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melanchoire · 2 months ago

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please do bballplayer!yujin x cheerleader!reader. i love your fics so muchhhhg😚😚

SMACK THAT ──── ahn yujin.

── ( 🏀 ) in a world where cheerleaders and athletes are seen as allies, your world turns upside down when a heated clash with the stunning captain of the women's basketball team, ahn yujin, ignites a fiery passion that threatens to turn rivalry into something much wilder that leaves you questioning your loyalties—and igniting a burning desire that neither of you can resist.

pairing. bratty dom!basketball player!ahn yujin x sub!cheerleader!fem reader

warning(s). cum eating, cunnilingus, dirty talk, fingering, nipple play, semi exhibitionism, squirting.

word count. 5,5k

the move was a whirlwind. boxes overflowing with your life were crammed into the back of your parents’ car, the goodbye hugs from your friends lingered in the air, and the endless miles of highway blurred into a monotonous landscape. new house, new neighborhood, new faces — it was all a bit overwhelming. but the biggest hurdle, the one that filled you with a quiet dread, was the new school.

surprisingly, it wasn’t the social apocalypse you’d envisioned. your classmates were… tolerable. the teachers seemed genuinely invested in their subjects. the school itself was modern and well–equipped. the problem, as always, was sports. or rather, the mandatory sports selection. unlike your old school, where PE was a shared misery endured by all, here you had to choose a specific athletic activity. a cold sweat prickled your skin. this was your everest.

you didn’t even like sports. what could you do? in elementary school your classmates always hated teaming up with you because you had no interest in participating in class or playing the silliest sports and games.

you’d always been the kid picked last. the clumsy one. the one who tripped over air and whose athletic contributions usually involved apologizing profusely. elementary school recess was a blur of mortification, the crushing weight of your teammates’ disappointment a constant companion. the thought of reliving those days made your stomach churn.

lunchtimes became a minefield of awkward conversation and forced smiles. afternoons were spent strategically avoiding the gym, the fields, anywhere remotely athletic. you were a ghost, flitting through the hallways, desperate for a safe haven in a world that seemed obsessed with athleticism.

during lunch on your third day, you sought refuge in the near–empty classroom during recess, hunched over your phone, fingers flying across the screen as you texted yizhuo, your best friend from your old school. you typed furiously, lamenting your predicament: “it’s literally sports or nothing. what am i supposed to do, zhuo? fake an injury for the entire year?”

suddenly, as you waited for her reply, a shadow fell across your phone screen. you looked up to see a girl standing before you, a beacon of bright red hair and an even brighter smile. she was tall, with a lithe, athletic build, and an almost cartoonishly cute bunny smile.

“hey.” she said, her voice surprisingly gentle. “i’m yuna. me and the girls… we saw you’ve been having a little trouble figuring out the whole sports thing.”

you shifted uncomfortably, feeling your cheeks flush. “yeah, you could say that.”

yuna’s smile widened. “so, listen. well, we might have a solution. the cheerleading team is thinking about opening auditions to add a new member this year, and we thought… well, we thought you might be interested. it’s kind of a secret right now, but we thought you might be interested. before everyone else finds out and the tryouts are even harder.”

cheerleading? you blinked, completely taken aback. you? a cheerleader? you’d never considered cheerleading. the idea seemed so absurd, so utterly out of character, that you almost laughed. it wasn’t exactly graceful, but maybe, just maybe, it was something you could do. but the desperation in your heart outweighed the absurdity. any port in a storm, right?

“i… i don’t know, yuna.” you stammered. “i’m not exactly known for my athleticism.”

yuna waved a dismissive hand. “don’t worry about that.” yuna said, her voice reassuring. “we can teach you everything. just… give it a try?”

what did you have to lose? at least this was better than the embarrassment of fumbling your way through a soccer game or, heaven forbid, trying to dribble a basketball.

you looked into her bright eyes, saw the genuine kindness there, and something inside you cracked. “okay…” you breathed. “okay, i’ll try.”

yuna squealed with delight, grabbing your hand and pulling you to your feet. “great! c’mon, the girls are waiting!”

she practically dragged you across the campus, her energy infectious. you ended up on the sidelines of the university’s athletic fields, next to the basketball court. a group of girls was laughing and chatting amongst themselves.

“guys, this is… umh…” yuna trailed off, realizing she hadn’t actually asked your name.

“it’s (y/n).” you supplied, feeling your cheeks flush.

“okay, (y/n)–ssi. this is chaewon, karina, and wonyoung.” yuna beamed, gesturing to each girl in turn. they all greeted you with warm smiles and polite introductions, instantly making you feel more at ease.

yuna introduced them with a flourish: chaewon, all boundless energy and infectious enthusiasm; karina, radiating warmth and a mischievous glint in her eyes; and wonyoung, with her quiet confidence and elegant demeanor. they welcomed you with genuine smiles and polite introductions, making you feel instantly at ease.

“sometimes other girls join for practices.” yuna continued, “but the four of us are usually the main cheerleaders during the games.”

“welcome to the cheerleading squad where there's free entertainment.” chaewon joked.

as if on cue, a chorus of giggles erupted from the bleachers overlooking the basketball court. you glanced over to see a group of girls huddled together, their eyes fixed on your group. even from a distance, you could sense their amusement.

wonyoung rolled her eyes. “ugh, it’s them. don’t mind them.” she said dismissively. “that’s the basketball team.”

yuna, who followed wonyoung’s gaze almost immediately, can’t help but let out a scoff at the sight of the basketball team, sweeping them with her gaze in the dirtiest way: you wouldn’t lie, if she did the same thing to you, you probably would have peed your pants and fainted from embarrassment right then and there. “they think they’re so cool.”

you looked closer. you didn’t recognize any of them, which wasn’t surprising, given you were still practically a stranger. but they certainly looked like they belonged: athletic builds, confident swagger, and an air of effortless cool. they weren’t all dressed in athletic wear — some wore their school uniforms, others casual clothing.

then you noticed something else. two girls with short, dark hair were playfully shoving the shoulders of a taller girl with wide, puppy–dog eyes who was wearing her cap backwards. smirks danced on their faces as two other girls murmured things to the other three.

and then they looked at you. a not–so–disguised look, filled with a mixture of amusement and something you couldn’y quite place. you felt your stomach clench.

wonyoung scoffed. “yeah.” she muttered, “typical losers.” she proceeded to give you a rundown of the team: kazuha, ryujin, yujin, yunjin, and a girl nicknamed “winter.”, whose real name was minjeong, but apparently only her close friends used it. she painted them as the stereotypical jocks, surrounded by adoring admirers, whose lives revolved around basketball and popularity.

“they’re like the typical frat boys or playboys in the movies, you know?” yuna added, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “except, you know, girls.”

the way wonyoung and yuna talked about them, trading gossip and inside jokes, made it clear that this wasn’t just casual observation. there was a history there, a rivalry, maybe even a touch of… something else.

karina, sensing your unease, stepped forward with a warm smile. “don’t worry about them. we’re happy to have you. hey, why don’t you join us later? the school gym will be free, and you can show us what you’ve got.” her tone was casual, but the intensity in her gaze made it clear: they wanted you. not just on the team, but… well, you weren’t sure what else.

and so it was. that afternoon, you found yourself in the echoing expanse of the school gym, attempting to contort your body into positions it hadn’t seen since… well, never. the girls patiently guided you through stretches, jumps, and basic tumbling, their encouragement a welcome balm to your self–consciousness. after testing your skills and flexibility, the four girls welcomed you into the team with open arms.

of course, since you were still a newbie, they told you that at first it would be better if you were not the one who was the “flyer” (the athlete who is lifted into the air during a stunt or pyramid) when they did the group stunts, putting yourself together with another of the girls as “bases” (the athletes that hold the flyer or “top girl” in the air during the stunt) until you gained enough confidence to take on the more challenging role, but in this case, wonyoung and yuna would be the main ones that would catch you, since they were the ones with more training and experience than the other two, they knowing how to grab or hold you when you didn’t have much experience or confidence.

cheerleading practice quickly became the highlight of your day. the girls were supportive and encouraging, and you found yourself enjoying the challenge of learning new skills. you even started to feel… dare you say it… athletic?

practices quickly became routine, a bizarre mix of grueling physical exertion and surprisingly fun camaraderie. you learned to trust your teammates, to rely on their strength and support, both literally and figuratively. you even started to enjoy the challenge, the feeling of pushing your body beyond its perceived limits.

the basketball team, however, remained a constant, and unwelcome, presence. karina explained that since the cheerleaders preferred to train outside on the basketball court because it was better than the stinky gym, so it was obvious that you would see the basketball players around here.

their behavior was bizarre. you felt like they were like perverts, wearing their stupid jerseys and basketball pants along with those backwards caps, having smirks or shit–eating grins and seemed to be enjoying themselves every time the cheerleaders practiced. you caught them smirking and exchanging knowing glances, like they were in on some private joke.

yujin’s gaze, in particular, made you uneasy. you always felt her eyes on you, burning a hole in your back. whenever you were the flyer, you could hear her teammates cheering her on, clapping her back, and pushing her shoulders towards the basket. whenever you looked over your shoulder at her or turned around you saw her eyes quickly move from your ass to your face, grinning or biting her lip to avoid a smirk, her grin a mix of amusement and… something else you couldn’t quite decipher.

one night, you were at a party, trying to navigate the crowded dance floor, when a ridiculously handsome guy approached you. he leaned in close, his voice barely audible over the thumping bass.

“hey.” he said, his eyes sparkling. “my friend wants to kiss you.”

you felt a jolt of surprise, followed by a surge of nervous excitement. he gestured behind you, stepping aside so you could see who his friend was. your smile faltered. the excitement evaporated.

standing a few feet away, surrounded by a gaggle of friends and the ubiquitous basketball team, was yujin. she’s smiling even with her eyes, holding a can of beer while the other idiots chant her name and push her by the shoulders between them, pushing her forward, the backward cap casting a shadow over her eyes.

that cap, that oversized hoodie, those baggy jeans, those beat–up converse sneakers… suddenly, you found yourself noticing the curve of her jaw, the way her eyes crinkled when she smiled, the confident swagger in her posture.

wait a minute…were you drooling over ahn yujin? your own consciousness shook you back to reality. it couldn’t be, could it?

you glared at the well–meaning messenger and abruptly turned away, heading back to your group of friends. but even over the noise of the party, you could hear the sound of your name being called, followed by a wave of raucous laughter.

the air crackled with nervous energy. you straightened your new cheer uniform, the fabric feeling stiff and unfamiliar against your skin. the basketball game was about to start, a cacophony of cheers and shouts already echoing from the stands. you were still new to this whole cheerleading thing, still trying to memorize the routines, still acutely aware of yujin’s persistent gaze.

as you made your way to the court, practically vibrating with apprehension, a familiar figure blocked your path. ahn yujin, radiating cocky confidence, stood grinning in front of you. her backwards cap cast a shadow over her mischievous eyes, which sparkled with amusement.

“well, well, look who it is…” she drawled, her voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down your spine against your will. “hey there, cheerleader. heard you’re heading in. gonna cheer me on, huh?”

you crossed your arms, trying to project an air of indifference you definitely didn’t feel. “don’t flatter yourself. i’m here to support the team, not you specifically.”

yujin chuckled, a sound that was somehow both infuriating and strangely appealing. “sure you are. but i know you’ve been thinking about me. a lot, probably.”

“in your dreams.” you scoffed, but your cheeks betrayed you with a telltale flush.

“oh, i have plenty of dreams.” yujin said, her eyes gleaming suggestively. “and you’re in most of them. wearing that little skirt, too.”

“okay, pervert alert.” you muttered, rolling your eyes. although you tried to avoid it, your cheeks slowly began to turn a reddish color. you hated how she could easily have an effect on you.

yujin laughed, undeterred. “listen, about that kiss…”

it doesn’t take long for your brain to work to understand what she’s talking about. of course, that kiss that her friend asked you for at that party — honestly, you thought they were just joking around and looking to annoy and piss someone off to pass the time, but knowing yujin’s reputation, you knew she wasn’t entirely joking.

“don’t even start.” you snapped. “i don’t owe you anything.”

“oh, i think you do.” she chuckled, her voice low and teasing. “you love playing hard to get; i admire that about you.”

“c’mon~...” she persisted, stepping closer. “why don’t we make it interesting? a little wager, maybe?”

you raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite yourself. “what kind of wager?”

“if we win today, you’ll give me a kiss. a real one. aand if we lose…” she paused, leaning in closer, her breath warm against your ear. “... i’ll stop bothering you. completely. no more staring, no more teasing, no more showing up at cheer practice just to make you blush. deal?”

the offer was tempting, ridiculously tempting. the thought of yujin’s attention, her constant presence, finally fading away was almost a relief. but the idea of actually kissing her… despite the annoyance, the frustration, the undeniable fact that she was a major pain in the ass, a thrill shot through you.

the words were out of your mouth before you could stop them. “you’re on.” you tried to sound confident, but you were sure your voice quivered slightly. “and if you cheat, i get to pick your punishment.” you added, a smirk playing on your lips.

yujin grinned, her eyes sparkling with challenge. “deal. don’t say i didn’t warn you.”

