerging from a dream. Her gaze shifted up to him, soft and dazed. She rubbed at her eyes, her fingers stained with the petals of the roses.

As Cregan crouched beside Claere, the silence was thick, broken only by the distant drip of water echoing somewhere in the depths of Winterfell. He took her bare hands into his, startled by how frigid they were. The touch of her skin was like ice as if she'd been sitting there for hours. He blew gently into her fingers, trying to warm them.

"What are you doing down here alone?" he asked, concern lining his voice.

“They like to speak to me,” she whispered, her voice calm, distant, as though her mind were adrift in another realm. “I heard them the moment I crossed the threshold of the castle. They spoke your name.” She waited, eyes wide. "Did you hear that?"

Cregan's brow furrowed. "There is no voice but ours, love."

She looked away, mumbling, "I heard it."

There was a time when her words, her abnormal ways, would have unsettled him deeply. It was woven into their lives like her rose garlands, a constant. Her peculiar way of seeing the world was no longer alien to him—it had become familiar. Still, he couldn’t help but feel a quiet unease stir in his chest.

“Go on then. What else do they say?” he asked, more to humour her than out of belief, but the curiosity in his tone was real.

“I think they're calm,” she replied, her gaze drifting to statues of his parents. “Content. Now that you're here.”

Cregan exhaled, surprised by how much those words affected him. It was comforting in a way he hadn’t expected, though he didn’t believe in such things—spirits, voices from beyond. He wasn’t a man of superstition, but the idea that his parents might be at peace warmed a part of him he didn’t realize had gone cold.

“What do they say about their son? Do they kick up a big fuss?” he asked, his lips curving into a faint, teasing smile. He carefully balled the long garland she had weaved into a neat pile on her skirt.

“They’re proud,” Claere murmured, her voice gentle, as though the words had floated to her on the breeze. “Your mother—she calls you her little wolf. She wants to hold you once more.”

His heart stilled at that. Little wolf. His mother had called him that, when he was still small enough to crawl into her lap after a long day, his face buried in the scent of her hair. His chest tightened, the ache of loss rising up in his throat. Could Claere really hear them? Was there truth in her words, or was it all part of her unconventional mind?

Cregan lifted his gaze toward the stone faces of his parents, his father's chiselled jaw and his mother's serene expression were immortalized in cold marble, watching over him as they had in life. Claere's soft hum floated through the still air, and something in her melody seemed to stir the memories of those long gone. He couldn’t bear the weight of their unblinking eyes. His throat thickened, and he looked away quickly, the familiar ache of loss sharper than he’d prepared for.

“And my father?” he asked, his voice rough now, bearing apprehension now, the question almost catching in his chest.

“He knows you’ve transcended him,” she replied, her tone soft, as if the words were delicate things. “But he’s glad. He wishes he could be here to see you rule the North as he did once."

That broke something in Cregan. He felt the sting of tears behind his eyes, and before he could stop it, one escaped, rolling down his cheek. His father had always been a stern man, proud but distant, and those words, even if he believed they weren't real, cut deeper than he expected. He had been alone since three and ten, sparing no effort in being a man where he should've been a boy. Such was the duty of an early heir, he had grown up between burdening winters and blades.

Cregan blinked rapidly, turning his cheek to her, trying to clear his vision, but Claere saw it. Her expression shifted—confusion flickered across her features. She reached out, her fingers brushing the tear away with the lightest touch.

“Have I hurt you?” she asked, her voice uncertain, innocent in its concern.

Cregan shook his head, sniffing back the rest of his tears. He smiled softly at her, a smile that was half sorrow, half joy. "No, of course not."

"No?" she echoed.

“I’m grateful. I’m very happy.” His voice cracked as he laughed, almost in disbelief at the way she had managed to stir emotions long buried. "Although I'd rather be gelded than have you see me cry again."

Claere tilted her head, watching him with that dream-like gaze, her mind always half elsewhere. “Tears are the sign of a good heart,” she said simply, though there was still a hint of hesitation in her voice.

As Cregan's deep laugh trailed off, Claere’s gaze slipped to the flickering candle before her. She watched the flame, her fingers hovering near its light as though she could shape the glow with her will alone.

“They’ve gone silent,” she murmured, her voice barely more than a breath. “Since I returned from the Wall… the voices, they’re almost gone now.”

Her words chilled him in a way that had nothing to do with the cold of the crypts. He watched her fingers dance in the flame’s heated tip, and something about the way she spoke—so distant, so lost—made his chest constrict.

“I keep seeing these things. Awful things.” She still wouldn’t look at him, her eyes fixed on the candle’s flame as though it held the answers she sought. “Visions, riddled with frozen fire, no men of women born, blue flames that burned cold, dragons—dead dragons—and spilt blood. Endless dark, unending night.”

Her voice was soft but steady as if recounting some terrible dream. The Wall, the omens, whatever visions or feelings had driven her—they had unsettled her in ways she wasn’t used to conveying.

Cregan swallowed, unable to suppress the shiver that ran through him. Claere rarely expressed her visions with such transparency, yet this time there was something raw in her tone, a dread he had never heard before. If only these people could truly see what she had to bear.

“I believed the lands past the Wall would show me the days of yore,” she continued, her words slipping from her lips like a confession. “I thought it would reflect what I see, but it didn’t. None of it. So now I think—”

She stopped herself, her voice catching in her throat, and for a long moment, she said nothing.

Cregan waited, his heart solemn with tension. Finally, Claere’s gaze lifted from the flame, and when her violet eyes met his, there was a tremor of fear in them, an emotion so unfamiliar in her usually distant, dream-like gaze that it struck him silent.

“I think it is things not yet come to pass,” she whispered, her voice tight, as though it pained her to say it. “I think… they’re coming. I don't know what to do. No one else can see." She shook her head, almost violently, and her hands trembled, her calm veneer fracturing before him. Tears welled at the corner of her eyes. “I cannot stop it, Cregan. It terrifies me.”

The vulnerability in her voice, the aching helplessness, shook him to his core. Claere, who had always been silent and intangible, now stood before him utterly mortal, fragile, and afraid. He had never seen her like this, not in all the time they’d been together. It was as though she carried a brewing storm on her shoulders, and she didn’t know how to face it alone.

Cregan’s instinct was immediate. He gently pulled her toward him with a shush, enfolding his arms around her, and gathering her into his chest.

“No, my love,” he whispered into her hair, his voice soothing. "I'm here. It's alright. They're just dreams."

She melted into him, her body trembling against his, her head resting against his chest. He stroked the side of her head gently, feeling the rapid rise and fall of her breath. Her hands clung to the front of his cloak, desperate, as though his warmth was the only thing tethering her to the present. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, his lips lingering there, as though willing his strength into her.

“The North has weathered long nights before,” he said quietly, his voice steady, filled with the same resolve that had been passed down through generations of Starks around them. “Stark blood runs deep in these stones. We’ve stood through the darkness, through cold that could break men’s bones. And yet, we stand. Every time, Claere.”

She looked up at him, her wide eyes searching his face, her breath still uneven but slowing.

"What are our house words?" he asked, as if reminding her.

"Winter is coming," she answered breathily.

“Winter is coming,” he echoed, his voice assertive yet tender. He cupped her face gently, his thumb brushing against her cheek as he looked into her eyes. “We will do what we must to defend the realm, through whatever comes. As we always have. You have nothing to fear.”

His words sank into her like warmth, thawing the icy fear that had gripped her. She exhaled, long and slow, her body finally relaxing into his arms. Cregan kissed her cheek, softer this time, feeling the shift in her, the tension ebbing away.

For a long moment, neither of them moved, holding each other in the flickering candlelights, surrounded by the silence of the crypts. The dead watched over them, but their presence no longer felt foreboding—it felt calm and peaceful, as though the ancient Starks could see and approve.

She nodded, her face resting against his chest once more, her breathing finally even. He could still sense the undercurrent of fear that rippled through her, but the worst of it had passed. His mind worked quickly, searching for a way to guide her thoughts away from the darkness she had spoken of.

Softly, he murmured against her hair, "There’s news from Dragonstone."

Claere shifted in his arms, lifting her head to look at him. The mention of Dragonstone sparked a flicker of curiosity in her gaze, enough to break the hold of the haunting visions.

"A raven arrived last night," he continued, his voice casual, as though easing her into something lighter. "Prince Jacaerys flies north on his dragon. He’ll be here within a fortnight."

Her lips parted as if she wanted to say more, but the thought seemed to drift away before she could grasp it. Something was grounding in the knowledge of Prince Jacaerys’ arrival—something beyond the shadows she had seen, a thread of the present to hold on to.

He gave her a slight squeeze, his thumb brushing a strand of her silver hair behind her ear, a playful glint in his eye. "We'll find out soon enough. But for now, let's get you warm. You'll turn into a sculpture yourself if you're here any longer."

Claere’s lips quirked, a touch of amusement flickering through the lingering shadows in her eyes. “A lady of ice.”

Cregan smirked. “Not on my watch.”

X

The fruits of labour are often hard-won, and in Claere’s case, it was quite literal. A month past, she had flown on Luna, disappearing into the night for three days. Although it had endlessly upset Cregan, upon her return, it was with the spoils of her journey—seeds from distant lands, collected with care and intent. These seeds were her gift to Winterfell’s glass gardens, her quiet revolt against the fatty northern diet.

Among them were golden beets from the Reach, hardy winter squash, and sweet, bright carrots from Highgarden. She’d also returned with seeds of hearty cabbages and turnips, the kinds of food that could survive even in the harsher climate of the North. And now, after weeks of tilling and patience, some of the plants had finally sprouted, tiny green shoots peeking through the soil like fragile promises of life.

But her project had not remained hers alone for long. Claere, with her quiet strangeness, had drawn the children of Winterfell into it, gradually involving them in nurturing the new glasshouse. The saplings became theirs as much as hers, and the little Northerners guarded them as fiercely as they did their direwolves. Though they laughed and played around her, tending to the glass gardens with dirt-smeared cheeks and eager hands, the adults stood back—watching with cautious, measured eyes.

Now, it called for a celebration. Claere had returned from an early morning flight on Luna, bringing with her the largest haul yet—sacks of ripe persimmons, plucked from the orchards of the Vale. The children gathered around her, eyes wide and filled with excitement. Persimmons were rare in the North, almost unheard of past the Twins, and to them, this was a treasure trove.

She stood there, composed and aloof, while the children crowded at her feet, clutching at her skirts.

"My lady," one small boy asked in awe, peering into the sack, "what kind of fruit is this?"

“Persimmons,” Claere told them. “From the Vale. If honeycomb were a fruit, it would be this.”

One of the girls hesitated, looking up with wide, curious eyes. "Persimmons. But why do they look like little jewels?"

Claere glanced down at the fruit in the child’s hand. “They are… in a way,” she mused, her fingers brushing the leathery skin of a persimmon. “Jewels of the trees. Careful not to crack your teeth on them.”

