#head in hands. how come they axed that it was so good

[silverskye13]

for the hurt comfort promt thingy: Helsknight or/and Tanguish suffering from the aches of living (getting sick, having a migraine, panic attack, painful cramps, etc) and enjoying the others company whilst suffering.

It hits at odd times, but once, before every match, inevitably, Helsknight has a panic attack. The funny thing was, he never really knew that's what they were for the longest time. There was a disconnect between his mind and the reactions of his body. He would think about the match. He would think about losing. He would think about how that could come about, what would most likely happen. All the terrible little scenarios. It probably started as something more productive, running bad cases through his head and trying to imagine ways to counter them. Then the shakes would start. And the buzzing in his ears. The sudden, blinding desire to break something, or pace in circles. The inability to move to vent the reckless energy.

The sudden, piercing silence of mind; the resounding, thoughtless emotion of danger.

This one happened at another odd time. A quiet time. A time he should have been at peace, but wasn't. He was sitting in his cell, writing. Carding through words and phrases. Not a speech, just possible rebuttals for Red, when they inevitably shouted their grievances across the sand.

The thought struck him: [Would he say something if he was wounded? Dying, maybe, if he could feel that coming? Should he prepare something for that?]

Helsknight scratched a few quick tally marks on the page, doodling neat rows of lines as he tried to think of something worthwhile to say, in the event Red got the upperhand.

The thought struck him: [What would it look like if Red won?]

Helsknight was a vicious fighter, confident in his skills, and EB had engrained in him the necessity of fighting dirty. Not dishonorably -- no kicking sensitive places or punching stab wounds. But sometimes one had to give in to the necessity of ugly violence for survival's sake. Biting, clawing, wrestling.

Red would have to disarm him somehow. If Helsknight had a weapon in his hand, he would find a reason to fight. Once, he killed a rampaging hoglin with just the broken half of his sword. Granted, it had [thankfully] shattered with a sharp end, so it was mostly an unwieldy dagger, but still. It hadn't been a real weapon anymore, and Helsknight had used it.

So, disarmed. Maybe literally. There were a lot of things Helsknight could fight through, but dismemberment was one of those he didn't like his chances against. Losing a hand in the Colosseum had a way of halting the momentum of a fight quickly. Helsknight did not think he would just lay down and die though. Probably Red would stand over him with that massive ax -- Helsknight could see it in his mind's eye, the way Red squared up to people like they were a tree he was proud to fell.

[Red never aimed for the neck. He thought beheadings were cruel, given necks were thicker and more tenacious than most people gave them credit for, and blades had difficulty when bones needed severed. It would be a swing that came for major veins and arteries. His shoulders. His chest. His legs.]

There would be a lot of blood. There might be less blood, if Martyn was still up when it happened. He would spare Red the kill, and his knives were keen and his aim was good. The throat, the eyes, up beneath the ribs, if he could find a parting in Helsknight's armor. And then...

... Nothing.

Respawn, maybe.

Or. Maybe not.

[What would it feel like, when he went back to Wels?]

It would feel like... Nothing. Because there would be nothing left of him to feel. It would be dark. It would be quiet. Logically, it would be like sleep. Timeless nothing, with no dreams and no waking and...

Nothing.

The End of Everything.

It was silly to be afraid. He could not feel fear in oblivion. There would be nothing left of him that could feel fear.

[What would Nothing feel like?]

[Nothing.]

[It would...

[it......

[

[

"Helsknight?"

Helsknight blinked. And he blinked again. His eyes felt dry and itchy, like he was staring too long. His notebook was still open to a half-written page.

His mind was watching an ax swing.

Tanguish's weight was suddenly on his shoulder, arms crossed, looking over at his work. The touch reminded Helsknight, in no uncertain terms, where he was. Not on the sand. Not on the broad end of an ax head. He was in his cell, writing, and Tanguish was here.

"You've been staring for a while," Tanguish observed, his voice quiet and close. He had a habit of talking softly into prolonged silence, like he was afraid of trespassing on someone else's thoughts. The rise and fall of his chest against Helsknight's back reminded Helsknight to regulate his breathing. One deep inhalation after another.

"Do you not like what you've written?" Tanguish persisted.

"No," Helsknight answered, his voice hoarse and strangled in a throat constricted with baseless fear. "I don't like it."