“fine.” you said, trying to sound nonchalant. “but don’t expect me to pucker up. you’re going down.”

“we’ll see about that.” yujin whispered, her grin widening as she turned and jogged towards the court. “see you after the game, babe.”

you watched her go, your heart pounding in your chest. you’d just made a bet with the biggest flirt in school, a bet that could end with you kissing her or, blissfully, never having to deal with her again.

the game was a blur of squeaking sneakers, bouncing balls, and roaring crowds. you tried to focus on the cheer routines, but your eyes kept drifting back to yujin. she played with an intensity that was mesmerizing, a raw energy that crackled in the air. every time yujin made a perfect shot, which was often, she’d blow a kiss in your direction, her eyes sparkling with triumph.

and then, it happened. the final buzzer sounded, the score displayed in bright, unforgiving numbers on the scoreboard. they had won. and not just won, but dominated. yujin, MVP, was grinning triumphantly, her gaze locked on you.

your stomach dropped. you had lost. you owed yujin a kiss.

fueled by a mixture of anger and mortification, you practically stormed toward the locker room after the game, yujin hot on your heels.

you slammed the locker room door behind you, breathing heavily. you leaned against it, trying to calm your racing heart.

then, the door creaked open. yujin sauntered in, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “running away?” she teased, easily catching up to you. “i thought you were the feisty type.”

“shut up, ahn.” you snapped, stopping abruptly and turning to face her. “you wouldn’t stop annoying me and now what? are you happy for winning?”

she grinned, thoroughly enjoying your anger. “extremely, yes.” she admitted, taking a step closer.

"this is ridiculous.” you protested, crossing your arms. “it was just a stupid bet.”

“a bet is a bet.” yujin said, stepping closer. “and i won fair and square.”

“you cheated somehow, i know it.” you accused, your voice rising slightly.

yujin laughed, shaking her head. “jealous much? I'm just that good, baby.”

“don’t call me baby.” you snapped, your cheeks burning.

“why not?” yujin teased, closing the distance between you. “you like it when i call you that.”

“i do not!” you retorted, but the lie hung in the air between you.

yujin stopped right in front of you, her gaze intense. “you’re so cute when you’re angry.” she murmured, reaching out to brush a stray strand of hair from your face.

you glared at her, your fists clenched. “i’m not kissing you.”

“oh, i think you are.” she whispered, her voice laced with playful challenge. “unless you’re going to chicken out?”

that was all it took. you grabbed her by the collar of her jersey and pulled her in. your lips crashed together in a kiss that was far more heated and desperate than you had anticipated. you were angry, frustrated, and caught up in a moment of reckless abandon.

yujin moaned softly, her hand cupping your face as she deepened the kiss. your own arms reached up to wrap around her neck, pulling her closer. the kiss was electric, a rush of heat and sensation that made your head spin.

you lost yourself in her, the scent of her skin, the taste of her lips, the feel of her body pressed against yours. her hands moved down your back, pulling you impossibly closer, and you gasped against her mouth.

the kiss deepened, becoming more urgent, more demanding. you felt your own body responding, your need for her growing with each passing second. her hands slipped under your cheerleading top, tracing the curve of your waist, and you moaned against her lips.

you were both breathless, desperate. you wanted more, needed more.

yujin pulled back slightly, her chest heaving as her eyes, dark with desire, looked into yours. “i still have a few minutes before my post–game interview, do you want to...?”

“just fuck me already, yujin.”

the locker room was dimly lit and empty, the air thick with the scent of sweat and the distant echo of cheers from the basketball court outside. yujin backed you up against the wall, caging you in with her arms on either side of your head. she leaned in until her lips were a mere whisper from yours, her breath hot against your skin.

“this will be your way of paying me back for taking so long to give me what you owed me.” she breathed, before capturing your mouth in a searing, hungry kiss. her lips moved demandingly against yours, her tongue delving past your teeth to explore the warm cavern of your mouth. yujin kissed like she did everything else — with wild, reckless abandon.

one hand slid up to tangle in your hair combed in a half ponytail, tugging lightly as she deepened the kiss, while the other gripped your hip, pulling your body flush against the hard planes of her own. you could feel every inch of her lithe, toned physique pressed against you, from her plush breasts to the lean muscles of her stomach and thighs.

yujin broke the kiss with a soft, wicked laugh, smirking down at your undoubtedly kiss–swollen lips and dazed expression. she licked her lips, tasting you on them. “fuck, you taste even better than i thought you would.” she praised, her voice a low, seductive rasp. “i’m going to have so much fun ruining you, baby.”

“just—... try not to mess up my uniform too much. you know, my team will suspect things if they see me leaving here in a bad state with you.”

obviously. both the cheerleading team and the basketball team, as soon as the game ended, you two headed to the dresses in the blink of an eye. of course, your initial intentions were clearly not to be alone to fuck the girl who was always trying to piss you off on purpose by flirting with you… maybe in part yes, but you wouldn't admit it out loud!

yujin threw her head back and laughed, a rich, throaty sound that echoed off the locker room walls. she looked down at you, her dark eyes glinting with amusement and lust. her hand slid from your hip to your ass, giving it a firm, possessive squeeze.

“oh, baby, don’t worry about your cute cheerleader outfit. i’ll make sure you're presentable enough for your squad...eventually.” she purred, her voice dripping with wicked promise. “but first, i’m going to mess you up in ways you’ve never been messed up before.”

with that declaration, yujin crashed her lips back onto yours in a brutal, demanding kiss. her tongue pushed into your mouth, dominating you, claiming you. she kissed you like she owned you, like you belonged to her.

yujin’s hands slid under your cheerleading top, pushing it up and over your chest. she broke the kiss just long enough to yank the garment off over your head and toss it carelessly to the side. her fingers found your breasts, palming the soft mounds, feeling the stiff peaks of your nipples through the thin fabric of your bra.

yujin attacked your neck with bites and kisses, sucking dark marks into your skin. her teeth grazed your pulse point, and she licked over it, feeling it jump beneath her tongue. one hand slid down your stomach to the waistband of your cheer shorts, slipping inside to cup your mound.

“you’re already so fucking wet, aren’t you?” yujin breathed against your neck, her fingers rubbing your clothed slit, feeling the dampness seeping through. she nipped at your earlobe and whispered. “don’t worry, baby. i’ll take good care of this cute pussy… once i’m done playing with it.”

she punctuated her words by shoving your cheer shorts and panties down your thighs, letting them pool around your ankles. cool air hit your heated skin, but it was quickly replaced by the scorching heat of yujin’s fingers as they pushed between your legs and found your naked, dripping sex.

yujin groaned softly against your neck as she felt your slick folds, your arousal coating her fingers. she circled your clit with the pad of her thumb, applying just the right amount of pressure to make your hips buck forward, seeking more of that delicious friction.

“that’t it, baby. grind on my fingers just like that.” yujin encouraged, her voice with a low, seductive murmur. she slid one long finger inside your tight heat, feeling your walls clench around the intrusion. she pumped it slowly, shallowly, teasing you with the promise of more.

her other hand pushed down the cups of your bra, freeing your breasts to the cool air. yujin’s mouth found your nipple, drawing it into her hot mouth and suckling greedily. she licked and bit at the sensitive bud, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core.

yujin added a second finger, pumping them faster, harder, curling them to hit that special spot inside you with every thrust. her palm pressed against your clit, rubbing the sensitive nub in time with the plunging of her fingers.

she could feel your body tensing, your muscles tightening as your orgasm approached. yujin knew your body better than you knew it yourself. she could feel the fluttering of your walls, the way your breathing grew ragged and shallow.

just as you were about to tumble over the edge, yujin pulled her fingers out of you and stepped back. she brought her soaked fingers to her mouth, sucking your essence from them with a moan of appreciation.

“fuck, you taste divine.” yujin praised, her eyes dark and hungry as she looked at your disheveled, desperate form. she licked her lips, savoring your flavor.

the sudden emptiness inside you made you open your eyes. rilting your head still against the wall behind you, you look at her with half–lidded eyes, still somewhat shaken from your near–orgasm. “why did you stop?”

yujin smirked at your breathless, frustrated question. she could see the desperation in your eyes, the way your chest heaved with each ragged breath. she loved reducing you to this state of need, knowing that she held the power to give you the pleasure you craved… or deny it.

“shhh, baby. patience.” yujin cooed, trailing her fingers teasingly along your inner thigh, staying maddeningly far from your aching core. “i stopped because i want to taste you. i want to bury my face between your thighs and devour this sweet cunt until you’re screaming my name.”

yujin gripped your thighs, pushing them further apart as she sank to her knees before you. she looked up at you through sooty lashes and with a wicked and hungry grin, her dark eyes filled with lust and promise with a gaze intense and hungry. her hands gripped your thighs, pushing them further apart, opening you up to her eagerly exploring mouth. without breaking eye contact, she leaned in, her breath ghosting over your dripping folds.

“you smell incredible… and i bet you taste even better.” yujin murmured, inhaling deeply. her fingers spread your lips, exposing your glistening pink flesh to her appreciative gaze. “i can’t wait to taste you, baby. i’m going to eat this pretty pussy until you’re begging me to stop… and then i’ll keep going.”

with those words, yujin dove in, burying her face between your thighs. her tongue, hot and slick, dragged up your slit in one long, slow lick. she moaned at the first taste of your arousal, her eyes fluttering shut in bliss.

yujin licked and sucked at your folds, her mouth covering your slit entirely as she lapped at your essence. she focused her attention on your clit, suckling the sensitive bundle of nerves with single–minded focus. her tongue flicked and circled, teasing out more of your delectable juices. yujin pushed your thighs further apart, burying her face deeper into your cunt, eating you out like a starving woman.

as she ate you out, yujin’s hands gripped your ass, kneading the firm globes and pulling you harder against her mouth. she consumed you like a woman starved, like she needed your taste to survive.

yujin paused briefly to hook one of your legs over her shoulder, having your thigh over her shoulder and your leg resting on her back, opening you up even more to her hungry mouth. she licked her lips at the sight of your glistening, dripping folds, now fully exposed and vulnerable to her teasing ministrations.

“look at this pretty pussy, all wet and ready for me…” yujin purred, running a single finger along your slit, feeling the slick heat. she brought her finger to her mouth, sucking your essence off with a moan of appreciation. “you taste even better than i imagined, baby. i could eat this sweet cunt for hours.”

with that declaration, yujin dove back in, burying her face between your thighs. she licked and sucked at your clit with reckless abandon, spurred on by your desperate moans and the way your body squirmed against her. one hand reached up to pinch and tug at your nipple, rolling the stiff peak between her fingers.

yujin could feel your walls fluttering, your body tensing as your orgasm approached. she knew you were close, and she wanted to taste your release, to feel your cum coating her tongue as you screamed her name.

she focused her attention on your entrance, plunging her tongue deep inside your tight channel. she fucked you with her tongue, thrusting in and out, feeling your velvet walls clench and grip at the slick muscle. at the same time, she rubbed your clit with the pad of her thumb, applying just the right amount of pressure to send you flying over the edge.

determined to give you more, she slid three fingers inside your dripping sex, pumping them in time with the thrusts of her tongue. she curled them, rubbing that special spot inside you, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. yujin could feel your walls starting to flutter, your body trembling with impending ecstasy.

“yes, that’s it baby. come for me.” yujin urged, her voice muffled against your sex. she looked up at you, her dark eyes blazing with lust and hunger as she gazed at your face, watching your every expression. she wanted to see your beautiful face as you lost yourself to the pleasure she was giving you.

with a final, hard suck to your clit and a deep thrust of her fingers, yujin pushed you over the precipice. she felt your pussy clench down hard on her fingers, your walls spasming and fluttering as your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave.

your cries of ecstasy filled the locker room as you came undone, your fingers gripping yujin’s hair, holding her in place as she rode out the aftershocks of your release. yujin just moaned against your sex, the vibrations adding to your pleasure, drawing out your high.

yujin could feel your body stiffening, your muscles pulling taut as your climax crashed over you like a tidal wave. she didn’t let up, continuing to thrust her tongue and fingersdeep inside your spasming cunt, fucking you through your intense orgasm. your essence gushed out, flooding yujin’s mouth and chin as she lapped it up greedily.

finally, after long, blissful moments, your body went limp, your leg slipping from yujin’s shoulder as you slumped back against the wall. yujin slowly pulled away, sitting back on her heels and looking up at you with a self–satisfied smirk.

yujin licked her lips, savoring the taste of your release that still lingered in her mouth. she took a moment to admire her handiwork — your chest heaving, your skin flushed, your hair a wild mess around your face. you looked thoroughly debauched, and yujin felt an intense sense of pride at being the one to reduce you to this state.

rising to her feet, yujin leaned in close, her lips brushing against your ear as she whispered. “that was so hot. watching you come undone on my tongue, feeling your pussy spasm and gush all over my face... i could get addicted to making you scream like that.”

she nipped at your earlobe before trailing her lips down the column of your throat, sucking a dark mark into the sensitive skin. her hands slid up your sides, cupping your breasts, kneading the soft mounds. she could feel your heart pounding beneath your ribcage, still racing from the intensity of your orgasm.

yujin’s fingers found your nipples, rolling and tugging at the stiff peaks. she could feel them harden even further under her touch, your body responding eagerly to her ministrations. she smiled against your skin, knowing that she could easily work you up to another peak.

yujin pulled back slightly, glancing at her smartwatch and cursing under her breath. she had lost track of time, too caught up in pleasuring you to pay attention to the ticking seconds. reluctantly, she released your breasts and stepped away, straightening her clothes and running her fingers through her disheveled hair.