The children giggled, their awe unabashed. But from the edges of the courtyard, some of the adults watched the scene with guarded expressions. One of the mothers—an older woman with a stern face—made her way toward them, half-heartedly pulling her child back.

"My lady," the woman began cautiously, her tone respectful but wary, "your kindness knows no limit… but persimmons, foreign fruits—are they not better suited for lords and ladies’ tables? Perhaps the children ought to…?"

Claere turned her gaze to the woman, her eyes calm, as if considering the unspoken reluctance. She did not speak at first, only handed the sack to one of the boys who held it up for the others to reach.

“They’re fruits of the earth,” she said softly, “not gold meant to be hoarded. What grows must be shared. It's why the Glass Gardens are being built.”

There was a pause, tension still lingering in the air. A few of the men exchanged glances, unsure of this Targaryen's ways—so different from the daughters of the North they knew.

Then one of the fathers, a grizzled man with a thick beard, broke the silence with a short laugh. “As long as my son doesn’t bring more seeds to my house, we’ll thank you, my lady.”

His words loosened the air, drawing chuckles from others. The children cheered as they dug into the fruit, but the adults, though warmer now, still watched her carefully. In small, deliberate ways—through her gifts, her gentle efforts to nurture life in this land—she was inching closer, bridging the invisible divide between herself and the North.

"Come now, pups," a young lady led the children away with their happy squalls, "one for each. Share it with the others."

"Arrys took three! Fatty!"

"Hey, that's mine!"

"Mine's a little green!"

It was subtle, this shift. Like the first, almost imperceptible thaw after a long winter, when the snow begins to soften at the edges, and the hard ground yields just enough to suggest that spring might, one day, arrive.

Claere’s eyes lingered on the adults for a moment longer, as though she understood. She wasn’t sure she could ever be loved like one of their own. And while they still watched her warily, with eyes that carried centuries of cold caution, there was a slow, begrudging acceptance in their gaze. The kind of acceptance that wasn’t born out of understanding, but out of recognition—recognition that, for all her strange ways, she was not giving up.

“My lady!” A breathless guard stumbled toward her, his face flushed with urgency. He dropped into a quick bow, his words fumbling as they spilt out.

“Scouts have spotted a dragon. We believe... it’s your brother, the prince.”

Her brother. Jacaerys.

The news sent a ripple through Claere’s thoughts, pulling her out of the quiet reverie she’d fallen into. She nodded, dismissing the guard and strolling away from the castle entrance, and soon turned her gaze skyward, watching as Vermax circled in the distance, preparing to land. Luna twitched behind her, growling low, sensing another dragon’s presence but remaining calm as Vermax descended.

Jacaerys landed some distance away from Luna, cautious not to provoke the larger dragon. Vermax was a mere hatchling in comparison to Luna, poised by her rider protectively.

As her brother dismounted, Claere observed him from afar, her emotions a tangled web. She hadn’t seen him in many long months. The boy she remembered had been full of vigour and promise, but now, standing before her, Jacaerys had grown in ways she hadn’t fully anticipated.

The man who approached her was taller, his shoulders broader, his gait that of a prince who had known the significance of command. His dark hair, tousled by flight, framed a face more serious than it had once been. There was a formality to him, a distance that felt almost like the expanse between them, even though they were blood.

Their relationship had not always been like this—distant, formal. He was once her buffer against her vengeful uncles, Aegon and Aemond, and her safest confidante in the Red Keep. He only happened to sour to her presence after their mother, Queen Rhaenyra, had blissfully betrothed them when they were children of nine, for the strengthening of their bloodline and her irrefutable claim to the throne. It was declared null when her mother faced the threat of dispersion from Lord Corlys on Driftmark that she joined Laena Velaryon's daughters to her prince sons in holy matrimony.

Where Claere had somewhat bonded with her younger brothers Lucerys and Joffrey, Jacaerys had remained like a stranger thereafter. He had never been unkind to her, never prodded at her oddities, only stayed apathetic, their connection one of duty rather than affection. He had always seemed uncertain of how to approach her, and she had never sought him out. They had lived like shadows, passing by each other but never truly meeting.

“Sister,” Jacaerys greeted her upon reaching her, his voice polite, measured. He dipped his head, ever respectful, the heir to the throne. "How you've grown in mere moons. And so has Luna."

She imparted a brief nod. "Brother," she greeted back quietly. Her eyes darted to Vermax, his green-scaled dragon, beady eyes watchful of his rider. "Vermax has come to be formidable."

"Indeed," Jace said, sounding proud of himself, peeking back at his dragon. "You'll also be pleased to know that Tyraxes has finally taken to wing. Ought to see Joff instead of me next time."

Slightly hesitant, she asked, "And this time?"

"I've come to see how you're faring," and quickly included, "upon mother's request. As her envoy."

His eyes flashed down to her flat abdomen for a split second, possibly gauging the extent of a prosperous marriage. So far, he was not convinced. It had nearly been six moons, yet no cries of a Stark lordling sounded in the halls.

“I am well,” Claere answered, her tone just as restrained as his.

His dark eyes flicked toward the great castle, then back to her. “There have been… rumours. Whispers from the North that have reached the Queen’s ears. She was concerned.”

Rumours. She knew what he implied—the discontent among the Northerners, their ever-growing suspicion of her, the whispers of a Valyrian witch who crossed the Wall and lived to tell the tale. It had been expanding slowly, like frost creeping across the ground before winter.

“They matter little,” Claere replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jacaerys didn’t respond at first, his gaze sharp as he studied her. Then, with the smallest hint of reluctance, he responded, “I am still your brother, Claere. Marriage cannot dissolve that. I rule over Dragonstone with Baela and if you wish it, I will gladly have you back home or with our brothers in the Red Keep."

It wasn’t quite an offer, more like a suggestion left hanging in the cold air between them. A way out, should she want it. Simply renounce a vain, hopeless marriage and move on.

Claere’s eyes met his, and for a moment, she wondered if he meant it. Did her dear brother truly want her back, or was this merely a way to ease his guilty conscience? To not have suspected the consequences beforehand, before she was ever traded off to the unaccepting North? She glanced at Luna, standing watch behind her, and then back to Jacaerys.

A brief silence passed between them before he spoke again, his voice lighter, though still formal. “I'd like to speak to Lord Stark. Perhaps he'd have a response for the crown.”

X

The Great Hall of Winterfell felt colder than usual that evening. The large hearth blazed, but the warmth seemed to be swallowed by the heavy silence hanging between the three nobles seated at the long table. Cregan sat at the head, his posture relaxed yet every muscle tensed beneath the surface, his eyes occasionally drifting toward Claere on habit, who sat beside him, ever the silent enigma. Across from them, Jacaerys Velaryon sat straight-backed, his dark eyes flicking between his hosts, clearly working up to something but holding back—for now.

The tension was palpable, thick enough to slice through with a blade, but neither man addressed the looming unspoken questions yet. Claere seemed unconcerned, as she picked at the modest fare before her, her pale eyes focused on nothing in particular. She was present yet did not seem so, lost in her world.

Cregan noticed her silver crown of braids, how they were styled in the manner of a Southern lady, perhaps to butter up to her brother. He never thought he would infuriated over something as foolish as hair, and ought to chastise those handmaidens of hers who only worked around his cause.

Jace cleared his throat, breaking the silence as he reached for his goblet, swirling the golden ale inside. He offered a polite smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

"This beverage is excellent, my lord," Jace began, a tentative olive branch. "And the pie—'tis the heartiest I've had. Sustains the North, I’m sure. Though I can imagine it’s difficult for... some to thrive on such fare."

His gaze dashed briefly to Claere, lingering on her thinner frame. It wasn’t a pointed stare, but the implication hung in the air. Her weight loss, her difficulty sustaining herself on the limited northern diet—it was not lost on him.

Cregan’s jaw clenched, though his smile remained courteous. "We manage well enough," he said, his voice patient. "The Glass Gardens have begun to yield fresh crops. Our granaries our vast. We make sure every Northerner has everything they require come winter."

There was a subtle challenge in Cregan’s words, a quiet assertion of his control over his household and his care for his wife. The implication was clear: I’ve got it covered.

Jace gave a tight nod, his lips pressed thinly together. The conversation lulled back into awkward silence, the crackling of the fire and the clinking of cutlery the only sounds between them. Claere remained as she had been—detached, her pale eyes drifting from the flames in the hearth to the fruit on her plate.

Jacaerys hesitated before speaking again, as though weighing his next words carefully.

"Has Claere ever told you," he drawled, his tone lighter but carrying an undercurrent of something more, "that she and I are twins?"

Cregan’s gaze shifted to Jace, then to Claere, and back again. It rattled him, if only for a moment. Twins? It seemed impossible. Jacaerys, with his dark ringlets and strong build, bore the hallmarks of House Velaryon though, some whispered, his true father, Ser Harwin Strong. Claere, on the other hand, was the image of Old Valyria—silver hair, pale skin, violet eyes, as if fire and ice had mingled to create her. The stark contrast between them had always been striking, and now it seemed even more so. He simply deemed it unlikely at first glance.

"Yes, we were inseparable," the young prince continued, his tone cautious. "We shared the same womb, weaned from the same breast, and learned together as children. We were even betrothed for a time, like our ancestors before us."

Jace's eyes narrowed slightly as Cregan's fingers fisted, and though his tone remained neutral, there was an edge to his words. "But even after all that, there are things about my sister I still cannot begin to comprehend."

Cregan’s eyes darkened, understanding the implication. Jace wasn’t just talking about family ties; he was probing, testing for weaknesses, for fractures in the foundation of Claere’s place in Winterfell. It was a subtle attempt, cloaked in brotherly concern, but Cregan was no fool.

"Aye, that may be," Cregan replied evenly, leaning back in his chair, his fingers tapping against his goblet. "But what man can claim to entirely understand a woman, even one he’s known all his life? Claere may be... finding her feet, but that doesn’t make her any less at home here."

Jace raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a faint, sardonic smile. "You speak as if she’s already oriented herself here, Lord Stark. Though from what I’ve heard, not all in the North share your sentiment."

The jab was delivered mildly, but it hit its mark. Cregan’s expression hardened slightly, his palm tight around his fork, though his tone remained calm. "Winterfell is nearly frozen over. It takes time for new blood to warm itself to these halls. But we’ve had Targaryens here before, and they’ve got by just fine."

"Mm," Jace hummed into his glass, "dragonblood runs hotter than you can imagine."

"Makes it easier then."

Jace leaned forward, setting his goblet down. "That’s just it, isn’t it? Claere is no mere Targaryen. She’s my twin. She has just as much claim to our mother’s throne as I do."

The implicit tension snapped into something sharper, more dangerous. The Iron Throne. The claim. It hung between them like a storm on the horizon, unstated but ever-present. Should sides be drawn in the future, blood could be spilt—not over affection, but over power, the oldest and most treacherous currency. He could imagine it: Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Claere Targaryen, and her king consort, the King in the North, Cregan Stark. It tasted foul on his tongue, withered to ashes as soon as it appeared. Claere was queen, here. She was the winter's queen, a fire that would burn a beacon in the North.