Tanguish watched him, a frown twitching at the corner of his mouth. "Are you alright?"

Helsknight cleared his throat uncomfortably. He felt... Shaky. The need to shiver crawled up his back, and he had to set his jaw to stifle it.

He realized his jaw hurt. Had he been grinding his teeth?

"I'm." [He could not lie.] [He could not admit he was panicking over nothing.] [He didn't want to talk, when nausea suddenly made any emotion leaving his mouth a perilous task.] "Having a hard time coming up with things to say."

His quill was still in his hand. The last few tally marks he has traced on the margins of his page were noticeably jittery. Trying to pick them out from the crowd suddenly had all the little lines blurring together, dancing over top of each other. His heartbeat was too fast beneath his breathing, and he could feel every beat like they were done with intention, like if he stopped thinking about it, the muscle would slow to a stop like any other unused limb. His fingers twitched.

"Have you tried rereading your old work?" Tanguish suggested helpfully, he leaned forward on Helsknight's shoulders, reaching over to the book and turning to a random page nearer the front. "You probably have a dozen good lines here you've forgotten about."

The page Tanguish had opened to was a poem, written a few weeks ago when Helsknight had been idle. He let out a breath, cold against the back of Helsknight's neck, delighted.

"Is that one new?"

"New-ish."

"Can I read it?"

Helsknight laid his fingertips flat against the desk, trying to calm the shudder in his hands. If Tanguish noticed, he didn't say anything.

"It's best if read aloud," Helsknight said, because he realized, somewhere in the back of his mind where rational thought was slowly crawling its way forward, that Tanguish's voice was grounding. Forcing him to recognize the moment, and stay there, and away from perilous thoughts. "Give it a shot."

Tanguish chewed on his bottom lip, suddenly nervous. His tail flicked, a motion that Helsknight felt in the jerk that traveled up Tanguish's spine. He eyes Helsknight's cramped handwriting, and let out a long breath. Helsknight let his breath out too, unaware he'd been holding it.

Tanguish read the poem aloud, wandering through stanzas with reckless abandon, ignoring punctuation like it didn't matter for meter and time. He read the poem like it was prose, one word after another, inflectionless, besides his own reactions to the alliteration.

Helsknight sighed, and welcomed the relief when his hands stopped shaking.

"You're good at that," he said, when Tanguish was done. "Read another?"

Tanguish smirked, aware of his own fumbles. But when Helsknight turned the page with hands that no longer shook, Tanguish humored him.

Helsknight let his mind rest.

[hirokiyuu]

<guy who just binged all of pppppp in a day

[rainy-day-gracie]

- wedding night (1) -

A Venus & Mars mini series

pairing: general marcus acacius x virgin!wife!reader

content warning(s); dual pov, arranged marriage, implied age gap but nothing specific, period typical misogyny (Ancient Rome), mentions of violence/warfare, mention (1) of sexual violence (not against reader), mentions of pregnancy, attempted bedding ceremony, reader has hair that can be pinned back, steamy kisses, crazy amounts of sexual tension, discussions of consent because consent is sexy mandatory, virgin!reader, SOFTTTTT marcus acacius, romantic and intimate as hell, grievous historical inaccuracy because it's fucking fanfiction, canon divergent because duh

a/n: this has been living in my head for weeks now, along with every new photo we get of general marcus acacius because of course. this can be read as a prequel to bloodlust, or read entirely on its own. the reader insert is written as the same character in each fic.

this will be part 1 of the wedding night, and part 2 will include smut :)

---

You considered bolting as the sun rose on the morning of your wedding day. Stealing one of the nobleman's horses, putting as many miles as you could between yourself and the General's country house.

But, from what you've heard about the General, there would not be a corner of the earth that he would not find you in.

Your palms were clammy with sweat as the handmaidens pinned your hair back into a style of a bride. You wondered how they couldn't possibly hear the quick, panicky beating of your heart as each moment brought you closer to what you considered a life sentence.

General Marcus Acacius is venerated like a god in Rome, and anywhere else. Men boast about his wartime accomplishments as if they were their own, and ladies whisper about his scarred face like they would a demon within the walls.

So many rumors swirling around the Emperor's most esteemed general.