“shit, i can’t believe it, but i’m going to be late for my post–game interview if i don’t hurry.” yujin muttered, grabbing her phone from where she had tossed it earlier. she shot you a wicked grin, her eyes glinting with unspent lust. “rain check on the rest of our fun, baby. i promise, next time i won’t let anything interrupt me wrecking this sexy little body of yours.”

yujin leaned in for one last searing kiss, plundering your mouth with her tongue. she nipped at your bottom lip before pulling away and giving your ass a firm smack. “think of me when you’re getting ready for your cheer game later. i hope the next time you touch yourself you imagine it’s my fingers buried deep in this tight cunt, and if you’re good enough, you can pick me up after my training with my team, i wouldn’t mind a fuck after playing.”

she purred, delivering one last filthy promise before turning and sauntering towards the door.

with a final wink thrown over her shoulder, yujin disappeared through the locker room door, leaving you alone and desperately aroused, already craving her touch once more. you knew it wouldn’t be the last time she left you in such a state — yujin always got what she wanted, and right now, she wanted you.

#yujin #yujin x fem reader #yujin x reader #yujin smut #ahn yujin #ahn yujin x fem reader #ahn yujin x reader #ahn yujin smut #ive #ive x fem reader #ive x reader #ive smut

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danyllura · 1 year ago

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Despite Snows focus being on Katniss, I would argue Peeta played a far more of a rebellious role in his part of the “star crossed lover” during their first games than her. From the moment Cinna gets them to hold hands during the opening ceremony their pairing is shrouded in a “touch of rebellion” - we know alliances among district partners is normal/expected but it is also clear that the terms of agreement are temporary and built upon the goal of their individual survival. Peeta is the one that breaches that agreement, by pushing their relationship beyond district partners to that of “star crossed lovers” with the admittance of his crush on Katniss. It is the intent behind why he chooses what to share that is shrouded in rebellion. Early on Peeta is aware of Katniss’ potential as a tribute and beyond that he recognizes that “spark” that can make her “desirable” to others. Yes, he genuinely loves her. But he shares so not to be honest, or to make himself a sympathetic character for the capitol, but to hopefully benefit her in the arena. He pushes this further by his continuous reiterating of his feelings to the audience, during his time with the careers, alone, and then eventually with Katniss. Time and time again he displays that her survival is his ultimate goal in the games, willing to prioritize her victory over his own life. And while yes, Peeta does this because he does truly love and care about Katniss, he is intentional with his actions. He broadcasts his feelings because it benefits her. And every aspect of that goes against what the games are meant to do to people; divide them.

Comparatively, in regards to the “star crossed lovers” Katniss is much more obedient to the rules of the games. She doesn’t initially portray herself to return Peetas feelings. She plays as a solo player, and Katniss quite literally states she appears “heartless” because of this when they watch back over their time in the arena. When it’s only one promised victor and she believes Peeta to be allied with the careers, she drops a nest of tracker jackets over where Peeta is sleeping and showing she views him as any other competitor. Katniss only reciprocates the role of “star crossed lovers” when the capitol has allowed that type of alliance to work within the games. And if anything her later trick with the berries, is a scene of the capitols own making. It is a final act of desperation. Katniss’ knows Peeta is on the brink of death and it’s even a possibility for the Mutts that had just killed Cato to reappear. When she’s handing the berries to Peeta and as she spills them into her mouth, Katniss is not thinking of the significance of her choice or the potential consequences it may illicit. It’s an emotional decision, not a calculated one. In comparison, laying Rue to rest in a bed of flowers was a far more calculated act of rebellion from Katniss.

But despite all this, President Snow almost solely blames Katniss for the oncoming rebellion. And while Katniss does do many things that help initiate that spark, such as volunteering for Prim, singing to Rue, risking her life for Peeta at the feast- it isn’t that he blames, but rather her lying about loving Peeta back. Because Snow is stuck in the past with his belief that Lucy Gray tricked him into loving her. And Katniss, with her singing and her Mockinjays, is such an obvious parallel of Lucy Grays ghost- he misses the fact that Peeta has been a far more calculated player that has actively rebelled from everything the games are meant to turn you into from the moment he was reaped.

#I could keep going about this topic and expand on it but I’m tired lol #the hunger games #katniss everdeen #peeta mellark #everlark #coriolanus snow #lucy gray baird #the hunger games analysis #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #tbosbas

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slut4megantheestallion · 2 months ago

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Arcane women x reader who is part of the du Couteau family? Please! I really need it.

Arcane Women x Du Conteau reader Headcannons

Warnings ⚠️: Mentions of violence, family expectations, mentions of alcohol , mentions of combat, angst.

Characters: Vi, Jinx, Caitlyn,Sevika, Mel.

-Vi

●"Damn, sweetheart, didn't take you for the highborn type. Thought you'd be too busy drinking wine with stuck-up nobles to get your hands dirty."

●Vi doesn't trust you at first. A du Conteau in Zaun? Sounds like trouble. Your family name alone sets off alarms in her head, and she expects you to be just another power-hungry Noxian. But once she sees you in action - fighting with precision, unshaken by the chaos of the Undercity- she starts to respect you.

●She loves sparring with you. Your technique is polished, refined, and deadly, whereas she fights with brute strength and street-learned aggression. You get under her skin when you dodge her punches with ease, smirking as she grits her teeth. "You gonna hit me, or are you just dancing around?" You taunted.

●Vi might not fully understand Noxian politics, but she knows what it's like to have a name that carries weight. If your family disapproves of her, she won't lose sleep over it. "They can come over after me if they want. Won't change a damn thing."

●She calls you "princess" as a joke, especially when you get a little too proper about something. But she loves seeing the ruthless side of you - it reminds her that you're not just some delicate noble.

-Caitlyn

●"The Du Conteau family... I assume you're well-versed in both politics and combat?"

●Caitlyn is intrigued by you. She knows about Noxian nobility and the weight your last name carries, and she's immediately assessing whether you're a threat or an ally.

●She admires your tactical mind. Whether it's tracking criminals or navigating the web of Piltover High Society, you're a strategist at heart. The way you analyze a room, assess power dynamics, and remain composed in tense situations reminds her of herself.

●Your combat skills fascinate her. You move like a ghost, striking with precision and efficiency. If she ever watches you fight, she studies your every movement, fascinating by how different yet efficient your technique is.

●The two of you have intense discussions about justice, power, and the differences between Piltover and Noxus. You challenge her ideals, forcing her to think beyond Piltover's black-and-white morality.

●She's protective of you, even though she knows you can handle yourself. If someone insults you for your Noxian background, she'll shut them down instantly. "Judge them by their actions, not their name."

-Jinx

●"Wait, wait, wait - you're telling me you're some kinda fancy- pants assassin noble? Pfft, that's hilarious!"

●Jinx finds the idea of a Du Conteau hanging out in Zaun ridiculous - and endlessly entertaining. She mocks you at first, calling you "Lady Stabby Stab" or "Dagger Duchess," but once she sees what you can do, her interest skyrockets.

●She loves pushing your buttons. If you're the serious type, she's constantly messing with you, testing your patience. "What happened if I steal one of your fancy little daggers? Ooo, are you gonna assassinate me? Spooky!"

●But deep down, she respects you. You're dangerous, calculated, and not easily rattled. Even when she's at her most chaotic, you don't flinch. That both excites and unnerves her.

●If you ever show a wilder side - reckless, ruthless, or unpredictable - Jinx is hooked. She thrives on chaos, and if you embrace some of that, she'll see you as a kindred spirit.

●She adores the contrast between you and her. A trained, disciplined noble choosing to spend time with a manic, volatile criminal? Now that's a story.

-Sevika

●"Hmph. A noble walking around Zaun? Either you're lost, or you're looking for a fight?"

●Sevika isn't impressed by your name or your staus- Zaun doesn't care about Noxian nobility. What does impress her is strength, amd you? You have that in spades.

●She doesn't waste time with pleasantries. If you want her respect, you have to earn it. A fight is usually the fastest way. If you hold your own, she'll smirk and say, "Maybe you're not just some spoiled brat after all."

●She likes drinking with you. If you can handle strong Zaunite liquor without flinching, she'll give you a nod of approval. If you do flinch, expect some teasing.

●If she sees that you're tired of noble politics and the weight your name, she'll simply say, "Then stop pretending. You don't owe them a damn thing." Sevika doesn't care about legacy - only survival.

●She's fiercely protective once she sees you as her own. If anyone dares to threaten you in Zaun, she'll handle it- violently.

-Mel

●"A Du Conteau? How... fascinating."

●Mel recognizes your name immediately. The Du Conteau are known in Noxian circles, and she loved the intrigue of it all.

●The two of you engage in sharp conversations. Every word is deliberate. Every glance calculated. It's like a game of chess where both of you are five moves ahead.

●She admires your strategic mind. If you play the political game well, she'll be even more drawn to you. Power is attractive, and you know how to wield it.

●She appreciates beauty, and if you carry yourself with grace and confidence, she'll take notice. Expect lingering touches, soft compliments, and knowing smirks.

●"You're family values strength above all else. Tell me, my dear - where do you find your strength?" Mel doest just want you to know your skills; she wants to understand you

●If your family disapproves of your association with her, she's utterly unbothered.

●"Let them watch, I enjoy an audience."

#arcane women #jinx x reader #vi arcane x reader #mel medarda x reader #caitlyn kirraman x reader #sevika x reader #wlw x reader #wlw

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puppetmaster13u · 1 year ago

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Prompt 203

Another Hydra prompt! Because I am enjoying the designs I’ve made lol. And perhaps it’s a bit inspired by @radiance1 ‘s different dragon prompts too.

So they’ve succeeded! They’ve managed to combine their powers- with a bit of shapeshifting helped along by so many ghost allies- and become a giant duck-you dragon! Well, originally they were going to do something else, but they couldn’t agree on an animal, so dragon it was!

And how mighty they are! They’re giant, absolutely massive- dwarfing the couple of skyscrapers still in Amity. Damages via ghost attacks and general sparring made it where people really didn’t want to rebuild those types of buildings.

But anyway, dragon! Them! They’re absolutely stunning! And did they mention powerful? Because boy oh boy, are they powerful. The GIW’s guns do practically nothing against their combined might, and barriers shatter before them!

The uh, issue is that they erm… can’t turn back. Which is fine, they’ve all sort of outlived most of their generation- thank you possessions and ecto-contamination, it’s just a tiny bit of an adjustment. But really it’s not too bad, and someone needs to stop the GIW from trying to poke their heads into Amity. Like it’s been a solid couple of generations, it’s time to stop, thanks.

Actually they’ve been a bit quiet. Meh, that surely isn’t a problem. Probably. Honestly they’re all going to use the opportunity to sprawl out where the school yard once was, their favorite place to sun their scales. Huh. Usually more people are around now that they think about it- or really, as Paulina points out, sharpening her fangs on one of the rocks.

…

How long had they been sleeping, because it couldn’t have been that long. One of them was always awake, they slept in shifts after all! Yet there are things missing now as they patrol the skies, both Wes and Tucker pointing out specific buildings that the others didn’t particularly notice usually that now lay empty.

Hm.

Oh. That is a… strong barrier there. A really strong barrier actually. Pfft, they can take it! They’ve shredded every barrier together before- Ow.

…

Okay this might be a bit of a problem. Shit.

You want a general size reference? :P

#Dcxdp #Dpxdc #Prompts #The Class Pulls a Tiamat #The GIW have been working on a way to cage the Very Dangerous Ghost Dragon that just seemed to Appear one day according to their predecesso #Yes it’s been a good hundred years or so since the DP series happenings #Also yes they’re poly & sharing a body #They can talk telepathically & share some abilities or dozen #”Danny this is definitely all from your luck I swear” “It could also be Wes’ y’know” “Don’t drag me into this”#Big angry dragon king/queen (as Amity started calling them) throwing a fit at the barrier they can’t get through #Which gets some people’s attention both inside said barrier and outside it #This includes a few heroes and people who Should NOT have learned about a Giant Hydra

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arafinwean-week · 5 months ago

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Welcome to Arafinwëan Week! This is a new event following in the footsteps of @arafinweanweek, last run in 2019. This event celebrates the House of Finarfin and all of its descendants.

The event will run January 5–11 and accepts all types of fanworks. There is an AO3 collection for the event here.

Below are some suggested prompts for each day of the week. They are not mandatory; feel free to combine them or disregard them entirely.

Please mention @arafinwean-week (mind the dash! arafinweanweek is the old event's blog) in the body of your post and tag #arafinweanweek and #arafinweanweek2025 in the first 10 tags. You may also submit a post. Please place any NSFW content beneath a read more/link to AO3.