Cregan’s eyes narrowed, though his expression remained stoic. "Are you suggesting something, my prince? Sowing seeds of war in my soil, possibly?" he asked, his voice low, enduring as a mountain before the storm. "Because it sounds as though you’re questioning my lady's fealty to her home."

Jace’s eyes flashed, but he didn’t back down. "I’m simply reminding you of who she is. And that, as much as you may think you understand her, there are parts of Claere that no one can reach." His gaze drifted to Claere then, who sat as still as stone, her eyes on the flickering flame. "Not even me."

Cregan studied Jacaerys for a long moment before turning his gaze to Claere. She had been a quiet, odd presence throughout this verbal sparring match, content to let the two men duel with words over her head. But now, as Jace’s words hung in the air, she finally looked up, meeting Cregan’s eyes with her own.

Cregan leaned back in his chair, a calculated look forming as his hand rested on Claere’s thigh.

His voice lowered, carrying an undercurrent of challenge but framed in civility. "It seems we find ourselves at an impasse. Perhaps a better question, my prince, is not who has known Claere through six moons or sixteen years, but who has tried to understand her the most."

Bitterness flickered in Jace's gaze. He leaned forward, not willing to be outdone. "It’s not the little things that bind people. It’s blood, shared history. We came into this world together."

Cregan’s lips curved into a cold, knowing smile. "Aye, you did. But who stands by you in the darkest hour matters, not who was there when the sun first rose."

Jace’s face flushed with frustration. He glanced at Claere, who sat impassive as ever, and then back to Cregan, clearly at a loss. It seemed like he wanted to argue for a moment, but nothing came. The Stark lord's words had landed.

"Jace is right," she said quietly, her voice soft but collected. "He doesn't know me fully, nor do I know him as I should." Her eyes shifted toward her brother, a faraway sorrow touching her expression. "We've spent years apart—fates pulling us in different directions. He's not wrong about that."

Jace straightened up, a gleam of triumph surfacing in his expression, but before he could speak, Claere turned her gaze back to Cregan, her voice clearer, firmer.

"But that doesn’t imply I am not where I am meant to be."

Jace's smile faded. Her words were simple, undefined as ever, but they carried the gravity intended. It was a quiet reminder that she had chosen Winterfell, that she had chosen Cregan. And though her ways might be unconventional, she was committed to that choice.

Cregan’s expression softened slightly as he looked at her, the tension in his stance easing. Every inch of him swelled with pride at her words.

"I belong here now, Jacaerys," she declared to him.

"These people whisper at you like cravens, sister," Jace told her irately. "They have no regard for the power at your helm. Seven hells, you ride the White Dread. Yet they disparage you and hail you a witch."

"I will not have her leave her home for it," Cregan cut in sharply, his words slicing through the thickening tension.

Jace’s lips pressed into a thin line, his earlier confidence ebbing into frustration. "Home?" he repeated, the word laced with disbelief. “She is of the blood of Old Valyria. She belongs in a throne room, with her dragon soaring over Blackwater Bay—not wasting away in the most forgotten corners of the realm.”

"Wasting away?" Cregan’s voice dropped to a deadly stillness, his eyes narrowing. “She flourishes here, despite whatever Southern comforts you think she’s lost.”

Jace’s gaze sharpened, unwilling to back down. "Look at her, Stark. She's barely a shadow of—"

"Stop."

Claere’s voice cut through the rising tension, abrupt and shrill, though her tone was calm. Both men fell silent.

For a heartbeat, neither Jace nor Cregan moved, their stances locked in defiance, accusations hanging gravely in the air. The room seemed to shrink, the air charged between them as if the two men stood on the brink of war than the moment itself.

Cregan’s jaw tightened, his gaze darkening as he regarded the prince. His voice dropped to a dangerously calm whisper, more powerful in its restraint.

“You speak of power as if it is the only thing that holds this realm together. But it’s not power that keeps this castle standing. It’s hard work, loyalty, honour. Do you think strength alone carried Winterfell through the long winters and centuries?”

Jace’s eyes flicked to Claere, then back to Cregan, the frown on his face deepening. “Loyalty?" he said, his voice tinged with scepticism. "Yes. But loyalty can break as easily as ice, especially when those in the shadows do not see strength."

“They see what I choose to show them,” Cregan shot back, his voice steady, unflinching. “And they see a queen standing beside me. She is spoken for in my name. That’s all they need to know.”

The silence that followed was thick and heavy as if the very stones of Winterfell had taken a breath and held it. Jace’s brow furrowed, his jaw tight as he tried to digest what Cregan said. Queen? The word hung in the air between them, a title not formally bestowed, yet it carried a deeper truth.

Jace’s gaze flicked between them—Cregan, with his unyielding confidence, and Claere, with her quiet, ethereal presence. He tried to grasp it, to make sense of how this odd, reserved sister of his had become something more in the eyes of these Northern people. For all their whispered words, all their doubts and suspicions about her, they still regarded her as something more than a mere consort. She had carved out a place here, without needing to raise a sword or a dragon in her defence. She was no longer a pawn at their mother's behest.

Jace exhaled, his hands resting on the table, his earlier edge of confrontation slipping away.

"I have only wanted what's best for her. And to my mother, it was to bring her back to Dragonstone. Live out her days as she wished, rid off calumnies." Finally, he nodded, settling into a reluctant acceptance. “Now I see... she's not alone."

Cregan’s gaze was unflinching as he spoke. “She never was.”

Jace looked between them, Cregan’s words settling over the table like a thick winter’s snow. Claere’s eyes met her brother's in a fleeting but meaningful look.

Jace, for all his formality, nodded, understanding more than words could say. "Then we place our trust in your hands, my lord, and the princess' peace of mind."

And the Stark, ever the wolf in his den, would guard her with teeth bared if need be. Cregan’s hand tightened on Claere’s, his voice low and relentless.

“You’ll leave Lady Stark in the only hands she needs.”

X

Claere stood in the doorway of Jace’s chambers, her presence barely announced by the soft scrape of her shoes on stone. In her arms, a basket, small and modest, yet unmistakably precious—the glint of warm dragon eggs nestled within.

Jace looked up from his desk, startled by the sight of her, and rose slowly, his brow furrowed in confusion. "Sister."

“For the new princess,” she announced, her voice low, measured.

She offered the basket, her fingers lingering on the handle for a moment before retreating into the folds of her gown. Her gaze remained fixed on the gleaming eggs as if their presence alone carried the message.

Jace blinked, surprise flashing across his face before he laughed, though the sound lacked true mirth.

“Of course. You always seem to know more than most,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “No one’s spoken of the babe—not even to the Queen.”

Her lips barely moved as she responded, her tone distant, almost cryptic. “The winds carry luck and warnings alike.”

"We've named her Laena."

She inclined her head ever so slightly. “An auspicious name. May she prosper.”

Her words were curt and formal, as though there was nothing more between them than this exchange. The air between them felt colder, stretched thin by years and decisions not their own. He had always hoped for more—some kind of familiarity, some bridge between their shared past—but that hope had been dashed time and time again. The rift, born of their mother's scheming and expectations, had only deepened over the years.

“I wish you good fortune, brother,” Claere said finally, her voice flat, the words of courtesy hollow.

Jace sighed, the weight of lost years heavy on him. He had wanted to speak with her, to find some common ground, but she had always been like this—elusive, indistinct, a world apart even when she stood in the same room. Time had slipped away, and no ravens sent across the vast expanse of that distance could ever reclaim what was lost.

"Lord Stark seems quite fond of you," he tried to say, softening his tone. "I am glad you've found someone to treasure. I also hear that you crossed the Wall alone—"

"The hour grows late. I should leave you to your rest." So blunt, a blade cutting through any illusion of warmth between them.

"Claere, wait," he muttered as she turned to leave.

His sister paused, though her back remained to him, her silence stifling. She did not look at him, and yet he felt her eyes upon him, offering no solace, only the unyielding distance that had grown between them.

Jace hesitated, searching for the right words. “The throne… it’s a cage, not a crown. You know that as well as I. You don’t need it. You don’t want it.”

Claere turned, her gaze indistinct, as if she were dissecting his meaning without revealing any of her own. He took a breath, willing her to understand.

“We were born the same. But only one of us can sit up there. And you’ve never belonged in its shadow. You’re beyond it.”

The silence that followed was thicker, heavier than before. His words hung in the air, an unspoken plea for her to step aside, to yield something that, by all rights, was hers to claim.

She said nothing, but her silence screamed louder than words, and in that void, Jace felt the weight of all that had passed between them, the years lost, the closeness forsaken.

"I'm sorry, sister," he admitted, his voice a soft plea. "For all of it. I wish it did not come to this."

She raised her brows, her eyes sharp as violet shards. "Come to what?"

Jace faltered, caught off guard by the calmness of her tone, the way her words sliced through his own hesitation. He swallowed hard, searching for something to grasp onto. "This anonymity. Our own mother's ambition has turned us into strangers."

Claere's lips lifted to a bleak smile. "Our mother did not do that, Jacaerys. You did."

She stood there, her face unmoving, the silence thick between them. There was no anger in her eyes, but neither was there forgiveness. Just that same cool, detached calm. And with that, she turned and left, leaving him alone in the echo of his apology.

He stared after her, the basket of eggs still warm in his hands, and the cold truth of her departure settling like frost, realizing that whatever bridge he had hoped to build between them had crumbled long ago.

X

As night closed in, Cregan and Claere's bedroom was bathed in darkness, save for the pale glow of moonlight sloping through the windows, casting long shadows over the stone floor.

Cregan lay awake, his mind restless, replaying the tension of the evening with Jace. He’d handled it as he always did—with authority and force. But had he thought of her? Claere had said little at dinner, her quiet presence always hard to read. Yet Cregan couldn’t shake the feeling he should have asked her, should have drawn her into the conversation instead of battling it out alone.

Beside him, Claere stirred. He watched her wake from the pillows, her bare feet silent against the cold floor as she moved, a familiar routine. Her nightdress clung to her form, delicate and flowing, the pale fabric shifting with each step. She drifted toward her harp—a massive, exquisite instrument that seemed to be attached to her as much as her dragon did. He'd watched her do this countless times, slipping into her world of music as if it were the only place where she could find peace.

Cregan’s eyes followed her as she sat, the harp resting between her legs. She flicked her long, silver hair over her shoulder, tucking the loose strands behind her ear before her fingers found the strings. Each pluck sent a soft note into the air, a lulling melody filling the room, soothing and haunting all at once. Her eyes stared unseeingly at the carpet as she hummed, a low, wordless tune that rose and fell with the notes. Her fingers danced across the strings effortlessly, creating music that seemed to be born of the night itself.

She was the vision of every man’s dream—stunning, elusive. And yet, even as she sat there, calm and poised, Cregan could feel her unease, buried beneath that impassive exterior. He knew her anxieties, could sense them in the way her shoulders tensed, in the small tremor in her breath. He should have asked her, should have given her the space to speak her thoughts, to let her feelings surface.