His hands were permanently stained red with blood, he burns the heads of his enemies in sacrifice to the gods, he kills men with icy calculation, takes women with fiery passion.

You could only imagine what kind of monster was waiting for you at the altar.

---

Marcus was in no good spirits on the day of his wedding, the marriage forced on him almost as much as it was forced on his...

Gods above, his bride.

The idea of having a bride was almost as foreign as you yourself were, since never once had Marcus even considered marrying anyone. With all the bloodshed and near-death experiences, he never exactly considered himself a man that was meant to be a husband. Or a father, for that matter.

Marcus tried not to shudder at the end of the aisle as the chorus began singing, sounding all to close to a death march.

At the sound of the choir, you entered into the wedding hall, for all gods and men to see.

His bride.

The world seemed to be brighter, the flowers bloomed more beautiful, and Marcus' vision turned clearer as you stepped into his sight.

For a moment, he forgot all about the blood of men on his hands. The shame that burdened him was cast off. Maybe he wasn't completely condemned to the Underworld.

The very possibility of you being his bringing him more relief than any wine or fine lady. The possibility of you being in his life was... redeeming. Redefining. Remaking.

One look, and he made a vow, but not to you. To himself.

If any harm were to come to you, he would unleash the fury of the gods upon them. He would protect you to the end of his days. Honor you, and serve you, however you may wish.

---

Fear coated your every nerve as you beheld your soon-to-be husband.

Nothing could have prepared you for just how mighty General Acacius was. Tan, broad, and mighty, dressed in fine white robes similar to yours. His bare hands were strong, made for swinging axes, throwing punches, and taking what he wanted. At the altar, he seemed to be near brooding, speaking his vows quietly, his voice like a roll of thunder.

You managed to keep your voice steady while you spoke your vows, but there was nothing you could do to keep your hands from shaking as the priest brought out the rings.

The general reached for your hand, and you were unable to keep from trembling.

His touch was warm on your skin, his calloused fingers surprisingly gentle as he slid the gold wedding band onto your finger. You found the nerve to meet his brown eyes, finding something utterly unreadable as he held your gaze. Could it be... fondness?

Gods, he was beautiful.

His touch steadied you, though you still exchanged rings with a thundering heart.

"In the sight of Gods and men, you are now Husband and Wife. You may kiss your bride, General."

The priest's words echoed in your head.

Husband and Wife.

The general leaned forward, an unspoken question in his warm eyes.

Swallowing, you gave a near imperceptible nod.

For such a harsh man, such a dominating man, his kiss was utterly... soft. Tender. Almost coaxing.

After a moment, he pulled away first, and you could've sworn he lingered, cherishing the air between you... before turned to the cheering wedding party.

In an instant, he changed, switching from the gentle kiss of a lover to a commanding force, a man that drinks in praise like fine wine.

A mighty man, indeed.

---

Marcus tried his best to not feel too wounded that his new wife was completely terrified of him.

He felt the thundering pulse in your hand as he slid that ring on, and he wondered if you saw the wedding band as a chain, a set of shackles. It's all too true for other women in Rome.

You barely spoke to him during the wedding feast, only giving small nods and forced smiles in between sips of wine. He had a good feeling you were resisting the urge to swallow it down in one gulp.

Marcus couldn’t help but study you— at first innocently, taking in the curve of your lips, the shine of your eyes, the polite smile you gave when someone offered congratulations.

Damn his dirty mind. As the night went on, and the celebrations continued beyond what he would’ve liked, he tried, and failed, not to eye your body as a means of distraction from the rowdy feast.

It started with your neck. He traced the slope of it with his eyes, marking every freckle and curve. He prayed to all the gods that you would want him to leave his marks on you.

Downward, he peeked slightly at your breasts whilst cursing himself. Of course, they appeared perfect beneath your wedding stola, and he wondered what manner of sounds you would make when he took them into his hands, into his mouth.

And then… Gods, those hips—

“Time for the bedding ceremony!” Emperor Geta jeered, pulling you from your seat with a firm jerk of your elbow. His eyes were greedy, scheming. “Let us see what is underneath that—“

Your face flushed with either embarrassment or fear or both. And that was all Marcus needed to see.

“There will be no bedding ceremony.”

Marcus lowered his voice to a deep warning, the kind that has sent men running for their lives.