For more information, please see the FAQ. If you have any questions, drop them in the ask box.

Art is by @wanderer-clarisse.

#the silmarillion #silmarillion #finrod #galadriel #aegnor #angrod #finarfin #earwen #arafinweanweek #arafinweanweek2025 #mod post

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rileyslibrary · 2 years ago

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teaching ghost how to make paper cranes but he keeps messing up with his huge ass hands <3333 (gn reader please! love your work❣️❣️)

*taps microphone* one “Ghost struggling” with a side of “Japanese paper folding art” coming right up. (A/N at the end)

———————————————————————

��This is even more annoying than Soap.”

“It’s not Soap’s fault you have sausages for fingers.” You murmur as you finish your tenth paper crane and set it on the conference table.

He examines the back of his hand as if he had just received a manicure. He then flips it over, palm facing up, and curls his fingers into a fist before releasing them.

“My fingers are not the problem,” he argues, “it’s these sheets; they are way too small.”

“Did you say ‘shits’ or ‘sheets’?” You quip, and he huffs at your comment. Yet, he picks up another piece of paper from the stack to try again.

You observe him as he leans over the table. He is pretty crafty when it comes to surviving in difficult situations; he can light a fire by creating a bow drill, build a shelter out of branches, and navigate the woods with a needle as a compass. But when it comes to these types of crafts, he struggles.

He starts folding again, a little gentler than before. Every time he completes a step, he pauses to assess his progress. He occasionally lets out a self-motivational hum and nods to himself.

But then something happens, and he loses it—a misaligned fold caused by his large hands or a paper rip as a result of his inexperience with handling such delicate materials. Sometimes he just feels discouraged, anticipating another failed try, and gives everything up.

Looking at his current attempt, you know the paper crane will fall apart. He completes his final folds and, as you anticipated, it comes loose. He groans and crumbles the paper.

“You can do it,” you assert. “I’ve seen you train unruly recruits with much more patience.”

“For fucks sake, Y/N,” he shouts, throwing his head back, “recruits are easier to shape into soldiers than moulding a fucking Post-it note into a duck.”

“It’s a crane,” you correct him; “ducks have another technique.”

“What’s the difference?” he complains. “Why do they have different folds if they are both birds?”

“For the same reason, an AK47 and an MP5 need different types of ammo, I guess.”

Despite his disappointment, he picks up another piece of paper and folds it again.

“Patience, Lt.,” you encourage him, “treat it as a recruit.”

He pauses for a minute, contemplating your advice, before he begins. He does not treat the paper as a target this time. He carefully pinches it with his fingers and folds it with his nails. In his eyes, the paper has taken on the appearance of something far too fragile. Something that needs to be helped and taken care of. It’s not against him, but with him—they’re allies working towards a common goal.

He completes it and places it in the palm of his hand, stretching his creation towards you. It’s not perfect, but nothing is.

“Excellent work, Lieutenant!” You cheer, and he proudly places his paper crane next to yours.

“It’s relaxing and meditative,” he admits; “all this folding and aligning makes you forget about things.”

“Things?” You ask as he pulls another sheet from the stack.

“You know,” he replies, staring at the paper in his hands, “bad things.”

You can see his emotions shifting through his eyes—they’re half-lidded as if they want to forget the atrocities they witnessed. His hands are fiddling with that paper; they are shameful hands in his mind—hands that participated in the worst horrors imaginable. They’re not worthy of making paper cranes.

“Paper cranes symbolise hope,” you comfort him, “and there’s a Japanese legend that says whoever makes a thousand of them will be granted a wish.”

His eyes light up, and he opens his lips to say something, but Soap enters the room. “What are you doing here?” He yells and sits on the table, right next to your paper cranes.

Ghost rolls his eyes at the sight of Soap but continues with his little project. “I’m making a thousand paper cranes to fulfil my wish.” He replies.

“What are you going to wish for, Lieutenant?” He asks, and Ghost replies with a stern “for you to get off my fucking back.”

You make quiet shushing noises to calm him down, and he inhales deeply.

“What is it that you want, Sergeant?” He finally asks, and Soap begins to report every problem around the base that would require Ghost’s attention.

“And the fridge broke last night, and all the meat has gone bad,” he concludes, “so it looks like we might have to eat a plant-based diet until we fix it.”

“That’s alright,” Ghost shrugs, “as long as we get our nutrients, we’ll be fine.”

Soap looks at you, dumbfounded. “Wow, Lt.!” he shouts, turning to Ghost, “these paper cranes have turned you into a bloody monk, haven’t they?”

“Paper crane, paper crane,” Ghost begins to chant as he folds, “go away, or you’ll end up with a fucking cane.”

“Ghost!” you cry. “Where is the patience and meditative state we discussed earlier?”

“I’m sorry,” he apologises and turns to Soap. “Namaste, sergeant,” he says and waves his hand in dismissal, “now fuck off.”

And who are you to tell him what to say or how to behave? You, too, are a project yourself, just like these cranes lined up in front of you. You look at the trash bin with all the papers he crumbled before completing his first successful paper fold art. Today he learned something new and joyful. Something that makes him feel content and proud rather than something that wakes him up in the middle of the night or, worse, prevents him from sleeping. Making a thousand paper cranes is so much better than watching him with that thousand-yard stare he gets after every mission.

Soap grabs one of your paper cranes, places it in his pocket, and leaves you two be.

Ghost completes his second successful paper crane and grabs another sheet. “Nine hundred and ninety-eight more to go,” he states, “you know, for that wish.”

———————————————————————

A/N: I had no idea how to make a paper crane, so I wanted to teach myself first in order to write this. And yes, I did it on a Post-it note (but not a sticky one). Also, this piece is 1000 words.

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mphoenix-7 · 11 months ago

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Bitter Allies [Soap x Reader]

Chapter 1: The Mission

Book Summary: John "Soap" MacTavish has hated you since the very first day you arrived on base and joined their Task Force. You argue all the time, and one day, it pushes Captain Price to his absolute limit. He sends you both away to an isolated cabin in the woods for a week in hopes you can put aside your differences and bond. Will it work? Or will you two just end up hating each other even more?

This is a slow burn enemies to lovers fan fiction featuring Soap and you, the reader.

Word Count: 5,585

Warnings: NSFW, 18+, Soap is mean, like really mean, smut later to come, rough smut, lots of swearing, violence, descriptive, blood, angst, fluff, slow burn, (more to come as I write)

A/N: Just a reposting of my story on Wattpad to help generate attention for it! Please go give it some love if you’re liking it so far. My user name is Emily7love or just look up the title.

Master List | Next ->

Bitter Allies • Part 1

"Bravo 7-1, this is Bravo 0-7, give me a sit rep on your position, over."

Soap is currently kneeling in some brush, staring at the small military camp in front of him when the radio call comes through. Despite the fact that he'd most likely need to be adjusting the volume up soon on his ear piece, he still turns it down a little for now.

"This is Bravo 7-1, I've been in position. Waiting on 7-4 to move her ass." He all but growls back to Ghost. His hand tenses on his rifle at even saying those numbers. Bravo 7-4.

You were Bravo 7-4. Also known as (y/n) "States" (l/n). The all too grumpy Sergeant by the callsign Bravo 7-1 was John "Soap" MacTavish. Also known as the biggest pain in your ass since you joined up with Captain Price's Task Force about six months ago.

Now anyone who knew Soap would be shocked to hear you say that you thought he was literally the worst and most insufferable human being to ever stain the Earth. To everyone else, Soap was a funny, charismatic, rather easy-going, and quite friendly guy. Everyone loved Soap. He was the golden boy of the Task Force, of the entire base. People were just naturally drawn to him, and his warm personality.

You can't say you blame people for being shocked when they learn just how much you can't stand him. Cause all those things about Soap were true. He was funny, and friendly, and relaxed, and just a great guy to be around. He was all those things when he wasn't around you. The second you stepped into the picture, his amused grin turned into a stiff scowl. His sparkling eyes turned hard. His relaxed posture turned rigid.

Yeah, John "Soap" MacTavish hated you. And you hated him.

Why did he hate you? You weren't entirely sure. It just seemed like it has always been that way since day one.

You transferred into the Task Force at the request of Captain Price himself. Originally, you had been stationed at a military base in the United States, where you were from. Then one day your commanding officer called you into his office and told you that you'd been given a new assignment. You would be working with a British Task Force across the pond for the next year. A group of four SAS men. If things worked out, then you'd be staying there indefinitely.

You'd been thrilled at the news. You didn't join the military only for the benefits and the opportunity to serve, but for the opportunity to travel and to potentially live somewhere else in the world. Getting to be that while also being SAS was the dream. You worked so hard to get to where you were today. Sleepless nights of studying, hard days of working out and trying to improve and hone your skills, and now it was finally happening. You were being sent off to a new base and a new team. And not just any team, an elite task force. You'd finally been selected.

You met the whole team day one of your arrival. The first person you met was Captain John Price. He was a friendly but very stern man. The no nonsense type of guy. He gave you a tour of the base, and showed you to the female barracks. Once you were semi-settled in (all your belongings piled into your room) you went to meet the other members of your new Task Force.

Price introduced you to each teammate. They'd all been in his office by the time you and Price showed up. Two had been seated, and one was standing despite there being enough chairs. That had been Soap.

"Alright you lot, here she is. This is (y/n) (l/n). Straight from across the pond." Price introduced you. "(Y/n), these are boys of the 141. This is Sergeant Kyle Garrick."

"You can also call me Gaz." Kyle fills in, giving you a nod and a handshake. "It's nice to have someone from the States joining us." He was the one responsible for your callsign being States.

"This is your Lieutenant. Simon Riley. He goes strictly by Ghost." Price continues. Ghost doesn't make a move to shake your hand. He just stayed quiet. Didn't even give you a nod of any kind. Quite intimidating coming from a guy wearing a skull over his face. "And lastly, this is-"

"Soap." The man barks out before Price can say anything. You remember hearing Price sigh before finishing his sentence. "Sergeant John MacTavish."

"You can call me Soap though. Nothing else." His voice was harsh, and carried a tone of warning. If you to call him by anything else other than his callsign, there were going to be harsh consequences.

His arms were folded across his chest, and he'd glared at you during the whole introduction. It made you so nervous, the reactions you got from both Soap and Ghost. Price assured you later though that they would come around. They just needed to warm up to you. He'd been 50% correct.

At the time, Ghost had been the most terrifying of three, and the one you worried you wouldn't be able to connect with (boy had you been foolish). At the time though, Soap had at least said something to you. Ghost never said a word or even acknowledged you. And when Ghost did talk to you, it was always in a gruff voice like you were annoying him. But over time, you came to realize that was just who Ghost was. It wasn't anything personal. He was like that with literally everyone. It was rare to catch him laughing or to hear his gruff voice become lighter.

Soap, on the other hand, also spoke to you the way Ghost did, but he only used that tone with you. He was so cheery and light when speaking with the guys. Even with strangers, his voice may have been slightly more gruff, but never as harsh as when he spoke to you.

His personality was vastly different around the others as well. Whereas he could joke, laugh, and relax around them, he was the opposite around you. You thought for a moment that maybe he was sexiest and just didn't like women, though every woman he spoke to around base, he was the kindest and most respectful guy.

Now six months later, not much had changed. Soap still spoke to you in a gruff voice. He still scowled when you entered a room. He still glared at you any time he needed to look at you. He had gotten more "comfortable" around you. But really that just meat he was far more comfortable with insulting you directly. From the way you shoot to the way you eat, he could find anything to gripe about. And eventually, you decided that if he was going to be difficult, then you'd return the favor.

The first time you insulted him back, he looked shocked, then just flat out angry. Your encounters went from quiet insults being thrown back and forth and dirty looks to all out yelling at each other. Never physical fights, but Soap had punched a hole in the wall during one particularly bad argument.

The others couldn't stand you fighting. Gaz would do everything in his power to keep you separated and distracted from each other so you wouldn't start. Ghost tried to never be involved, but he would sometimes break up the fights by using his scary lieutenant voice and sending you both to different parts of the base to cool off. Price... he got the most upset. He was normally so calm under pressure but hearing you and Soap bicker pushed him to the limit. He'd yell at you both until he turned red and then normally punish you by making you do extra cleaning, harder workouts, or something else just as labor intensive.

You lost count of how many times you'd been in his office with Soap, getting reprimanded on your behavior. One of the worst had been when Soap actively tried to get you kicked off the team while you were sitting right there.

"She is a right pain in the arse, Price! I didn't even start it this time!" He claims, doing everything he could not to look at you.

"Oh blow it out your ass, Soap. You were giving me a look."

"Then don't fucking look at me." Soap growls through his teeth.

Price slams his fist onto the table, making you both jump a little and halt your bickering for a moment. "Can you two shut the hell up? It's just constant with you. I have had a headache for five fucking days cause of you idiots. What is it going to take for you two to get along?"

Soap is quick with his answer. "All this could be solved if you just deported her little ass back to the US. Seriously Price, she's caused nothing but trouble since she got here."

"I am right here, Soap." You huff out a laugh, not too shocked he'd say something like that though.

"I wish you weren't." He throws back, making Price intervene again.