Quietly, he pushed off the furs and moved toward her, sitting behind her on the long bench. His broad hands slid over her waist, firm yet tender, grounding her as he drew closer. Claere’s fingers continued to dance over the strings, but he felt the stillness in her body, the way her breath caught as his presence nudged against her. He straddled her from behind, thighs sweeping hers, his chin resting on her shoulder, carefully sweeping her hair aside to expose the pale curve of her neck. Soft, lazing kisses followed—his lips grazing her skin, teeth teasing in between. The touch was enough to break her concentration; her fingers faltered, missing the next note. Her humming stilled, but she didn’t pull away.

"It's as if you were made to indulge me," he murmured against her skin, the words low and warm as he kissed her ear, drawing her closer to him with every word.

A soft smile tugged at Claere’s lips. "Not long ago, this used to scare you witless."

Cregan chuckled, a low sound that rumbled against her back, his lips pressing more firmly into her cheek. “Maybe earlier,” he admitted, his breath hot against her skin, “but now. Now I think of immensely bold acts I'd like to see play out.”

His hands slid up her sides, pulling her in closer, as though she was the only thing that could still his thoughts. He pushed another kiss at the seam of her jaw, teeth sinking in to tug at it.

"Do you want it, love?" he rasped.

Her fingers idly plucked at the gold strings. "You?"

"You already have me. I meant the Iron Throne."

Claere’s fingers stilled on the harp strings, the delicate melody faltering, as though his offer had reached even the instrument.

Cregan had always been a man of ancient power, cold winds, and the endless stretches of the North—they were in his blood as much as his duty to his people. He had never wanted the games of the South, the crown’s politicking, the endless pursuit of power. All he had ever wanted was to serve his house and to care for the woman he had sworn his heart to.

But as he held Claere close, her warmth seeping into him in the quiet of the room, his mind was at war with itself. For her, he would march on King’s Landing, he would challenge any lord, any crown, if she asked it. And that thought ate at him, for it wasn’t a war he desired—it was her. Only her.

“I'd give it to you when the time comes,” he whispered again, reluctance carefully concealed. He pressed another kiss into the soft curve of her jaw, his breath heavy against her skin. “If you said it, I’d rally all the houses under my yoke, raise my banners and claim what’s rightfully yours. I'll lay all of Westeros at your feet.”

Her body tensed beneath his touch, but she said nothing at first. The silence stretched, and it unsettled him. He felt her thinking, felt her calculating in that quiet way she had. She always had a way of making him question himself without uttering a word.

“You would march south for me?” she finally asked, her voice low, like a ripple across still water.

Cregan's hands gripped her waist more firmly as he processed her quiet words. She hadn't given him a direct answer, not about the Iron Throne, not about power or the realms beyond the North. But there was something in her silence, the way her fingers had resumed their light plucking at the strings of the harp, her eyes half-lidded in thought. His heart clenched, torn between duty and desire.

His voice was a low rumble, roughened by the cold and tension. "Aye."

"Then what?" she mused.

He was evidently thrown. "You... you could have it all—power, praise. No one would ever question your place. They’d fear you, respect you. The entire realm."

She paused, her hands resting against the harp strings, but her face remained unreadable. After a moment, she tilted her head slightly, her silver hair brushing his chin.

"And what would you do then?" she asked. "Once we have seized the Red Keep, and slain my brother and his heir, would you rule by my side, or would you abandon me in that gold cage with bloodstains?"

His jaw clenched as the simplicity behind her cruel words settled.

"There must always be a Stark at Winterfell," she claimed in a mumble, her tone unyielding, almost teasing. "Would you leave me to be poisoned by the court of vipers while you return home?"

He swallowed, his throat tight. The truth of her question was too clear. The North was in his blood, a responsibility that was older than any crown. And yet, for her, he had entertained the unimaginable. He could see it in her eyes now—the depths of her meaning, the question he hadn’t fully understood.

“You fit in here, with me," she said softly, her fingers brushing over his wrist, still resting on her waist. "This is the only place I’ve ever truly felt at peace. The North may whisper against me, but it has been kinder to me than any throne ever was."

Cregan let out a slow breath, his hand sliding up to her throat. The magnitude of her words pulled at him, grounding him in a way no talk of crowns or power could. He urged her cheek against his forehead, seeking warmth in her closeness.

"Here is good," she murmured, cupping his jaw. "Here, where the cold is real and not the cruelty of men."

And for the first time since he had offered her the world, he understood the answer. It was never about gold, crowns, or kingdoms. It was about the home they had made together, in the harsh, unyielding North.

Cregan pressed a lingering kiss against the pulse of her neck as if drawing strength from the steady rhythm beneath her skin. “You’re my queen, always,” he whispered, the words no longer about crowns or thrones.

At that moment, he knew he needed no banners, no throne to claim. He had already won the greatest battle of all—he had her.

Claere's lips curved, her hand tracing the shadow of his beard.

"A queen without a crown," she murmured, more to herself, the playful glint still present. "And without subjects, save perhaps you."

He laughed deeply, the sound rumbling against her skin before he glanced at the harp resting before them. With a grin tugging at his lips, Cregan reached for it, his large frame seemed out of place with the delicate instrument, but he was undeterred.

“Or I presume,” Claere teased, her back leaning against him, feeling the warmth of his chest. "The King in the North who fancies himself a minstrel?"

Cregan plucked a string awkwardly, the sound that followed more of a discordant twang than music. He winced but smiled, undaunted.

“There’s more to me than swords and axes, you know," he pointed out. "I am quite the bard myself. Listen to this."

He cleared his throat to sing out in a low-pitched voice, fumbling with the strings and producing another off-key note. Claere listened eagerly, holding all the stars in the sky captive momentarily.

Claere, oh, sweet Claere, She plays like a queen, Every note is like a spell, And here I am, A loopy fuckin' fool, Breaking her strings Oh, she hides her laugh well!

Claere burst into laughter, hiding her face behind her hands, a rare sound that filled the hushed space between them, and Cregan looked even more pleased with her reaction than his musical attempt.

“You’ve got that laugh locked away like a prize, don’t you?”

“I don’t laugh at just anything,” she said, her voice warm but with that familiar edge of wit.

Cregan arched a brow. “I’m special then?”

"Very much."

Moving close and her hands over his, she guided his fingers to the proper strings, her touch gentle, her movements graceful. Together, entwined, they coaxed a soft, sweet melody from the harp.

Cregan barely cared for the music. His focus was entirely on her—her warmth, the way her fingers danced across his own, the rare smile that hadn’t left her lips for a long time. How wondrous would it be to be stuck here, this way, with nothing but time to keep them apart?

“I admit defeat,” he murmured, his voice low, amused. “I think the harp is yours, love.”

Claere’s smile softened as she continued to guide his hands. "A queen with a harp," she mused, her voice low and warm. "Perhaps that’s all I require."

Cregan, eyes crinkling with a smile, leaned in closer, his breath against her ear. “That, and me.”

"Perhaps..."

Claere laughed, a soft, clear sound, and kissed him, her warmth banishing any lingering tension. He moved his grinning lips with hers, holding her safe in his palms, now truly untouchable.

"I’ll settle for just you," she whispered.

X

I'm opening my inbox for asks for one-shots on Claere and Cregan! I'm not sure how that works, but I'll learn as I go :)

a question for my kind ones: if Cregan and Claere had a date night, what do you think that would look like? go as wild as you can!

[ taglist: @pearldaisy , @thatkindofgurl , @theadharablack , @cherryheairt , @beingalive1 , @oxymakestheworldgoround , @tigolebittiez , @cosmosnkaz , @justdazzling , @lv7867 , @piper570 ] -> thank you for your endless support everyone!

[vivwritescrappythings]

words fall short

knight!könig x plus-size!fem!reader

part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 5 - part 6

you can’t stop thinking about some rude words said about you at last night’s feast, but your knight doesn’t let you worry for long.

tw: plus size reader, fem reader, kissing!, negative self talk, body image issues

wc: 2.5k

masterlist

—

Winter’s chill had settled over the castle. Snow blanketed the courtyards and gardens, ice frosting the windows with flowers at the corners of the panes. The evenings stretched longer, fires became more comforting.

You found your days occupied with the other ladies in court, the social season in full swing as you attended parties and feasts and balls. It was hard to watch your father still hold out hope, each event had him sending middle-aged suitors your way. Each one was worse than the last, his desperation apparently growing.

König did not broach the subject of your dance, so neither did you. You chalked it up to the lack of sleep and your knight being far too kind. That was all it could be, a misunderstanding on his part of his duties. Maybe he did not like seeing you dejected.

Nothing more.

The day was slow and lazy, a thick layer of snow covering the land around the palace forced everyone to the comfort of their hearths. You were curled up in an overstuffed armchair near the large fireplace in the library, slippers kicked off onto the carpet and knees drawn up beneath your skirts as you read.

The library was your favorite part of your father’s decision to relocate you to the royal palace, you had never had access to so many books in your life. It was a lesser-traversed part of the castle, members of the King’s Counsel occasionally searching the shelves for some historical ledger that had been filed away. They hardly did more than green you politely.

If anything, König’s presence was what alerted them, his large stature looming near a column that stood a few paces away from your preferred armchair. Their gasps of surprise pulled you out of your reading, your eyelashes fluttering over your cheekbones before your gaze cut to König’s conspiratorially.

He always met your smirk with a slow blink of his blue eyes beneath his shroud. You were starting to memorize the broad variety of his expressions, hanging onto every movement of his eyes and tilt of his head. It was easier to decipher what he was feeling—his eyes were shockingly expressive when you actually paid attention to them.

Any time he startled a lord he straightened up like a peacock ruffling its own feathers, squaring his shoulders and stacking his head at the top of his spine rather than his typical slouch. That was when you realized he enjoyed the way they paled at the sight of him, their stammered greetings to you.

You would not have been surprised to learn he was smiling beneath the shroud.

You thumbed through the book in your lap absently, chewing your lower lip as you stared at the flames crackling in the hearth. There were few interruptions that morning but you still found yourself distracted.

Words from last night’s feast still lingered in your mind.

At first it had been a normal evening. The great hall had been outfitted with long tables lined with candles and greenery from pines arranged into elegant centerpieces. The king was celebrating the birth of yet another son, so the food was plentiful and the drink flowed freely.

Even you had been allowed a cup of dark blackberry wine so sweet it nearly hurt your teeth.

It warmed you from head to toe, your smile coming easier and conversation tumbling from your lips before you could even consider your words. You had been seated with other ladies from the court, your father up on the dais with the king and the queen.

You were speaking with Mary across the table when you heard the first whisper of your name intermingled with the voices around you. It ran a chill down your spine like a fingernail sliding along your vertebrae.

It was impossible to place. Perhaps it was not your name at all, just a string of syllables that sounded enough like it to alert you. Slant rhymes had always been your favorite poetic device, why would you not encounter it in real life as well? Or at least it was easy enough to convince yourself of it the first time.

The sound of your name kept going off like a bell, the word said so softly each time that you continued to convince yourself it was something else entirely. Mary did not seem to notice, so you wrote it off as paranoia.

The first snippet of conversation reached you as the bards took their first break and guests stood to stretch their legs. It was quiet, just a scratch at the edge of your ear. “I heard that her sister married into the Garrick family, but her poor father is desperate to find a match for her.”

You looked up, jaw set as you scanned the people around you. None seemed to be looking your way. It felt as though a bucket of cold water had been tossed over your head, soaking you to the bone.

“Well, she is rather strange compared to what I have heard of her sister, it is said that Ser Garrick married a great beauty.”

“Unfortunate that it does not run in the family.”

Strange.

Strange.

Strange.

It was all you could think about. You never found out who said it, part of you was glad that you never knew who labeled you as such.

You had tossed and turned the entire night, worrying over being thought strange. Strange. You were many things: brash, loud, difficult, stubborn… but strange? It hurt more than you had expected it to.

König had noticed your sour mood as he escorted you back to your chambers, badgering you to know what had happened. You did not have the heart to tell him. The fear of looking into the cool blue of his gaze and finding that he, too, believed you to be strange was too great. You did not think you could bear it.

So you let the word fester.

“My lady.” You jolted at the sound of König’s voice cutting through your thoughts. It took you a few moments to blink the blur out of your vision before you looked up at him over the back of the armchair, the emerald green fabric soft against your cheek.

“Yes?” you responded, sounding more exasperated than you intended. He took a few steps forward, the gray cloak affixed to his shoulders swishing against his armor with his movements.

Your tone must have made him reconsider before he shook his head slightly, the fabric of the black hood over his face settling into place once more. “It is obvious that something is on your mind, my lady,” he finally said, slouching to meet your gaze. “You have not even turned a page in several minutes.”

Heat of embarrassment blistered across your face before you could even think to deny König’s words. You opened your mouth to argue, to tell him that he should be paying more attention to your surroundings than your mannerisms.

Instead you took a breath, looking away from the knight back to the fire. “Do you think I am strange, König?” you asked. You allowed the cover of your book to fall shut, fingertips running over the fabric.

He paused for a moment, cocking his head to one side. You watched as he cast a long glance around the room before moving in front of you, kneeling on the plush rug with one knee as his forearms rested on the flat of his thigh.

Your eyes widened, you straightened a bit out of your contorted sitting position. The question begged a yes or no answer, not something… intimate.

“Why would you think that?” König asked, his accent making the words harsh. It was so sincere you already felt the sting of tears in your eyes.

You huffed, expression crumpling. The frescoes on the buttressed ceiling begged for your attention as you tried to find your words. “Last night… during the feast I overheard a conversation about my being strange and that being the reason my father has struggled to find me a match.”

It pained you to admit it. Repeating the words made it feel so much more real.

You took a deep breath, pressing on despite the tears building at your lash line. “So it begs the question, do you think I am strange?” You were brave enough to look at him again. “You are the only person I can ask. The other ladies in court would lie and my father would as well.”

König’s deep breath was audible, his body leaning toward you. His head tilted back, the two of you close enough that you could see the light of the fire on his blonde eyelashes.

“I think you are wonderful, my lady.”

His gloved hand took yours from where it rested on the cover of your book, fingertips smoothing over the ridges of your knuckles as he drew your hand toward his chest.

Your heart was in your throat, his compliment rendering you speechless. It would be easy for you to try to dismiss his words as a lie, brush them off as a kindness to you. But his eyes were sincere, rounded with gentleness as he looked up at you.

“Wonderful seems like an exaggeration,” you mumbled. You suddenly felt too aware of the extra flesh beneath your chin, the way your upper arm spread out as it pressed against your side.

König snorted, shaking his head.

You spoke before he could, gently trying to tug your hand back. He kept it in his hold. “They also wasted no time comparing me to the great beauty that is my sister.”

“Your sister?” König kept close, his hip pressed against the emerald green cushion of the armchair. “The woman with you at the tourney?”

You nodded, scraping your teeth over your lower lip without mercy. At that rate you would chew it until you were bleeding.

He shrugged, his breastplate now touching your thigh through your heavy skirts. “She was beautiful, yes, but no more so than you,” he said, the same sincerity in his tone. “It was you that caught my eye, my lady.”

“Truthfully?” you asked, voice trembling.

König’s free hand reached up, his palm finding the curve of your cheek. The leather of his glove was warm, broken in enough that it felt almost soft.

“I would not lie to you.” There was no room for you to question him.

You took a deep breath, your cheek pressed into his palm as you looked down at him. Your throat was closing, tears stinging behind your eyes as you struggled for something to say.

Then König surprised you.

He released your hand, pinching the bottom of the black hood over his face as he leaned even further into you. You watched the frayed edge of the fabric lift higher and higher, greedily awaiting the secrets beneath.

His skin was just as pale as you expected, gnarled scars marking his neck. The scar tissue was shiny and white in some areas, tinged pink with lingering irritation in others. You wondered if he sustained the wounds in battle along the eastern border, but you could not find your voice to ask.

Honey-blonde stubble scraped across jaw, the same color and the locks of hair you could see curling out from beneath the fabric of his hood. You would never have guessed his hair was long enough to reach his shoulders. If anything, you expected it to be cropped close to his scalp.

Two scars met on his chin, crossing into an X just below the curve of his lower lip. One went vertical, bisecting his pale pink mouth before jutting off to the right and disappearing beneath the black fabric of his hood.

“König,” you whispered, bewildered at what earned you the privilege of seeing his face, even just a part of it.

“Forgive me, my lady, my words simply continue to fall short.”

His palm slid against your cheek, fingers curling around the nape of your neck as he brought your lips to his. You braced a hand against his chest, the metal of his armor smooth beneath your touch. His heartbeat thrummed somewhere beneath all the layers.

It took you a moment to kiss him back, your eyelashes brushing against the bunched up fabric of his hood as you finally closed your eyes. Your mouth moved clumsily against his—the most you had ever kissed was the cook’s son behind the grainery when you were fourteen. It was a tender and nervous thing, far from the slow and sure press of König’s lips.

His fingers caressed the hinge of your jaw, tilting your head to match the slant of his. The scrape of his stubble against your face sent chills all the way to your toes. Your mouth parted on a soft sigh, letting him slot his scarred lower lip between them.

The feeling of his smile was so distracting that you almost pulled away just so you could finally see it.

There was a vague sense of danger curling up your spine as his tongue teased between your lips. You should have pushed him away, rebuked him for advancing on you and immediately searched for your father. Instead you were leaning so far toward him you would have toppled out of the arm chair if not for the spread of his shoulders and his forearm pressed against your collarbone.

“You must meet my daughter, I assure you she has a wit that catches most lords off guard.” It was your father’s voice drifting between the shelves of books that reminded you of the severity of the situation.

König was already pulling away, dropping his hood back into place as he gracefully brought himself to his feet. You removed your hands from him with reluctance, the only soothing balm the quick press of his lips against your hairline through the fabric.

You did not have enough time to marvel at his speed before your father and a lord you did not recognize rounded the last shelf into your little alcove. Your knight was already at his typical spot against the column, studying the newcomer for threats.

A fake smile plastered itself to your face, hiding the fact that you wanted to scream as you stood to curtsy. The man already was appraising you, watching you like you were a horse he was purchasing.

“Lord Fischer, meet my daughter,” he said cordially. The man was your father’s age, maybe older. But he smiled and greeted you politely.

You wanted to retreat into König’s embrace, pepper kisses along his scarred throat and coax his lips back to yours. Instead you sat down across from your father and Lord Fischer with your hands folded in your lap. The conversation was polite, nothing remarkable or interesting was said before your father proposed he joined you for supper that evening. It was the last thing you wanted, but nevertheless you stood and walked with your father and Lord Fischer to your father’s chambers.

As always, König dutifully followed.

[kkanabel]

apricity ❃ oneshot

fire spirit!bakugou katsuki x archaeologist!afab!reader / siberian au lmao

words: ~6.6k

directory/m.list

T/W: nsfw, minors dni, yucky at the very end, fingering, porn with plot, overstimulation, size difference, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex, alcohol use (not during the yucky but waay before the yucky), bakugou being bakugou, not beta read

Frost clung to the window panes of your cabin as you pulled on the last of your layers—a thick, fur-lined coat with a hood drawn tight around your face and a scarf was wrapped around your nose and mouth. The mornings here were unforgiving, the bite of the wind sharp as knives as soon as you stepped outside. You grabbed the ax by the door, its handle starting to grow familiar in your gloved hands, and pushed the door open into the early morning light. A heavy breath left your mouth in a plume of white as you approached the woodpile, ready to chop enough firewood to keep your small cabin warm for the day.

Frost bites at your cheeks as you swing your ax down on a thick block of firewood as the crisp snap echoed in the cold air. Each heavy breath from you escapes in a foggy plume in the biting winds of Yakutia. The village sits nestled in a wide, snow-covered expanse, tucked into the curve of towering mountains, the sky above streaked in pale blue and white. It’s early morning, but the cold is already unforgiving, gnawing at your layers of fur and wool, testing the warmth of your windproof, insulated pants. 

A brief break in the wind brings a fleeting warmth from the sunlight— the sun’s faint brush over the top half of your face offering relief in the middle of a frozen landscape. You close your eyes for just a moment, savoring it, before returning to your task. The sound of the ax cutting into the wood mixes with the rustle of pine trees in the distance, their branches weighed down by heavy snow.

You swung the ax, splitting a log in two. The dry wood splintered easily, and the sound echoed in the quiet wilderness. The only other noise came from the wind as it howled through the trees, carrying with it the promise of an even colder day. The cold worked its way into your bones despite your many layers. You stayed in cold places before, but the tundra was different. It was a place where even warmth felt fleeting, only offered by a fire or the thick fur you wrapped yourself in.

Satisfied with the pile of wood you’d gathered, you stacked it by the cabin door before retreating inside, the warmth of the hearth greeting you. The fire crackled steadily, casting a golden glow against the dim interior. The gas stove hissed as you lit it, filling the kettle with water for tea. Your stomach growls, reminding you that breakfast is long overdue. 

The crackle of kindling and the warm orange glow spread throughout the small wooden cabin, where you've been staying during your research.

After tossing a few more logs into the fire, you set about making breakfast. It came together simply—creamy and warm fish broth, pancakes, and smoked fish—a meal that filled the small space with a comforting scent. The small palm-sized pancakes were crisp on the edges, their golden brown surface sizzling in the pan. You smile to yourself, remembering a tradition you picked up from other villages. 

As you finish cooking, you toss a pancake into the fire as an offering to whatever spirit might be watching over you. You heard it was a custom in your research. The villagers here don’t seem to do it, but it never hurts to be polite to the unknown.