"Enough! She's not going anywhere, Soap. Whether you like it or not, she brings in a skill set we are missing in this team."

"Like hell she doesn't! We can find someone else." He argues, earning a glare from Price.

"She is staying. I signed a contract that she stays for a year. If we break that, we lose our funding, our reputation, and a whole lot more." Price says, making Soap cross his arms and sit back in his chair.

"So after however many months she has left, we can get rid of her?"

"You'll be lucky if I keep you once your contract expires!" He shouts at Soap, which shuts the Scot up. Sighing, Price continues. "I will reassess at the end of year once States' contract has expired." He says more calmly, which makes your heart sink and Soap smirk.

You were dismissed then, but Price had you stay back. Probably to keep you and Soap from walking with each other, but he also has a few words for you. He reassured you that you were doing great. That you truly did bring a lot to their team and that he was happy to have you there.

"Are you going to send me back at the end of the year?" You'd asked him before you left, looking over your shoulder by the door while he stayed seated at his desk.

"Don't worry about that now, States. But know, I like having you here, and remember, it takes both of to sign the renewal contract."

That gave you hope. Price most likely would want to keep you, but he was also going to leave it up to you to decide whether or not you wanted to stay. At the same time, if things continued the way they were, it wasn't going to be good for team morale. If Price had to pick between you and Soap, you were sure he'd pick Soap. He'd been with the team longer and knew them far better than you did. This was your dream though. Being SAS. It could take years before you got another team. You liked Price, Ghost and Gaz. Could you live with Soap?

That meeting was only three weeks ago. You'd been with the Task Force for almost six months. Halfway through.

Your current mission landed you in Naryn, Kyrgyzsta. You were hunting down a military leader, General Azamat, who was accused of doing an illegal arms deal with Russia. Photos and weeks of gathering intel suggested he was guilty and currently at this military base in Naryn.

This was purely a stealth mission first. You and Soap were tasked with infiltrating the small military base while Ghost provided overwatch. There were three security stations. One on the East, what Soap was in position for, the South, the one you were headed towards now, and the West, where you and Soap would meet to take out the last one.

The East and South stations were backup generators and needed to be taken out first before the main one to the South was. That way you kept the element of surprise and didn't need to worry about the backups going online. After that, your troops would push in and secure the base, capture the military leader, and you could all go home.

Soap had given the update on his position, saying he was where he needed to be, about two minutes ago. Two fucking minutes ago. And he was already griping that you weren't to your position yet. His words rang in your ear through your comm earpiece.

"This is Bravo 7-1, I've been in position. Waiting on 7-4 to move her ass."

"Calm down, I'm almost fucking there. Don't be so impatient." You growl back. "Seriously Ghost, how do you even deal with him?"

"Haad yer wheesht." Soap growls at you, some Scottish slang you don't understand. No doubt he was telling you to shut the fuck up or something along those lines.

"Either speaking fucking English or don't speak, MacTavish." You bark, voice getting a little too loud for a stealth mission. Even if you weren't too close to the camp yet, there could be patrols you needed to be mindful of.

"How about you fucking learn about other's cultures and then we wouldn't have this problem. And don't call me MacTavish."

"I do know about other's cultures! I just don't care to know about the one that you came from." You throw back before Ghost gets involved.

"Shut it. Now. Not another word. Fuck's sake." You could practically see Ghost shaking his head. "States, how long till you're in position?" Ghost asks, directing attention back to the mission.

"Give me two minutes."

"Bloody fucking Jesus." You hear Soap mummer through the comms.

You take a deep breath to try and focus your energy back on your current tasks. Soap was not going to get in your head and mess this up for you. For anyone else, he would have stayed quiet. In fact, it probably wouldn't have even bothered him.

"Hold up, 7-4." You hear Ghost say to you after about 30 seconds of creeping your way to your position. "You've got a small patrol further up from your position. Just over the hill. Two men, I don't see anyone else. When you're in range, get a good shot of one, and I'll dump the other for you."

"On it. Thanks Ghost." You whisper back, readying your rifle and trying to be as silent as you can while you approach the men.

"You telling me it's gonna be even longer now." Soap complains, making you roll your eyes.

"I'm sorry your side didn't have rough terrain or anyone to fight off, Soap." You tell him sarcastically. "Some of us didn't get the easy baby route to take."

"I'll have you know I took down two fucking patrols all by myself while I made my way over here. And I didn't have Ghost's help to do it either."

"Fuck you." You growl at him.

"What did I bloody fucking say?" Ghost growls, his lieutenant voice coming out. You curse yourself as you let it happen again. Just ignore the Scot and focus on what's ahead.

"In position, Ghost. I see them. Clear sight on both, your call."

Ghost does the quick calculations in his head as he prepares his shot, trying to determine which of the two men he had a better chance of taking out. "The one with the flashlight is mine. Dump is mate. In three, two..."

You both took the shot, Ghost pulling his trigger just a millisecond before you to account for the distance. He landed a clean headshot while your first bullet landed more in the shoulder of your guy. You took a quick second shot, which finished the job with another headshot.

"He's down. Clean shots. Though try for the head first next time." Ghost quips. There was no malice in his words. Just Ghost joking around to ease tension. Soap clearly needed to take lessons from Ghost on how to tell a joke without being a total ass about it.

"Noted. Thanks for the advice, 0-7." You banter back, earning a scowl and an eye roll from Soap.

"Less talking, more getting to where you're supposed to be." Soap cuts in, ending the fun you'd been having with Ghost.

"Don't get your skirt in a knot. I'm in position." You huff, pulling out your binoculars and scouting the area. Despite this base housing a military leader, and having two back up generators, they really didn't have much security. No walls, no floodlights. Just a few patrols outside. They weren't expecting trouble.

"It's a bloody kilt. Not a skirt." Soap seethes, his jaw clenched. At this rate, he wasn't going to be able to finish this mission. Everything about you was just pure annoyance to him.

"Yeah whatever you want to tell yourse-"

"Are you two going to be able to finish this mission or am I going to have to pull you both from it?" Ghost barks over the comms, clearly fed up now.

You feel your face flush hot in embarrassment. Ghost has never threatened to remove you from a mission before. You've always been good and reliable. You can't fail and have it on your record that you were pulled from a mission due to not being able to get along with others. That was a death sentence for your career with the SAS.

"No, sir. Sorry, 0-7." You apologize, not hearing anything from Soap's end. He was probably pouting and internally cursing you for getting him in trouble, even though this was all his fault. "Going to head out for the South station. Bravo 7-4 going dark." You turn your radio from the public channel between you three to a private one used only for emergencies. At least now you wouldn't be able to hear Soap for a little bit.

Soap hears your radio beep once, signaling to him you'd disconnected for a moment while you advance towards your target goal. Once you had, he huffs and takes a moment to squeeze his eyes shut and collect himself.

"I can't fucking stand her, Ghost." He complains to his friend. "Why the hell did Price ever think it was a good idea to put us together on a mission?" He looked out into the field, making out the little shadow of you making your way slowly to the base.

"She's part of the team, Soap. Price has his reasons. Just focus on the mission and make it work." Ghost replies, not offering too much help aside from stating the obvious and putting Soap's mind back in the field. "Better get going. Your path is clear right now."

Soap sighs heavily and stretches out his neck a bit by tilting his ears toward each shoulder. One side pops a little, only relieving a little tension. "Alright. Bravo 7-1 going dark." He clicks his radio to the private channel and begins to make his way to the East backup generator's building.

By the time Soap reaches his building, you are already working your way inside the South building thanks to the small head start you got. You stick to the shadows as much as you can, thoughts wandering to Soap from time to time. Wondering if he's cleared his building already or if he ran into trouble. Then again, if it was really bad, he could have contacted you or Ghost and there would have been alarms going off. And as much as you hated him, you had to admit he was really good at this kind of stuff. Sweeping through a place and clearing it out. Quick and clean. Of course he'd never ever hear you utter any praises directed at him.

Your building wasn't too heavily guarded. You assumed most of their men were either asleep in the barracks, standing guard of where the military leader was staying, or off patrolling areas they deemed more important than the backup generators. The main building to the West would have most of their patrols since it was the more important building. That was the reason you and Soap needed to work on clearing it together.

You managed to clear your building fairly quickly with only one close call. One guard had seen you shoot someone else, but you managed to take them out before they could radio for backup, and no one seemed to have heard him yell. Once cleared, you plugged in the flash drive and uploaded the virus it contained to make the generator go offline.

You bring a hand to your radio and speak into it. "This is Bravo 7-4, generator down, South building secure. I repeat, generator down. Heading to the West building to the rendezvous now." You begin to head out the way you came in as Ghost speaks to you over the comms.

"This is Bravo 0-7. Confirm. You're all clear." Ghost responds.

"You got a sit rep on our precious Bravo 7-1?" You ask, forgetting to switch over from the private channel. You duck behind some ammo boxes and sneak along them, not expecting to get an answer from Soap. You expected him to be busy still and not on the public channel that you thought you were on. Before Ghost can answer, 7-1 graces you with a response.

"States, shut your fucking mouth and switch your radio over to public. How the hell did you get selected when you can't even use a damn radio." He snarls, making you pause. Soap's words always kinda stung a bit, but some more than others.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Am I not allowed to have a sit rep on you?" You ask, ignoring your slip up of being in the wrong channel.

"No." He answers flatly, making you sigh and roll your eyes. So much for working as a team. "And switch-"

You switched over while he was mid sentence, not wanting to hear his grating voice anymore. You were getting a little worn down at this point. It wasn't like you enjoyed arguing with Soap as much as you did. It was exhausting. Being out in the field where you were already stressed was making it a lot worse.

"He's almost done." Ghost answers you, keeping you updated since Soap clearly wasn't going to. "Just head to the rendezvous, States."

You grumble softly but do as you are told. You mutter a "copy" into your radio before slowly and carefully making your way to the rendezvous. You hear a soft beep shortly after, signaling Soap had reconnected to the public channel. You try to avoid using your radio after that, even skipping check-ins since it seemed that Soap was going to make any use of your radio an unpleasant experience. Though eventually you do need to give an update that you were at the rendezvous, that way Soap wouldn't shoot you.

You move to the side of a building and crouch down. "Bravo 7-4 approaching rendezvous." You sigh to yourself before adding, "Bravo 7-1, please let me know when you are on your way."

"I'm already here. Look to your bloody right 7-4." You look almost directly to your right, which is met with an annoyed sigh. "Not that far. Back to your.. straight.. just- Fucks sake, by the crates!"

"You're not giving me good directions!" You silently yell back, still looking for him.

"By the crates! The only crates in the area! I'm practically in the open."

You see him then. His stupidly handsome face turned into a scowl and his piercing blue eyes glaring at you. He was not in the open, only his head poking up from the crates. You sent the same look right back to him and make your way over, looking around and making sure the way was clear so you wouldn't compromise your position. He was kind enough to at least raise his gun and cover you as you made your way over. Once behind the crates, back pressed to them, he relaxes his position and ducks behind them with you.

"States, look at me," Soap says, his voice deep and gravely. The only tone he ever seemed to use with you. "I want this done clean and easy. No fuck ups. You're going to follow my lead and stay out of my way. And I don't want to hear a single word from you unless it's mission related. You got that?" He lectures you.

You are so, so tempted to roll your eyes at him. He was talking to you like you were a marine fresh off selection. Not a five year veteran who was selected for an elite special forces team. He didn't even outrank you by that much. Not enough to make a real difference. The only thing he had up on you was experience and maybe two years in age.

You're silent for a long moment, glaring at him until he repeats himself a little.

"Do you understand?" He annunciates each word, and you swallow down the choice of words you had for him. This wasn't the time or place for that. You were in the middle of a mission that could go belly up and turn dangerous. You didn't need to be fighting the sergeant on this.

"You got it." You say tightly, mustering up all the strength you possessed not to say more than that to him.

Soap seemed surprised you agreed so easily, but he eyes you suspiciously for a moment before nodding. "Good." He nods before reaching for his radio. "Bravo 0-7, this is 7-1. Going in. Rest of the troops be ready in five minutes and wait for the signal."

"Copy, 7-1." Ghost confirms. "Be warned, I see multiple troops in the vicinity of the West security building. Some men have different uniforms. They look to be General Azamat's men. He could be in there."

You furrow your brows at that. You were expecting a lot of troops in that area, but the military leader you were after wasn't supposed to be in there. There was a bunker in the middle of the camp that he was supposed to be in. It wasn't going to be a significant change the mission though. It just meant your job had become a lot harder. More men to clear out without raising alarm.

"This is Bravo 7-4, 0-7 what's the best way in?" You ask, refusing to look at Soap. You saw his head turn to look at you from the corner of your eye.

"If you wanna come home looking like Swiss cheese I'd go with the front door. Around the back might be your best shot, but I can't get a clear view from my area." Ghost informs you.

"Can you reposition and-"

"No." Soap immediately cuts you off, making you glance to him. "We don't have time for a reposition. We need to move before they realize their backup generators have been breached."

"You just don't like it cause it was my idea." You accuse, watching as Soap visibly becomes agitated.

"I don't like it cause it's a bloody stupid idea!" Soap says through clenched teeth. He was getting right in your face. You were about to tell him off until Ghost's voice filled your left ear.

"Soap's right. There's no time. Head to the back and make due with that entry point. We'll go loud if we need to."

Soap wore a smug look as Ghost sided with him. You despised it. "See? Told you it was a stupid idea." He reiterates, still way too close for comfort.

Your anger flared, and you shoved him back with a forearm to his chest. He reacted instantly, grabbing your arm and flinging it away as if it had burned him. The movement was so quick, it surprised you a bit, and all you can do is stare at him with wide eyes.

"Touch me again, and you're going to regret ever signing up for the military," he growled, his finger jabbing the air between you before standing up and storming off without attracting too much attention.

You're left stunned for a moment, though you're not sure how you thought he was going to react to you pushing him. Within a matter of seconds, you gather yourself, reminding yourself that you were still in enemy territory and needed to focus. With a reluctant sigh, you followed after him.

You managed to make your way to the back of the West Building with Soap without too many complications. The most you needed to really do was duck behind some parked trucks as a military jeep rolled by. It exited the compound, likely heading out to meet a patrol for a shift change.

You and Soap didn't say a single word to each other the whole way. For a stealth mission, that was preferable. However, you could feel the tension between you and Soap. Disdain was radiating off him, and you didn't want to get too close to him in fear he was going to blow up at any second.

There's a line up of vehicles that serve as your cover for the time being as you sneak along one side of them. Suddenly, you nearly collide with Soap when he abruptly raises his hand, signaling you to stop. There's a group of four men all standing in a small circle, talking and smoking together. They're isolated from other groups but taking out a group of four could be very difficult to do.

Soap takes a few steps back, waving for you to back up as well. "We can't take that group out by ourselves, we're going to have to go around." He tells you in a hushed voice as you attempt to peak around him to get a good view of the targets blocking your path.

"It's only four. We can both take out two." You suggest, but, just like all your other ideas, Soap is fast to shut that one down too.

"Not a chance. You suck at hitting multiple headshots." He accuses.

That makes your blood begin to boil. You were not the God awful shot he made you out to be. In fact, back on your base in the US, you were considered to be one of the better shooters.

"I don't suck at making headshots." You glare, making him huff at you.

"Oh really? You missed the one earlier. Ghost managed to hit it from hundreds of meters away, and you bloody miss from a few feet. Your aim is absolute dog shite, States. I'm not going to have you mess up this entire mission cause you think you're better than you are."

His voice was harsh, as always, and his glare was biting. You felt your eyes burn as tears formed, but you refused to let Soap see you cry. He'd only roll his eyes and call you a baby. Crying would only give him more reasons to think you didn't belong here, that you weren't as good as the rest of them.

There were so many things you wanted to say to him in that moment, but you couldn't. The words got caught in your throat, and you feared that if you opened your mouth, a sob would escape. All you could do was look away and clench your jaw, masking your hurt feelings as anger instead.

Soap seems to take your silence as you submitting. "Come on. We'll go around that way."

He was motioning to a camp-like area that seemed mostly deserted, though there were probably men sleeping in the multiple tents that were set up. Along with the tents, there was some campfires and some small boxes of what looked to be filled with MREs.

As Soap quickly moved to the new area to bypass the group of men, you glanced back at them. You knew you could land those headshots. If Ghost had been with you, you would have taken them down already. You were tired of Soap thinking you were inferior and wanted to prove him wrong so badly. You knew you could land those headshots...

Raising your rifle slowly, you lined up the shot for the first target and mentally mapped out the sequence. One on the right, then left, then back right, and then back left. A simple zig-zag pattern. Easy enough.

Right as you're about to pull the trigger, you hear Soap's voice crackle through the comms. His voice was deep and full of warning and venom.

"Don't you fucking dare, States."

But you dared. You wanted more than anything to prove him wrong. You slowly exhaled and pulled the trigger.

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sehaedazokla · 7 months ago

Text

he that dares

part two

premise: Cregan Stark's arrival in King's Landing has brought a new type of chaos to the capital. Lady Tyrell is determined to use the Northern lord to her advantage, but the task might not be as straightforward as it seems.

tags: slowburn, tension, angst, comfort, eventual smut, court politics

word count: 8k

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Cregan Stark finds himself with much waiting to be done. Waiting for different ravens to be sent, and then for the replies to return. Waiting for the arrival of lords whom had been summoned to King’s Landing, and for the answer of whether or not the war will continue. He seeks justice to be distributed to all those whom it should fall upon: whether they had been allies of Rhaenyra or Aegon, all parties who acted dishonorably within the conflict ought to face their rightful punishment. But what the Lord of Winterfell does not find himself waiting upon is the Lady Tyrell.

The very morning after their conversation in the gardens, Cregan pushes open the door of what had once been the small council’s meeting chambers. It has been turned into a temporary headquarters for the Northern lords who are holding court, and for the additional powers at play. While the other lords file out, discussing in hushed and heavy whispers amongst themselves about the political matters that weighed their minds, Cregan pauses.

He is the last to leave the room, pulling the heavy wooden door behind him, and his eyes drift to the girl lingering in the corner of the hall. She curtsies to a pair of lords who look up to see her, and the two men pause their conversation briefly as their eyes rest upon her, hastily bowing in return. But when her eyes meet Cregan’s, they remind him more of a hawk’s than a girl’s. As if they have landed on a mouse she intends to hunt for supper.

But just as it had been the day before, Cregan wonders if he imagined it. As she walks up to him, the expression on her face is nothing short of saccharine. She folds her hands delicately across the front of her gown – today she wears a shade of blue similar to the sky on the clearest day, with white lace at her collar and around her sleeves. There is gold silk embroidered about her waist in twisting florals, with small pink rosettes weaved in between. The dress is reminiscent of others Cregan has seen her wear, but perhaps he thinks so because of its signature plunging neckline.

“A moment of your time, Lord Stark?” Lady Tyrell’s voice floats in the air between them as clear and bright as a morning bell as she approaches. Birds can be heard chirping from a nearby open window. The sun has only just settled in the sky, hanging lazily after its absence the day before due to the storm that had washed in overnight.

Cregan is in a rather poor mood after the lack of developments from the morning meeting, but offers her a dip of his head. He stands before her, chin downturned to look her in the eyes, his own eyes narrowing a moment.

“Of course, my lady.” His tone is gruff yet not altogether unfriendly. It has that detached Northern politeness that she has come to associate with him. There is the ghost of tension about his shoulders, but she cannot discern whether it is from the conversation Cregan had just taken part in, or if he simply lived his entire life like there were rocks upon him.

“It is the court, my lord,” Lady Tyrell begins, sighing quite deeply in a breath that uses her entire upper body. She clasps her hands together tighter, shaking her head gingerly. A few of her loose curls bounce at the movement, and Cregan’s eyes drift to the sides of her face as they do. She takes a step forward softly, clearing intending Cregan to begin walking alongside her.

Cregan has been starving for the last hour. He wants to return to his chambers to break his fast with sausage and poached eggs and whatever else could be found.

He follows her.

The castle is alive and bustling at the early hour, maids rushing about with baskets of fresh linen and pages scurrying off with errands from their lords. A few of them cast their eyes to Lady Tyrell, who smiles at them sweetly. Most return the look with soft smiles of their own. Cregan wonders how many of them she knows personally.

“As I was saying, the state of the court has been weighing heavily upon my thoughts,” She continues, a look of concern once again settling upon her features. Her skirts rustle softly as she walks, and her heels click on the cold stone floor of the hall. Daylight streams in through the open courtyard that they walk past. “You see, the lords and ladies grow restless. What with their being confined to the capital.”

The girl presents the matter of concern slowly, tenderly. As if she wishes to plead her case yet not offend. She gazes up at Cregan after she speaks, meeting his stern look with a flutter of her wispy lashes. Her lips seem to form the perfect subtle pout as she finishes her sentence, and her eyebrows have knitted together to express gentle worry.

Cregan’s jaw tenses the tiniest bit as he hears her words. He is not ignorant enough to think that the nobles enjoy being forced to remain at King’s Landing, but there is not that he can do to remedy it until it is decided whether or not the war will continue, and justice is dispensed.

“Until the investigations and trials are concluded, no one can be permitted to leave.” There is a sense of stoic absoluteness to his tone, as if the matter being up for debate is not even a fathomable thought. His eyes narrow as he peers into hers, searching for a hint of annoyance or frustration. Cregan finds only a gentle amiableness that he believes better suits a deer than a girl.

“A prudent choice, my lord,” Lady Tyrell acquiesces with a dip of her head, her eyes falling to the floor in front of her demurely. Her hands are still folded over top of her lower stomach as the two make their way through the castle. “It is only…discontent often takes root in the gardens of boredom.”

Her eyebrows raise as the words float between them, remaining higher as she casts her gaze still to the stone floor beneath them. To make her words seem like a sad yet true observation. Cregan’s eyebrows draw lower, twitching a bit at her resigned wisdom.

The Lord of Winterfell stops, the last of his heavy steps echoing in the hall. The girl turns around after a moment, facing him. When her eyes lift to meet his, they hold that same softness she has been offering him since she arrived. They observe each other for a moment, before Cregan opens his lips to speak. Warning is dense in his tone as his gaze darkens, the serious look on his face becoming impossibly sterner.

“You take issue with the way I hold this court, then?” It is a quiet phrase yet so heavy when wrapped in his thick Northern pronunciation. Cregan does not need this girl commenting upon the way he has taken and managed the court since arriving; he has more important matters to worry about than a few discontent lords and ladies who whisper scathing things behind open fans and palms.

With the grace of a dancer, she takes the sides of her skirts in between her forefingers and thumbs and draws them upward. Her chin lowers gently, her gaze dropping so Cregan can only see her lashes. She lowers herself into a curtsy, her center of balance remaining perfectly overtop her left leg as her right one slides outward elegantly. Her back is as straight and tight as a drawn bow.

“I would never presume to, Lord Stark,” Mellifluous and humble, the words drip from her lips as drops of honey from a hive. “I would only suggest, as someone who believes in your cause, that there might be a better alternative that would keep them amused and lift some of the weight from your shoulders.”

As Lady Tyrell draws herself upright, Cregan feels a dry swallow in his throat at the slow, sensual motion. She does not miss it. Her humble expression melts into a candied smile.

“Of course, should my lord not wish to hear it, I will hardly take offense.” The girl tells him with a sheepish, almost embarrassed cadence, her head tilting down as her shoulders lower. She releases her skirts, the embroidered fabrics flowing down to the floor in waves of silks and satins.

Cregan looks to the side for a moment, his eyes falling to the open courtyard next to the hall. When he turns his head back to face her, his eyes downcast as he finds the words, the softest sound of breath can be heard before he speaks and raises his gaze.

“You have spent much time here at court, Lady Tyrell. You understand it much better than I. I will not be too prideful to hear your counsel.” Cregan retains the gruff quality of his speech, but there is a note of wary respect in the words. He lowers his chin to look at her directly, his head moving slightly as he speaks.

She does her best to not glow with the amusement of such a small yet important victory. Instead, she lowers her gaze again, nodding elegantly.

“I am honored by your ear, my lord.” There is a pleased rhythm to her words. She does, however, make the mistake of looking up again to note the way the sunlight from the open courtyard next to the grey hall has filtered in just enough that the edges of Cregan’s red hair have caught the light and appear as gold as the embroidery on her dress. It additionally falls upon his broad shoulders and his left arm, which her eyes do, regrettably, land upon for a heartbeat.

One of the maids hurries by, giving both Cregan and Lady Tyrell a rushed curtsy. As the maid’s steps echo down the hall, she gestures for Cregan to continue to walk with her. They maintain a distance of expected propriety between them as they continue, making it rather hard to communicate in a softer tone.

“You have a great many problems that have fallen into your lap, Lord Stark,” She points out with a languid gesture of her arm, her hand hanging elegantly before them for a brief moment. “Least important of all the boredom of the nobles. And yet,” A deep breath is taken from her chest. “It is still an issue, no matter how miniscule.” Her head moves with each fragment of her words, indicating how seriously she takes the problem.

Cregan’s strides beside her are long and heavy, but slower than they had been the day before, in the garden. As if he had noticed that she had been taking larger steps to try and match him.

Lady Tyrell’s hair bounces enticingly with each phrase and movement, the loose curls and waves that had escaped being swept up into the pinned arrangement that adorned the top of her head free to move about as they pleased. Cregan’s eyes have once again begun wandering.

“But you are quite fortunate in that it is rather easy to provide them with entertainment.” Her reassurance is offered quite gently, with a sage nod. “Why, anything as simple as a feast serves the purpose quite well. Give them an opportunity to bring out their finest silks and jewels, with the promise of wine and meats and what they crave most: gossip.”

They turn a corner, Cregan nearly running into a squire who is unable to see due to the amount of armor he is carrying in his arms. He wonders with a flash of irritation just how many people are employed in the castle; there is no shortage of servants running about even at this early hour of the day.

At Lady Tyrell’s words, a dry look wrenches its way onto Cregan’s face while he considers her proposal. The last thing he wants to do at this moment is to oversee the planning of any sort of event, nor did he have the time to spare for it. With a heavy sigh, his brows draw closer.