By the time breakfast was finished, you had your notes spread out across the small wooden table, pencil scratching against the rough paper as you wrote. The village had called on your expertise after reports of strange events: food disappearing from homes, unexplained housefires, and villagers speaking in hushed tones about a spirit causing trouble.

You were already puzzled as to why the villagers would have called on an archaeologist and not an investigator. Your research into the village’s history has led you to strange old scrolls and whispers of a forgotten spirit, but the more time you spend here, the more you realize the villagers are reluctant to speak. The flickering firelight dances along the edge of your notes as you sip on a steaming cup of tea, savoring the warmth that spreads through your chest. 

Ghosts and spirits don’t exist, you reminded yourself. Still, there was something to be said about folklore. It was tied deeply to history, and that was your true interest—the stories behind the stories.

The villagers were tight-lipped, though— your inquiries had been met with vague answers and nervous glances. Today, you planned to spend more time in the village center, talking to whoever would listen. The old man who ran the inn had mentioned something about ancient scrolls kept by a family who had been in the village for generations. Perhaps you could find more information there.

Later, you head out to meet the villagers. Bundling up again, you stepped outside into the snow. The cold was immediate, but you pushed through it, your breath forming thick clouds in front of you as you made your way toward the heart of the village. 

Houses stood small and stoic against the barren landscape, with thick snow blanketing their roofs. Smoke rose lazily from the chimneys, the scent of burning wood hanging in the air. Snow crunches beneath your boots as you walk through the narrow, icy paths, nodding to the occasional passerby. The wind is sharp today, tugging at your fur-lined hood. 

You hunch your shoulders against the cold as you make your way to the center of the village, where a small crowd has gathered. The scent of charred wood hit you before you saw the blackened remains of the structure, now little more than rubble. Your heart skipped. Another fire? The villagers spoke in low murmurs, and as you drew closer, you overheard snippets of conversation about the thief who lived there—a man who had stolen from his neighbors. 

You frowned, remembering a neighbor of yours had told you to stay away from the man who was known to frequent bars and have sticky fingers. The same man used to live in this home that was no more than a pile of charcoal.

You’ve heard the rumors about the “spirit”—they say it punishes those who harm the village, but you’re not convinced. Fires like these happen in dry regions all the time, and it’s not uncommon for Yakutia, even in winter. You jot down a few notes, watching the fire consume the house, the warmth a stark contrast to the frigid air biting at your skin.

Was it possible the spirit the villagers whispered about had been punishing him? Or was it just an unfortunate accident, a result of negligence and the harsh conditions?

You shook your head, noting down the details. The more you learned, the stranger the situation became. It was only when you returned to your cabin that evening, exhausted from talking to the hesitant villagers, that you realized just how strange things had become.

Later that day, you return to your cabin, taking in the familiar creaks of the wooden floor under your boots and the soft flicker of your gas lamp lighting the room. The air inside is only a little warmer than the biting cold outside, but the crackling of the fire in the stove offers some comfort.

You sit at your table, flipping through pages of your notebook. The pencil scratches lightly against the paper as you record observations, every sound amplified in the quiet room. The rhythmic back-and-forth fills the space, a welcome lull amid the chaos of your investigation.

A knock at the door pulls you from your thoughts.

Standing in the doorway is one of the villagers—a man about your age, wrapped in thick furs with snow dusting his shoulders. You’d visited his family home a little while ago to ask about the happenings around the village, but their answers remained vague as all the others.

He’s cradling something in his hands. His breath fogs in the cold air as he shifts his weight, his eyes meeting yours with a mix of curiosity and something warmer. “I found these,” he says, extending his hands toward you. “Thought you might want to take a look.”

In his arms are ancient stone blocks, their surfaces engraved with symbols, faint but intricate. Your eyes widen at the sight. These carvings look similar to what you’ve seen before but older, almost primitive in comparison to the more refined relics you'd encountered earlier.

“Where did you find these?” you ask, stepping closer.

“In my house,” he replies, shrugging as if it’s no big deal. “They were buried under some old planks. Figured they were important.”

You offer him a grateful smile. “Thank you. These could be a huge help.”

He smiles back, a little too long. “I hope so. It’s, uh, the least I could do. The villagers… we don’t really know what’s going on with all this, but I figured you’d be the one to figure it out.”

As a thank-you, you hand him a small bag of food—some dried meats and bread you had stored away. His face lights up, and he nods gratefully before leaving you alone again to examine the stone blocks.

The sun sets quickly in the tundra, and soon, the only light in your cabin comes from the gas lamps and the fire’s low embers. You’re absorbed in studying the runes when a familiar knock sounds at the door again. When you open it, the man stands there once more, his eyes glinting in the soft lamplight. You let him in, not wanting him to stay in the cold for too long.

“I wanted to tell you more,” he says, a little breathless from the cold or perhaps something else. He shifts on his feet, seemingly nervous. “There are stories—whispers, really. The villagers don’t talk about it much, but some say there was once a spirit who protected us. He might’ve even been part of our village, long ago.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And why wouldn’t anyone mention that?”

“They’re ashamed, I think,” he replies, his voice low. “It’s been forgotten over time. No one’s sure what happened, but... there are theories that we abandoned him, and he’s been angry ever since. That’s why the strange things have been happening.”

You nod, processing the information. It feels like a piece of a much larger puzzle, but there’s still so much missing.

As he talks, you notice the way he looks at you—his eyes linger a little too long, his words carrying a soft edge of admiration. He’s clearly interested, but you decide to brush it off for now. You smile politely, pretending not to notice the way his gaze follows you as you walk back to your table. You’ll be leaving the village as soon as you finish the case, so you didn’t want to lead him on.

“Thank you,” you say, your voice firm but kind. “This is really helpful. I’ll look into it.”

The man nods, his shoulders slumping slightly as though he expected more. “Of course,” he says, his voice quieter now. “If you need anything else, just let me know.”

As he leaves, the door shuts with a soft click, and you turn back to the runes, your thoughts swimming with new possibilities. If what he said was true, there’s more to this mystery than the villagers are willing to admit. And now, it seems like the forgotten spirit might hold the key to it all.

A couple days later, as you ice fish by the frozen river, you set your net and lean back, watching the starting to sun dip on the horizon. The quiet stretches around you, broken only by the occasional crack of ice shifting in the distance. You peer down at your catch, noting the modest haul in your net. Then you blink—there, next to your net, are two large whitefish lying in the snow, far too large to have escaped without you noticing.

Confused, you glance around. No one is near. The fish are pristine, untouched by the ice or snow, as if they had been placed there deliberately. You shake your head, chalking it up to luck. Maybe they jumped out when you weren’t paying attention? The reflection in the water catches your eye, and for a fleeting moment, you see the sharp jawline of a handsome man’s face turned towards you as if he were ice fishing with you. You blink again, startled, and the image is gone when a fish swims by and ripples the water—just your own face reflected in the water.

You shake your head. It’s nothing. Maybe I’ve just been single for too long… 

You thought about contacting that man from the other day for just a moment. 

Later that night, after cleaning the fish and preparing a simple dinner of stroganina—raw, thin slices of frozen whitefish—you sit by the fire, letting the warmth soothe your tired muscles. The fish melts on your tongue, rich and buttery, as you sip water to wash it down. You couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being watched. You chalked it up to exhaustion. After all, nothing had happened that you couldn’t explain away with logic and reason. You even joked to yourself as you drank water, “If only I had some vodka to go with this.”

You took another sip, and suddenly the liquid burned down your throat.

You froze.

This time, there was no logical explanation. You looked down at the cup in your hands, heart pounding in your chest. How had the water changed? You hadn’t touched anything else, but the unmistakable burn of alcohol lingered.

Startled, you stare down at your cup, heart pounding. This—this can’t be explained away. Your mind entertained the thought of a Siberian Jesus Christ. 

The fire crackled behind you, its warmth now somehow menacing. The quiet of the tundra felt heavier, the weight of the mystery pressing down on your chest. This place, this village—it wasn’t just the cold that seeped into your bones. There was something else here. Something old. Something powerful.

The next morning, footsteps in the snow led you away from the village, out into the wilderness. 

The morning air was crisp, each breath leaving a wisp of white in the early sunlight. You bundled yourself tightly against the cold, pulling your fur-lined hood closer around your face. As you stepped outside, you noticed something strange—footprints, fresh in the untouched snow, leading away from your cabin. They hadn’t been there the night before, and curiosity tugged at you.

You followed them, your boots crunching softly against the snow. The air was still, save for the occasional rustling of distant trees swaying under the weight of frost. The path led deeper into the woods, the towering trees gradually closing in around you, until the footprints stopped at the mouth of a small, hidden cave.

The entrance was barely visible, half-buried in snow, but something about it drew you in. You knelt down, brushing the snow from the edges, revealing intricate stone blocks covered in carvings similar to the ones the village boy had brought you. Painted masks, adorned with swirling patterns of reds and whites, lined the inner walls, and Yakutian knives were arranged in ceremonial positions.

The air inside the cave was still, almost too still. You fumbled for your matchsticks, striking one and holding it up to cast a soft glow around you. The light flickered over the stone walls, revealing carvings of fire and snow—an odd combination, yet it made sense somehow, here in this frozen land. It felt like a shrine, a forgotten place of worship, long abandoned.

In the corner of your eye, you noticed a small stone just outside the cave. It was partially dusted in snow, but the engravings on it were clear. You leaned down, brushing it off with your gloved hand.

The instant your fingers touched the stone, a deep, gravelly voice echoed from behind you. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

You squealed, whipping around, only to find no one there. Your heart hammered in your chest, and you stumbled backward, falling straight into the snow. There were no footprints, no sign of anyone else. Just the eerie silence of the winter woods.

The spirit’s presence began to grow after you got home. Not just in the subtle warmth of the room or the way the hearth crackled to life at your arrival, but in the unmistakable feeling that he was always near. The warmth you once chalked up to the peculiarities of the stove now seemed deliberate, purposeful. The fire would roar to life just as your fingers began to freeze from the cold, as if it were watching, anticipating your needs.

It was no longer a question of if the spirit was real, but how deeply it was intertwined with the world around you. Every time you struck a match or lit a lantern, the flames danced longer than they should, their movements almost playful, as though teasing you. You tried to brush it off as wind or the natural flicker of fire, but something about the way the flames moved—how they seemed to respond to your presence—was undeniable.

It was trying to communicate.

It started with the crackling of the fire. At first, it was faint, like a low murmur beneath the sound of the wood burning. You would sit in front of the hearth after a long day of research, the warmth enveloping you, the sound becoming a constant companion. There were times you swore you heard words in the fire’s crackle, an indistinct whisper. "It’s just the wind," you told yourself. "Just the wood popping." But the more time passed, the clearer it became. The crackling wasn’t random—it carried meaning.

Then, one evening as you sat alone in the cabin after tossing a pancake into the fire, a cold gust of wind howling outside, you finally heard it: “You’re back.”

The voice was faint, almost lost in the sound of the firewood splitting, but it was there—low, gravelly, and unmistakable. You froze, heart pounding, eyes wide in surprise as you stared at the flames. For a moment, you thought you’d imagined it. But the voice came again, just as you leaned closer. “You’re not afraid.”