“I haven’t the time to spare for organizing a feast, my lady.” His words are curt, but he does attempt to soften them, not wanting to offend her.

Lady Tyrell is not offended by him. She simply thinks him rather foolish. There is not a hint of this on her face as she quickly gazes up at him with shock, her loose curls flying as she shakes her head with quick worry.

“Oh, no, my lord, that was not the implication at all,” The correction comes with a soft, apologetic smile and lift of her shoulders, causing her collarbone to catch the light from a nearby window. She holds his gaze steadily. “It was an offer of my services. I have seen many a feast organized here; I could have it arranged by nightfall this very evening.”

When they reach the large main staircase of the castle, they come to another pause. Cregan looks down at her with thinly veiled disbelief as she blinks up at him.

“You would do that?” He cannot help the suspicion sneaking into the corners of his voice. She is volunteering her time to assist Cregan with an issue that did not truly concern her, no matter how worriedly she had acted when she’d raised the matter to his attention. Yet he could not discern any malicious intent, save for her using this an as opportunity to vie for his favor. This, she seems to want greatly, yet Cregan still does not know to what end.

“If it should be of assistance to you, it would be my honor.” Lady Tyrell speaks with gracious acceptance, delicate and poised as she stands before him. Closer, this time, than she had been when they’d stopped before. Cregan can smell the lingering of rose water and some other floral oils. He considers her words, thoughts rolling over them like marbles in a hand.

“Do as you wish, Lady Tyrell. If you can ease the daggers in their eyes, I will be all the more grateful for it.” Cregan’s sigh is weary with exhaustion, and the pressures that only seemed to be added each and every day that is spent at King’s Landing.

A sparkle glimmers in her eyes.

“I will see to it at once then.” She bids him farewell with a soft smile, and the scent of her perfume drifts over to him as her hair and skirts fan out in a delicate cloud with her turn when she hurries off. His eyes close briefly as he inhales it.

It is with great haste that Lady Tyrell begins her planning for the feast that evening. She gathers all her handmaidens and maids to assist with various messages she needs sent to those who are to be involved in the preparations, as well as to contact other staff to invite all of the lords and ladies who ought to be there. The information mill that is comprised of servants proves quite useful in this instance, and while she would usually take it upon herself to handwrite every invitation, the girl wishes her involvement in this endeavor to be kept quiet yet not secret for now.

House Tyrell had not spent too much gold during the war, which resulted in her having quite a large resource pool to dip into to convince florists and musicians to cancel their previously scheduled arrangements for that evening and offer their presence in The Queen's Ballroom. Although smaller in size than the two large halls, the room need only host the nobles currently being restricted to the castle. She prefers it, anyhow; the way the candlelight catches against the large mirrors that comprise the walls of the room provides a magical quality to the ambience of any gathering. It makes the overseeing of the decoration a much more manageable task, which would reflect positively on her in the end.

She begins with a visit to the Kitchen Keep, discussing with the chefs and pâtissiers as to what dishes could be made and served on such short notice. They whisper in low, worried tones amongst each other, deep frowns and nods as they page through thick tomes of recipes. Lady Tyrell waits with her hands folded in front of her and a pleasant smile on her face, willing her eye not to twitch at the irritation of having to stand so long in the kitchens when there are other matters to be attending to.

The kitchen staff propose a few different options to her, and after providing a gentle suggestion of her own and more gold to run to the markets with, a menu is agreed upon for the night. When the kitchen door swings closed behind her, she pinches the bridge of her nose and lets out a sharp sigh that she has been holding back for some time.

Her next stop is to ensure that the correct dinnerware is being brought out to the ballroom – her head whips around with an unladylike speed as she watches in horror as a maid begins bringing the plateware with the green decorative motifs down the hall. As Lady Tyrell rushes back down the hall to catch the girl, another brief flash of frustration at the foolishness of the choice flits through her mind but there is nothing but sweet concern in her eyes as she recommends gingerly that the plates of a more well-associated color are brought out.

The maid gasps and nods quickly, as Lady Tyrell squeezes her arm comfortingly and rushes off to find the florists. This she would have to stay and observe during the entirety of the arrangements. Her mother would be beside herself if a daughter of House Tyrell allowed for flowers of improper meaning to be presented at an event she hosted. Even if her mother will not be present that night, the girl smiles with exasperated fondness as her mother’s words ring bright and clear in her head, no different than if the woman was standing right in front of her.

She guides the florists about the hall, nodding with a pleased glint in her eyes as the flowers stream in through the doors in the arms of boys and girls. Her decision has come together nicely; the apple blossoms, honeysuckles, and white lilies form a delicate and demure profession of innocent devotion and pure intent. Still, she must have her fun.

As a page rushes by with a bouquet of flowers in his arms, she plucks a single snapdragon and inhales the scent gently with softly closed eyes. They would be placed throughout the hall scarcely, likely not to be noticed by too many of the guests.

It is a lovely flower, brought into the ballroom in colors that reflected those around it. Their heavy association with the concept of truth often leads many to interpret their presence as a promise of honesty.

Those from House Tyrell recognize the bundles of fragile petals as a warning of deceit.

Her eyes open as she runs the stem between her fingers delicately, gazing down it at fondly. Lady Tyrell presses it to her chest as she leaves the ballroom, her shoes echoing amongst the voices of those finishing up the floral and plateware arrangements. There is still much to be done.

Despite the chaos that stems from such late preparations, the Lady Tyrell manages to both finish the arrangements and ready herself for the feast that evening. The Lord of Winterfell had not been expecting much when she had offered to organize an event that night, but the opulence on display within the hall is nothing short of wonderous. Decadent, but not obnoxiously so, and a clear testament to an effective and practiced hostess despite her young age.

As she glides into the Queen’s Ballroom, Cregan’s eyes land upon her.

She has entered the room slightly later than most of the guests, leading to the turning of many a head as the doors are opened for her. The blue gown she had been wearing that morning has been discarded in favor of a dress of baby pink, with a neckline reminiscent of a heart that plunges low as the two curves meet in the center. There is her signature golden embroidery at the top of the bodice, as well as up the side of the puffs at the top of her sleeves and down her corset. Stitched roses and vines snake down her arms, overtop of fabric of that same pastel color. There are more layers beneath the gown, fanning out in an elegant circle about her when she walks.

Cregan hears the whispers and sighs from some of his men around him as they shake their heads at her beauty, but he can scarcely judge them in good faith when finds his eyes are drawn to her and cannot be torn away. He has never noticed so much about a gown before; he takes note of the thorn detailing amongst the vines at the cuffs, of the pearls stitched into the bottom of the skirt that brushes against the floor, of the way the fabric creases at her elbows when she curtsies to one of the ladies she greets.

So little of her figure can be seen and yet Cregan is left with a slow inhaling of breath and the flicker of the low candlelight dancing in his half-lidded eyes, his tongue briefly wetting his drying lips.

Lady Tyrell does her utmost to not look too self-pleased as she surveys the room. It is a beautiful, elegant scene. The musicians play string instruments in bright yet slow melodies from the gallery above the ballroom, and the expansive trestle tables have been covered in delicate fabrics. Upon their surfaces rest heaps and piles of meats, fruits, and pies. Their scents waft deliciously though the air, and vases overflowing with flowers are nestled in between the mountains of food. The warm candlelight from the candelabras reflects in the mirrors of the walls in the dreamy way that she loves so.

She makes her way about the room, making polite conversation with various lords and ladies. Asking after their children, husbands, wives, and siblings. The nobles light up and rest a hand on her shoulder gently when she recalls little details they had mentioned when last they spoke, of various illnesses or injuries or marriages or pregnancies.

Many of the guests have already sat down, reaching for thick cuts of meat and having their cups filled with the finest Arbor reds as hearty, half-drunken laughter echoes through the hall. She turns her head the slightest bit, intending to scan the room for the Lord of Winterfell, but discovers his eyes are already on her when she spots him.

His gaze is intense and does not waver when she catches him staring. He is leaning forward in his chair, his heavy brows low, his jaw tight, his mouth pressed together in a thin line. Lady Tyrell feels the remainder of the room dim for a moment, the voices and laughter and candlelight fading slightly in her senses.

She does her best to not show any surprise on her face: she has been seeking to capture his attention after all. It is only that she did not realize how heavily that attention would be placed upon her. It makes her eyes narrow a moment, her nature to challenge such a forceful look.

Her hand closes into a ginger fist, the pressure of her fingertips in the soft skin of her palm drawing her mind back to civility. She blinks, her eyes soft and wide again, and she offers Cregan a smile before she turns back to greet others.

One such conversation with one of the Northern lords leads Lady Tyrell to the head of the table, nearer to where Cregan is sat. He watches with an unreadable expression as the lord pulls out her chair, and she thanks him sweetly with the utmost grace and gratitude. Wine is immediately poured into her cup, and the golden goblet is raised to her lips as the lord speaks animatedly in regards to their conversation topic, to which she leans over to whisper something that sets the lord off with a hearty laugh.

The man leans over to Cregan, eyes drooping slightly with the effects of drink, and Cregan lends his ear a moment, watching the Lady Tyrell raise the glass to her rosy lips yet again.

“Here my lord,” The Northern man speaks to Cregan with a deep nod, swaying slightly in his ornate wooden chair. “Lady Tyrell was just telling me of this incident with the –“ His eyebrows knit together with confusion as he loses his train of thought. He gazes down into his goblet, as if to find the answer floating about in his burgundy liquid. When the glass fails to produce the response to his pondering, he turns his head to her.

“The boar, my lord.” Lady Tyrell supplies gently, raising her glass a little, swishing the contents around with a languid motion of her wrist.

“Yes, the boar!” The lord repeats with great enthusiasm, looking to Cregan as he laughs once more. The girl’s gaze settles upon Cregan, and there is a sparkle of knowing in her eyes as the other man drones on. “We shall have to hunt in the King’s Wood ourselves if the events are as amusing as she says…”

Cregan lets the rest of what the man is talking about fade out to a distant murmur, as well as much of the additional conversation in the bustling ballroom. The musicians have switched to a slower piece that floats elegantly throughout the room, and the laughter has grown loud. One can spot ladies cooling their flushed faces with their fans, and swaying lords eyeing the serving girls who rush to refill their quickly draining cups. The candlelight seems to have grown warmer and lower, flickering delicately throughout the ambient room. The wine has been flowing for quite some time, and the effects are evident in abundance.

But when he steals a glimpse of Lady Tyrell’s glass, he pauses as small flecks of golden light swim in the red liquor. Despite having witnessed her lift the goblet to her mouth a few times, the wine is no lower than when she had sat down.

She has turned to participate in yet another animated conversation with a Northern lord seated to her right, and Cregan cannot help but observe the ease at which she slides from one topic to the next, even with his bannermen. He thought her to be skilled at engaging with Southerners, but her charms do not seem to be hindered by differences in homeland. A soft exhale of breath leaves his mouth as he returns to eating the food on his plate. The edges of the plates are decorated with tiny red flowers.

Later in the evening, the high sound of a fork tapping a metal glass can be heard echoing tinnily throughout the hall. One of the lords stands up from his seat, red-cheeked and grinning, to offer a toast to the Lord of Winterfell for his kind hospitality and planning of the event. Cregan pauses as many sets of eyes find their way to him, and he realizes there is an expectation that he say something in kind.

He rises, dropping his heavy shoulders and lifting his glass. It is a duty he is used to completing at the head of the hall in Winterfell, and it feels odd to do so in this foreign ballroom, with these strange faces staring back at him. Many of whom dislike him, or at least the way he is demanding they remain in King’s Landing until justice has been carried out. They watch like vultures, the easy and amiable air from earlier all but gone as they remember the presence of the Northern lord. But fortunately, Cregan need not keep the attention on himself for long.

“Your kind words are appreciated, my lord,” Cregan begins, his voice low and gruff. His eyes flicker to Lady Tyrell for a moment, perhaps to give her a second of warning with which she can prepare herself. But when their eyes meet, she is already gazing up at him as if she knows what he is going to say. Her hand resting gently on her goblet of wine, ready to lift it. He should not be surprised. “But in truth, I cannot take any credit. It was only thanks to the efforts of Lady Tyrell that this came to be.”

As the pairs of beady eyes drift over to Lady Tyrell, she rises up with a poised posture. Her chin is lowered, her eyes wide and almost shy as she holds the stem of her golden goblet between her fingers. The pairs of eyes that had beheld Cregan so coldly, soften. Here is one of their own, someone they know and can truthfully give gratitude to. She gives a soft dip of her head, the golden jewelry at her collarbones shining when it draws the glint of firelight.

“It is the least I can do, and hardly enough still,” The words ring out softly through the ballroom with the bright clarity of one used to speaking to a crowd. A girlish smile splashes to her lips and brings rosy color to her cheeks as she lifts her glass with her right hand, her left hand resting gently overtop the lacing of her corset. “So here is to you, for gracing my little party with your presence. It is with your laughter that these halls feel like home again, and I am ever so grateful to you for it.”

The hall erupts with whistles and clapping and cheers. Sounds of glasses clashing together in hearty toasts and the bringing out of the dessert at that very moment makes the scene bright and jovial, so much so that an outsider who had no knowledge of what had occurred in the recent past could not guess that the capital had just been plagued with a bloody succession war.