You weren’t sure how to respond. Your throat felt tight, your hands clammy despite the warmth. You tried to rationalize it—maybe you were exhausted, hallucinating from the cold. But deep down, you knew it wasn’t your imagination. Slowly, carefully, you muttered, “Am I... supposed to be afraid?”

The flames flickered in response, and you could swear you heard a huff, like a quiet laugh. Then the voice returned, clearer this time. “You’re stubborn.”

You couldn’t help but smile at that, a mix of amusement and confusion swirling inside you. “If you’re a spirit,” you said softly, “then show me a sign. Let me know I’m not losing my mind.”

There was a pause, and for a moment you thought maybe the voice wouldn’t return. But then, the fire roared, flaring up for just a second, casting the entire cabin in a brilliant light. The heat was so intense that you instinctively stepped back, heart hammering in your chest.

So it was real.

The days after that were filled with small, subtle gestures. The fire seemed to burn longer without the need for more wood. When you struggled to chop firewood or gather supplies, you would return to your cabin to find fresh logs stacked neatly by the door or a basket of fish left outside. You didn’t question it anymore, though each act left you both grateful and uneasy. Eventually, he told you his name— Bakugou Katsuki.

"Thank you," you whispered to the fire one evening, unsure if Bakugou could hear you but needing to acknowledge the help he had provided.

The flames flickered, casting dancing shadows on the walls, and you could almost sense his presence, as though he were sitting just beyond the hearth, watching over you.

It wasn’t just the warmth he brought. It was the feeling of protection, a sense that he was always there, keeping the biting cold at bay. The wind howled outside, but inside, the fire crackled with a steady, comforting heat, as though Bakugou himself were standing guard over your cabin.

As the connection between you and Bakugou deepened, so did the manifestations of his presence. There were times when you could feel warmth pass by you in the room, like an invisible hand brushing against your skin. And then, there were the footprints. In the mornings, you would find faint impressions in the snow outside your door—footprints too large to be your own, too distinct to be explained by passing animals. They led away from the cabin, disappearing into the woods where the trees whispered in the wind.

One night, after a long day of gathering research and barely avoiding frostbite, you collapsed onto the bed, too tired to even remove your boots. You stared into the hearth, watching the flames sway and shift. As you drifted off, you swore you saw something in the fire—a figure, tall and broad-shouldered, standing amidst the flames.

"Bakugou," you whispered, sleep pulling you under. The fire flared again, and in the brief moment before darkness claimed you, you felt the warmth of his presence like a blanket around your body, lulling you into a peaceful sleep.

With each passing day, Bakugou’s presence grew stronger. There were moments when you caught glimpses of him in reflections—on the frozen surface of a nearby pond or in the gleam of a window. He would appear for just a moment, the outline of a figure, the flicker of a flame in his eyes, and then he’d be gone, as though the world itself was trying to remember him.

"Why were you forgotten?" you asked the fire one evening, your voice barely a whisper. There was no immediate answer, but the flames shifted, as though Bakugou were trying to find the words.

"It wasn’t supposed to be like this," came the gravelly voice at last, softer than before. "I was supposed to protect this village. But something... something changed."

You waited, hoping for more, but the fire quieted, the conversation left unfinished. You knew he was withholding something, something important, but he wasn’t ready to reveal it just yet.

As the winter deepened, so did your connection. The emotional tension between you and Bakugou simmered just beneath the surface. He was no longer just a spirit haunting your cabin—he was a presence, a force that kept you safe, a companion in the long, cold nights. And as his voice grew more familiar, so did your thoughts about him. You started to look forward to the conversations by the hearth, the way the flames would flicker in response to your words, how his presence made the cabin feel less lonely, less cold.

But with that warmth came an ache, a yearning that neither of you dared to speak of yet. You wondered how far this connection could go, how real Bakugou could become.

One thing was certain: you were no longer alone in the tundra. And Bakugou, once forgotten, was starting to be remembered—by you.

The air was sharp and cold as you made your way back to the shrine, a small group of villagers following behind you. In your hands, you held an offering—a bundle of dried herbs, fish, and pancakes, all delicately wrapped in cloth. The villagers murmured amongst themselves, nervous but willing. They, too, had grown weary of the strange occurrences and were ready to do whatever was necessary to end them.

The old man leading the group had spoken of the fire spirit with reverence, explaining that the villagers once honored Bakugou with offerings to ensure their prosperity. Over time, however, the traditions had been forgotten, and with it, so had Bakugou’s power. Now, you were determined to set things right.

The path through the woods felt familiar. You’d followed it before, and yet today, it carried a different weight. You could feel him, his presence in the air, watching you from the shadows of the trees. It was as if the entire forest was holding its breath.

When you arrived at the shrine—a cave hidden deep within the woods—the villagers began to build a bonfire at its entrance. They stacked wood and kindling, and soon, flames licked the sky, casting the ancient stone carvings in a warm, flickering light. The shrine walls, covered in depictions of fire and snow, seemed to glow under the fire's embrace.

You approached the altar, laying the offerings down gently. The villagers bowed their heads, murmuring prayers to the forgotten spirit, asking for forgiveness. As you knelt beside the offerings, you couldn’t help but glance over your shoulder, feeling an intense heat—not from the bonfire, but from somewhere deeper within the cave.

For a moment, the flames crackled louder, and the ground beneath you seemed to hum with energy. Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, everything went quiet. The strange occurrences in the village—the fires, the whispers in the wind, the unsettling feeling of being watched—ceased. You could feel it, a weight lifting off the air. The offering had been accepted.

The villagers left soon after, grateful for your leadership and certain that Bakugou’s anger had been soothed. But you lingered, something pulling you back toward the cave.

Once the others were out of sight, you found yourself drawn deeper into the shrine. The carvings on the walls seemed even more intricate in the dim light, and you ran your fingers over the smooth stone, marveling at the ancient craftsmanship. Your thoughts wandered to him, to Bakugou. Was he truly satisfied with the offerings? Would you ever see him again?

A soft crackling sound broke the silence. You froze, every hair on your body standing on end. Slowly, you turned around, your breath catching in your throat.

There he stood.

Bakugou, no longer a fleeting presence or a whisper in the flames, but solid and real, towering over you. He was just as you’d imagined—no, more. His bare chest, muscled and powerful, was only partially covered by a thick fur that draped over one shoulder. His skin seemed to shimmer with warmth, his eyes blazing red like embers. He exuded strength, yet his gaze—intense and unwavering—held something deeper. Hunger.

"You came back," his voice rumbled, low and gravelly, sending a shiver down your spine.

Your mouth went dry. "I… I wanted to make sure the offering was enough."

He didn’t answer immediately, his fiery gaze trailing over you, making your skin tingle under the intensity of his stare. Then, with one swift movement, he closed the distance between you, pinning you gently against the cool stone of the cave wall. The heat of his body was overwhelming, a stark contrast to the cold of the cave, and you felt your pulse race.

"You shouldn’t be here alone," Bakugou growled, his breath hot against your skin.

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words were lost as his lips crashed against yours, fierce and demanding. His kiss was consuming, like the fire he embodied—wild, uncontrollable, and impossible to resist. You melted against him, your hands instinctively reaching up to grip his shoulders, feeling the taut muscles beneath your fingers.

His body pressed against yours, his warmth enveloping you as his hands slid to your waist, pulling you closer. The world outside the cave disappeared—there was only Bakugou, his touch, his heat, and the insistent press of his lips against yours. You gasped as his hand moved up your back, sending sparks of electricity through your body.

The intensity of the kiss left you breathless, and when he finally pulled away, just enough to let you catch your breath, his lips brushed against your ear. “You don’t know what you’ve done to me,” he murmured, his voice a husky whisper.

You barely had time to respond before the world shifted. One moment, you were in the cave, pressed against the stone; the next, you were back in your cabin, the familiar warmth of the hearth surrounding you. But Bakugou was still there, standing tall before you, his hands still on your body, his lips only inches from yours.

Your eyes widened in shock. “How…?”

He smirked, his eyes gleaming. “Fire is everywhere,” he said simply, as if that explained everything. “And where there’s fire, I can be.”

Before you could fully comprehend what he’d just said, his lips were on yours again, softer this time but no less urgent. He kissed you like a man who had waited centuries for this moment, his hands exploring your body with a reverence that made your knees weak.

The fire in the hearth flared behind you, bathing the room in a warm, golden glow as Bakugou’s body pressed against yours, his heat making your skin burn with desire. Every touch, every kiss felt like it was stoking the flames inside you, and you couldn’t stop yourself from wanting more.

You moaned softly against his lips, your hands tangling in his hair as the intensity between you grew, the connection undeniable. He growled in response, deepening the kiss, his grip tightening as though he couldn’t bear to let you go.

Whatever boundaries had existed between the mortal world and the spirit realm no longer mattered. In that moment, there was only you and Bakugou—fire and flesh, spirit and soul, bound together in a heat that refused to be extinguished.

Without a word, he approached you, his movements as fluid as molten lava. He bent down and claimed your lips, You gasped at the contact, your body responding with a fiery need that matched his own. 

He quickly peeled off your many layers of clothes. His hands found their way under your pants, taking them off as his touch burned your skin and he spread your legs. The world outside the cabin faded away, leaving only the two of you and the dance of shadows on the walls.

Bakugou knelt before you, his intense crimson eyes never leaving yours as he parted your folds with his fingers. You shrunk under his close gaze as he took the sight of you in. “So perfect,” he groaned, grabbing at your soft thighs with two large hands and spreading you out for him.

 The first lick of his tongue sent you spiraling, the sensation intense on your clit. You moaned, your hands grabbing at his blonde spikes, your body arching towards the heat of his mouth. He took his time, tasting you, savoring you, driving you closer and closer to the edge of release.

But just as you felt yourself about to fall over the edge, you pushed him back, the need to explore his body consuming you. 

You pushed him onto the ground, pulling down at his pants. “It’s my turn,” you proclaimed. 

He looked up at you, a question in his eyes, but you didn't waver. You dropped to your knees pulling down his pants and gasping when his hard shaft bounced out of the fabric. It was the size of your face, and its girth was something else. 

He noticed your awe at him, and his ego was inflated even more than it already is. “Like what you see?”

You roll your eyes, taking his thick length in your hand and bringing it to your lips before giving the tip a peck. He groaned, a sound that seemed to shake the very foundations of the cabin. Your hand grasped at his strong thighs. Teasing him, you spent time kissing all over his outer and inner thighs before moving to his shaft. 

You took your time, exploring every inch of him with your mouth, worshipping him as he deserved. You licked him up and down his hot length, watching as his eyes screwed together in pleasure before you took his whole length into your mouth— up and down his length in a bobbing motion.

His hands tangled in your hair, guiding you, urging you faster as he grew harder. The heat of his body was intoxicating, his scent a heady mix of sweet smoke and masculinity that made your head spin.

The fire in the hearth of the cabin roared to life, casting shadows across the room as you brought him closer and closer to the edge. His groans filled your ears, the only sound in the quiet night, until he could take no more. With a final, desperate thrust, he emptied himself into your mouth, the heat of his cum like liquid fire. 

Bakugou chuckled, his eyes never leaving yours as he lifted you to your feet. He picked you up with ease, carrying you to the soft fur that lay before the fireplace. Gently, he laid you down, your skin feeling like it was on fire from the heat of his touch.

"Your body," he murmured, tracing the curves of your hips with his thumb, "it's a masterpiece.” He leaned down, capturing a nipple with his mouth, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak. You arched your back, gasping as the heat from his breath melded with the warmth from the fire, making it feel like you were melting from the inside out.

"Bakugou," you moaned, his name a prayer on your lips as he moved to your other breast, giving it the same loving attention. His hands roamed over your stomach, his fingers finding their way between your legs again. 

He narrowed his eyes at you. “Katsuki,” he corrected, as he began to fuck you with them, slow and deep, watching as your eyes fluttered closed and your mouth fell open in ecstasy.

As he worked his fingers into you, a low hum escaped him. “So damn tight,” watching as your face wrinkled up in pleasure. 

"Look at me," he growled, his voice a demand that you couldn't refuse. You met his gaze, the intensity of his stare making your heart race even faster. His thumb brushed against your clit as his lips pulled themselves into a grin as he sent a shockwave through your body. "I want to see you come apart for me."

As soon as he said these words, his fingers curled directly into your sweet spot. Your vision went white with pleasure. In the background, his grin only became more animalistic as he leaned down to catch a nipple into his mouth. His fingers worked you to the edge, driving you crazy.

The orgasm crashed over you like a massive wave, leaving you trembling and gasping for air. Your thighs were wet and sticky with your own release.

He watched you, his own arousal evident in the way he held himself, his eyes never leaving yours. "That was just the beginning," he promised, his voice a rumble that sent another shiver down your spine.

He watched you— all spread out and pretty for him on the fur, watching the warm light of the fire bounce off your delectable skin as you tried to catch your breath and your legs shook. He couldn’t help but mark you up all over as he sent you over the edge once more with his lips and fingers this time. A light chuckle left him as you cried out his name and writhed underneath him— overstimulation already starting to take over.

Your breathless voice called out to him in the small space of the cabin. “Katsuki,” you beckoned, “please… I need it.” You knew that he kept going at this rate, you’d go insane.

“You sure, princess? You think you can take it now?” His head kept burying itself between your legs, kitten licking at your clit before sucking at it and thrusting his fingers in and out of you. “You’re still not loose enough,” he says as he curls his fingers up again, releasing a squeal from you. 

You just kept cumming— each time you came, your walls only got more and more sensitive, pulling you to orgasm again.

Bakugou watched in sadistic joy every time your walls tightened further around his fingers. He came back up to you to catch your moaning lips into a kiss before trailing down and leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses all over your neck and chest. When he started playing with your clit again, you came again, tears welling up in your eyes from sheer pleasure. 

Your mind couldn’t fathom anything but Bakugou. Your mouth cried out broken strings of his name until he finally withdrew his fingers from your core, licking them up lasciviously. He lined himself up with you, tapping his tip against your puffy clit, making you jolt. Your entrance was still convulsing from your long string of climaxes as he finally pushed himself against it, groaning when he felt himself slip past the ring of muscle. 

He took in a sharp breath of air. “Could you quit clenching?” His head rolled back in pleasure, not even fully inside of you yet. “I’m already,” he pushes himself in further, “strugglin’ as it is…”

He was so thick. It filled you up, making you cum when he was only buried into your walls up until the tip and then some. “I’m sorry,” you managed to whine out, breathless, “I can’t help it!”

With these words, he froze and stared at you climaxing before pushing the rest of himself in, causing you to scream. He gave you a moment to relax with his entire shaft inside of you. You felt so full— he stretched you out so good. “So noisy,” he smirked, only spurring your voice to get louder with each thrust.

He started to pick up a steady pace, pistoning in and out of you. Each thrust made you shudder—his length stretched you out perfectly and hit you in all of the right places. Your hands gripped at the fur beneath you for any sort of purchase. He wiped one of your tears away, burying his head into the crook of your neck and groaning with each thrust. 

You believed that spirits didn’t exist, but here you were, getting dicked down by one. And you were sure as hell enjoying it.

As he pounded away at you, your eyes rolled back into your head, your moans turning into cries. He was so rough, so primal in his movements, it was like he was trying to claim you. And with every thrust, it felt like he was getting closer to doing so. 

He kissed down your neck, nipping at the soft skin with his teeth. His hands roamed over your body, gripping your hips tightly as he thrusted in deeper and harder. The noises of your pussy squelching in the cabin were obscene, but they only served to spur Bakugou on.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he murmured against your skin.

His thrusts were getting faster and more erratic, so you knew he was close. You wrapped your legs around his waist, urging him on, needing him to fill you up with his heat. And then, with one final, powerful thrust, he did. You felt the warmth of his cum fill you up, spilling into your womb like molten lava.

He collapsed onto you, panting heavily. His weight was a comforting presence as he remained inside of you, his cock still pulsing with every beat of his heart. You could feel his warmth seep into your very core, leaving you feeling complete in a way you never had before.

As the moments passed, he slowly pulled out of you, his cum dripping out and down your thighs. You watched as he looked down, his eyes widening in awe at the sight. He leaned down to kiss you, his hand cupping your cheek. “You’re mine now,” he whispered.

a/n: we're back!

lol not beta read again please let me know if you see any typos or anything that's just like. wrong/inconsistent

my taglist is open! lmk if you wanna be tagged in future bakugou fics or j all my fics in general

thank you for reading & stay hydrated, y'all <3

directory/m.list

[octoberautumnbox]

A Little Goes a Long Way

fromis_9 Roh Jisun & all the other frommies :DDDD

Categories: fluff, cooking, really light blood but it shouldnt be too big of an issue

Word count: 1.0k

a/n: prompt by @msafterhours!! im actually a dumbass bc i got the prompt completely wrong lmao but here yall go!! oki i hiatus again byeee

It’s something about the manner in which the knife cuts through meat and muscle–something about how things come together in the pot that makes Jisun happy as can be. Home isn’t home, she’d think, when the kitchen hasn’t got windows that rays of sun enter through on warm mornings, or when the cupboards and cabinets aren’t stocked for visiting friends or midnight snacks. There’s a romance, a magic, a unique rightness in a home where one cooks for both body and soul. 

“Good girl,” she muses, finding the beef sitting in a basin of water on the countertop, “can always count on Jiheonnie.” She replaces the now-cool water with a new pool fresh from the tap, before gathering the rest of the ingredients and getting to work. 

Jisun opens door after door of cupboards, taking out each of the rest of the ingredients in turn: green and brown onions, sesame seeds and sesame oil, sugar and salt, garlic and ginger, red and black pepper. Cute, she thought, that each had a partner. 

The sun watches intently from the other side of the window, filling her kitchen with a calming warmth you'd scarcely find anywhere else. The clouds rein in the too-intrusive rays, while specks of pollen merrily dance across the glass pane. With her celestial audience on the edge of their seats, she gets to work. 

“Yeah it's you, yeah it's you,” Jisun hums under her breath. She measures out each portion carefully, transferring them into tiny bowls that matched colors and handles and rims. It must be something in her bones today, how her step is sprightly and her fingers reach and flex with less poignancy than she's used to. 

It isn't long before she thinks back, a green onion steady between the countertop and her left hand while a knife is secure in her right, that she remembers when Jiwon held them wrong and almost cut her finger open. She recalls Hayoung slicing peppers, followed by onions, rubbing her eyes in between every couple of strokes to push away persistent tears that never seemed to run out. She smiles at the memory of Jiheon not knowing solid and liquid measuring cups were different, and the resultant cake falling flatter and growing firmer than their beloved maknae had liked. 

Her lip finds itself between her teeth, thinking “Good thing they have me,” as the once-long stalk of green onion grows shorter and shorter. “What would they do without me?”

And yet, it was nothing compared to the contrary. It waltzes to the front of her mind, amidst draining the thawed beef of its former frost, how Saerom put her arm under her after a particularly rough day of practice. It shone like the sun, as Jisun mixes the paste, how Seoyeon talked her ear off when Jisun had run out of things to say. The rush of fondness fills her chest remembering how Nagyung complained when Jisun saw herself in the mirror and frowned at the reflection, all the while she works the marinade into the meat.

As she places each strip into the smoking wok, Chaeyoung enters her mind, the same way Chaeyoung entered the practice room in the baggiest pants Jisun had ever seen, only to pull out a Melona for them to share with their backs against the CCTVs. The scent and symphony of sizzling meat fills her kitchen with a profound sense of melancholy, remembering walking with Gyuri one morning before the sun rose, just one lap around the building, and yet it so happened that it was enough to share four years’ worth of troubles with each other. 

She tips the wok over a respectfully waiting plate. The meat steams and settles onto the surface, expelling the tensions of the stove and relaxing into a Jisun-like state.  The green onions fall predictably onto the food, meeting nooks and crannies in the meat with attention that welcomes a tongue seeking solace in homemade comfort. A final touch, Jisun thought, to finish the job, to give the palate something to want to come home to the next time it wanders out into the wide, wonderful world: just a drizzling of honey– not too much, certainly not too little. The viscous liquid spreads all over the dish, sending its enticingness to new heights and bringing the delicacy together. 

At last, her meal is nearly complete. Jisun sets it on the dining table, right in the center of the square wooden surface. She admires it for a moment, the hard work of the past half hour lost on the world but not on her, before she clears her throat to finally, fully, completely allow herself to enjoy the fruits of her labor…

“Girls, time to eat!” She then counts silently, one, two, three– frantic footsteps grow louder and louder until Jiwon and Hayoung come crashing into the room. They both shriek, “I want to sit next to Jisun!” It makes her giggle, just as much as seeing Seoyeon and Jiheon holding hands and walking in step towards the table themselves. Nagyung and Chaeyoung follow, still glued to Nagyung's phone as Chaeyoung points to the screen, “That's the guy I was telling you about,” before they take a seat across from her. 

Jisun takes a deep breath, waiting for one more, and it comes in the form of a comforting hand on her shoulder and a pat on her hair. “Thank you, Jisun,” Saerom whispers with nothing but love in her voice. Her leader takes a piece of the meat and makes a show of eating it, and it's almost comical how much she overreacts. “Holy shit, this is delicious–” Saerom mutters, her hand over her mouth. 

Nagyung pipes up, “Thank you, Jisun-unnie,” prompting a slew of variations from each other member at the table, until a cacophony of gratitude fills Jisun's ears. The warmth of their love spreads through her body, filling her with gratitude of her own.

“You're welcome, girls. Eat well,” she says, as she finally takes a piece of meat for her own, giddy in the anticipation of knowing that it'll be one of the most delicious bites of food she'll ever have.