And in the center of it all, akin to the sun in the sky and glowing as such, is the Lady Tyrell. Cregan can bring no glass to his mouth as he watches her, coy and sweet as she once again raises her cup. He knows she is not drinking from it. But her face has the softest glow as she stands above the rest of the nobles seated at the long trestle tables, many of whom are still gazing towards her fondly, murmuring their approvals for the young lady and her gift to them this night. The candlelight dances across her figure, illuminating the lace of her gown, the expanse of her skin above her neckline, the pearls that hang from her ears.

She shines like she is made to. Dazzling as any star in the heavens, radiant as any fire in the night.

If she were any other woman, Cregan might approach her when the moment presented itself, asking her to meet him as he had that time in the gardens. To walk with her, to learn more about her, to know her. To see if her heart is as lovely as her appearance. But he knows well that this would be more difficult than it seemed: perhaps even impossible. Even as she lowers herself back into her chair, smoothing down her skirts as she settles herself to dine on some of the pastries that have been piled onto the table with whipped creams and fresh fruits, he does not believe he is seeing anything of truth.

Lady Tyrell excuses herself as many of the other nobles begin to trickle out the thick oak doors, off to their beds or to some form of intoxicated debauchery. She wishes to avoid the strong yet firm grasp of a few of the elder ladies, who take her hands into their aging ones and remind her poignantly of the eligibility of their bachelor sons. Now that she is not betrothed, she has felt the hungry eyes of nobles as those of carrion birds circling overhead. Eyeing her body and her title and her family’s gold. It makes her blood hot with irritation and her nerves fraught and spiked.

There are only so many excuses she can offer as she tries to slip out of the conversation topic with an apologetic smile.

And as the night grows to an end, so does her ever-thinning patience. One more ask upon whether or not her mother has read their proposals sent by raven, and she might simply hurl her still-full glass at the wall to cause a scene and be done with it. To the end of being shipped off to live as a Septa, but she doubts she would be graced with that. No, she is too young and too eligible; even in the face of abhorrent behavior she imagines excuses will be made by ambitious lords and ladies to still have her married to their sons.

The reminder fills her throat with a bitter acid that stings. She pushes it from her mind. The show is still ongoing, and there is one last act she must perform in to consider this day a success. And she takes pride in her thoughtful scripting.

As she begins to walk towards the doors, she hears the scraping of a wooden chair on the cold stone floor as another starts to leave as well. She folds her hands in front of her lower corset, her arms straight and her palms gripping each other only the slightest bit too tightly. The tilting of her chin down allows for the hiding of the small, wry smile that has wrenched its way onto her lips at the sound of heavy footsteps behind her.

Her hand raises gingerly as she catches her handmaiden following her out of the corner of her eye, signaling for her to wait. The girl, Adelin, takes note of the gesture and nods delicately, giving her lady room with which to carry out her schemes. Instead, she slips out the side of the room to prepare Lady Tyrell’s bath for that evening.

The music has faded to a lazily played waltz, bidding farewell to the guests. The tables are covered with the crumbs and other remnants of the feast, and the flowers have sank lower into their vases. She walks gracefully out of the ballroom, leaving the rest of the nobles who remain to the questionable indulgences that are promised by lingering about.

The halls of the Red Keep are lined with the warm glow of torches, and yet they are never overly bright. She passes stone pillars and wooden doors and knights guarding different rooms before she hears the clearing of a throat behind her.

So he has given them ample space to speak in private, yet he did not choose to follow her to her chambers.

While she would not have allowed him inside, she had been curious as to where he would initiate the conversation. She wishes it to feel like it is on his terms, after all.

Lady Tyrell turns quickly, the baby pink skirt of her gown billowing out around her as she does. She brings a hand to her chest in a rush, fingers pressed to the exposed skin between her collarbone and the neckline of her dress. A quiet inhale of breath hurries past her lips and she lets her eyebrows raise.

“Oh – Lord Stark.” The words have a quality of breathiness to them, as if she had been startled by the noise behind her but is relieved to see it is only him. She gives him a smile, her hand lowering to her side. It smooths over her breasts before it drops to rest elegantly. Her brows furrow slightly, with good-natured expectation, as she waits for him to speak.

Cregan does not know entirely why he followed her. He wishes to speak with her, but upon which manner? To thank her for the effort she had imbued into the feast that evening? To ask if she truly enjoys speaking with his bannermen, or if she hates the Northern presence in the capital as others do?

His stance is solid and heavy, his wideset shoulders lowered as he casts his gaze to the torch nearest to him on the wall, and then down to the grey floor beneath his dark boots. The stern expression on his face does not waver, as he searches with noble patience for the words he wants to say.

She takes the time free of his piercing eyes to observe him with a neutral expression, roaming over the way a few strands of red hair fall across his face when he tilts his chin down. It looks soft, despite the rugged nature of the rest of his figure, even more so as his hair is tinged with orange and gold in the torchlight.

Cregan has felt an indisputable pull towards her since the moment they first saw each other when he had arrived at the Red Keep. But the more he saw of her, the more unsettled he became. Is he so foolish as to lust after a woman whose character is so inclined towards deception and manipulation? It is as if he is a lad, with an inclination to being blinded at the sight of doe-like eyes and soft lips.

But no, even as he stands there in front of her, her beauty clear as can be, Cregan knows he is not that susceptible to womanly charms. It is that flash of something in her eyes that he has seen that continues to draw him back. The frustration of want in the face of illusion; of yearning for knowledge that is kept purposefully yet barely out of his reach.

He pushes down the flames of frustration deep into his chest and looks up at Lady Tyrell with a serious yet neutral gaze.

“What game do you play at, Lady Tyrell?” There is a rumbling quality to his voice, yet it is not unpleasant on her ears. And despite the forward nature of the question, it is not asked roughly, nor brashly. It is posed with a stern politeness, reminding her once again that he has, the few times they have spoken, acted the perfect gentlemen if she could overlook his Northern tendencies.

She finds herself pleased. It is rare she is met head on, and still with his maintaining all the expectations of civil discussion. Yet, she will not give Cregan Stark what he desires. “I beg your pardon, my lord?”

Her lashes flutter with gentle confusion when she tilts her head gingerly, as if trying to discern what he is referring to. Cregan beholds her visage, his own features still serious as he studies her.

“If you wish something of me, tell it to me plainly,” Cregan’s frustration is not altogether dispersed, simply pressed down. The low tone of his voice echoes deeply between them. His eyes narrow a fraction. “There is no need to put on any sort of act.”

Lady Tyrell blinks at him again, before she casts her gaze downwards. She reaches up to move a strand of hair from her face daintily, her nails brushing against the skin of her forehead. The sigh that leaves her parted lips is reserved and almost ashamed. When she meets his eyes again, Cregan sees the sweet shine of apologetic embarrassment.

“…I had no intention to be dishonest with you, my lord,” Lady Tyrell lowers her voice to a gentler tone. She draws closer towards him, lessening the distance between them as if she is letting him in on a secret. Her steps are gentle, heels clicking on the floor, the sound muffled beneath the heavy skirts of her gown. Cregan feels himself stiffen as she stops in front of him.

She is close, but not overly so. He can smell warm scents of vanilla and amber drifting up from her soft skin. Cregan holds her gaze steadily but his eyes narrow further, his head drawing back subtlety, involuntarily. It is not the reaction he would normally have to a beautiful woman, but one of wary confusion of her intention.

“And yet I am met with your dishonesty each time I speak with you.” It is not an accusation but an observation, one he offers to her with the expectation of her explaining herself.

It pains her to be this near to a man she does not know, with no one else in sight. She steadies her mind, reminding herself of the unique opportunity that has been presented to her in the form of the Lord of Winterfell. Her mother’s wishes flash before her eyes in the form of a parchment scroll and dried black ink.

Her lips part before she speaks, a rose opening in the flickering torchlight. The storms of his eyes lower to them, a heavy breath in his lungs. There is a shift in the air, a heavier, charged atmosphere in the empty hall. For all of her acting, all of her schemes: she knows there is no falsehood in the way she reacts to him. It is a maddening truth, one that Lord Stark seems to be wrestling with through equal frustration.

Perhaps it brings her comfort to know that he does not wish for this want either.

“I hope you will not condemn a lady for what she does in the face of interest.” Her eyelashes lower over her eyes, and she swallows softly, her lips rolling over each other. Hands are brought together nervously, pressing together in front of her, her thumbs rubbing apprehensively on her palms. An almost imperceptible inhaling of breath sends Cregan’s stomach twisting into a pulsing knot he wishes to undo.

It is almost inconceivable to him, how deeply she excels at this.

Still, Cregan has come here with the intention of figuring her out at least partially, and if he has to do so through a twisting forest of more lies and manipulation, so be it.

“Is that what this is?” Cregan asks lowly, eyes heavy and lidded when they fall across her face. Across her demurely lowered eyes and cheeks flushed with faux embarrassment and pink lips. The tug in his chest is low and getting lower, his blood hot. “Interest?”

A thick breath of a question. He steps towards her slowly, trying to gauge her reaction. Her eyes dart up as he brings their bodies closer, the heat from his own nearly perceptible now. The wideness of his shoulders and his imposing height are not lost on her then. If one were to stumble upon Cregan from behind him in the hall, his figure would completely conceal her own.

Cregan catches it then, while his eyes are searching hers. An emotion, raw and pulsing. Lady Tyrell’s lashes flutter as her eyes quickly flick up and down his face, and her breath catches rather violently in her chest. Sharp enough that Cregan can hear it and see the way her ribcage stutters with the force of it. Her eyebrows twitch, raising and then lowering at the intrusion to her space.

And there, for the first time, the Lord of Winterfell thinks to himself that there is truth in front of him.

Her shoulders pull back, like she means to draw away from him. The left one raises slightly as she angles her torso to at least retreat with her right side, her arms coming together in front of the bodice upon her chest. Cregan looks down in the space between them to see the way the nail of her right thumb has pressed so deeply into her pointer finger that the skin is turning a ghostly white.

“Forgive me, my lord,” Her eyebrows raise upwards as she tries to wrestle with her sweet tone, but it is less sure than it had been before. The smile upon her lips is not as pronounced as is typical of her, but rather tight. “I did not mean to offend, I only…”

Her lips open once more after she trails off, but no sound escapes them. It brings Cregan pause.

“You desire me, that is what you are telling me?” Cregan feels the need to lower his voice, to take some of the gruff edge from it. He does not understand why.

It takes all that Lady Tyrell has to not jerk back. She takes a slow breath, eyes still not able to meet Cregan’s directly as she settles to stare at the dark fabric of his clothing. It takes her a heartbeat to pull the words out. “I only wished to express my favoring of you.”

It is a quiet phrase, and it does not seem to want to come out of her mouth. Like she had reached into her throat and pulled it out reluctantly with her fingers. Finally, her eyes slowly gaze up to meet his again.

“If you do not want it, I will take no offense, Lord Stark.” There is a silence that falls between them, in which Cregan should very well tell her that he wants no part in her scheming and manipulating and court games. But he finds his throat rather dry and instead says nothing.

Taking this as the end to their exchange, Lady Tyrell presents him a curtsy that is not as precise as her last had been, and takes her leave from his presence.

She knows that her steps are slightly too fast, echoing in rapid succession of each other as her shoes click down the halls. The fabric of her dress has been gripped in her hands so that she can move with greater ease, her knuckles almost white.

Cregan stares after her for a moment, left with far too much to think upon. He had seen a fragment of something genuine, although he could not discern its nature, and he imagines she is leading him slowly towards the thing that she wants. And if she is feigning desire, aside from whatever instinctive and primal tension that drips from their every exchange, then Cregan feels with almost certainty that it is marriage she seeks. To be the Lady of Winterfell and secure an alliance between the Reach and the North.

Ambitious, he can acknowledge that. He turns, retreating back down the hall towards his own chambers. Yet something unnamable tugs at the back of his mind.

As soon as her door closes behind her, Lady Tyrell lets out a strangled gasp, the sound clawing its way up her throat viciously. Her hands bring themselves to push down on her chest, but to her frustration, she finds them trembling. Shaking, her fingers pale, and she balls them into fists before ripping them forcefully through her hair, yanking out some pearls as she does so. They clatter to the floor and roll about beneath her feet.

The pacing that she begins is with the intention of calming her racing heart, and she bites at her lip deeply as she strides back and forth before the fireplace, opening and closing her hands.

It had been some time since she had needed to charm a man like that alone. It was necessary, she knows this, as she wants his favor and now does not have the added hindrance of her honor and betrothal as a shield. She can no longer murmur reminders of her royal intended when a man draws too close to her space.

It is a shield she misses dearly, guilty at the thought of missing her late betrothed’s imposing shadow more than the boy himself.

And this is a dangerous game. She knows its nature well, which is why she does not like to play it. She has seen many women do it, and the consequences of when it goes awry. Cregan Stark is a stranger to her.

A stranger of great importance, a stranger she is attracted to, but a stranger nonetheless. Her eyes remain downcast to the fire, lost in the warm depths. There is no light in her eyes.

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