Geta scoffed, still holding to your elbow. “It’s a wedding, Acacius, it’s your wedding. Don’t you want to show off the prize of your latest conquest? Distribute the winnings? Strip down that—“

Marcus stood, towering several inches over Geta’s slimy face. “I said… there will be no bedding ceremony.”

Geta kept his hands on you, and Marcus’s vision tinged with red hot fury.

His voice was a rumble, a threat in itself. “It’s my wedding, is it not? And I say there will be no bedding ceremony.”

People were watching now, the feast gone silent at this standoff.

Marcus knew how to pick his battles, cut his losses. But when staring down Geta, the most powerful man in the empire, he realized that for you, he would pick every single one if it meant he kept you safe.

The moments that passed were crackling, the tension between the two men sucking all the air from the celebratory hall.

Geta saw something in Marcus’s unyielding gaze, something that told him he would not win this fight, and decided the bedding ceremony wasn’t worth the scrutiny.

As the Emperor walked away, Marcus took your hand, and led you to your marriage bed.

—

You couldn’t find the words.

The general nearly trembled in rage on the walk to the bedchambers, but still, he maintained that odd gentleness, holding your hand as if it were the most delicate thing in the world.

Servants opened the grand doors as you entered, showing a large room with a massive four poster bed and elegant tapestries lining the walls—

Then the doors shut. And you were left alone with the legendary, bloodletting general.

And you still couldn’t find the damn words.

You knew what came next. The husband will take what is now his.

In this case, you expected your husband to take you in the same way he took lands for the empire— violently, mercilessly, with the intention of forging new legacy, through a son of Rome.

“Before you ask, my General, I wish to assure you that I am untouched,” you blurted, quoting what your mother taught you to say before you were to be… intimate. “I am pure, though I can only hope to be worthy—“

“Darling wife,” the general said quietly, so different from the commanding force from the feast. He held your hands in his, leaning down and kissing your knuckles in reverence.

You went silent, shocked at the soft fondness in his tone.

He peered at you with curiosity, and almost amusement. “The only thing I wish from you is for you to call me by my name, not title. No general, no lord, but my name. I hear it so little nowadays that I will look forward to hearing it from your lips.”

“As you wish… Marcus,” you breathed, eyes locked on his.

Marcus let out a little sigh, like he was relieved. “It’s much prettier when you say it.”

You drop your head in bashfulness, more confused by the moment. The way he spoke so kindly, so fondly.

“You know what is meant to happen tonight?” Marcus asked, almost hesitantly. You nod, undeniable fear curling in your stomach. “I need you to understand something, my darling, so listen very carefully.”

He pulled you toward the bed, sitting you both down on the silken sheets. His eyes on yours were discerning, and intent, like he was searching for something within your stare.

“I will never, ever, force myself upon you. Not in this life, or the next, or the next. I know what you might’ve heard about me, and much of it is true, but never would I take a woman without her permission. You belong to yourself, and if you never should like me in your bed, I will honor that to the end of my days."

You blinked at him in confusion. "So, you do not... you do not want me?"

Marcus exhaled sharply, looking down at your intwined hands. "That... that does not matter."

"Why not? A husband has the right to take what is his--"

"No man has any right to take a woman's body for himself, husband or not. What... what do you think is to happen tonight?"

Heat rises to your face, embarrassed at the question. By the look on his face, he was embarrassed, too.

"I don't... I don't know how it works, but some of the other wives at court say that the consummation of marriage is one of the more... painful duties of a wife. What you are meant to do to me... it's painful," you murmured, and quickly begin stammering. "B-but is it a great honor to serve you, my--"

"May I kiss you, darling?"

Some candles had been left burning, illuminating him in a warm glow. Marcus's eyes were soft, a rich, chocolate brown in the light of your bedroom, and something about them made your core flutter like one of the candles.

"Yes... yes, please."

Marcus smiled softly, and moved his hands to the sides of your neck. They were scarred, and calloused... and so warm.

His lips met yours almost hesitantly, like he was holding himself back. They were tender, tasting of sweet wine. Fingers curled lightly into your pinned hair, pulling you closer as his chest pressed against yours.

You moved your mouth with his, suddenly feeling the need for... more. You didn't know what, but you just knew you needed it.

His tongue slipped against yours, and the groan that left his throat left your pussy throbbing.

"Marcus--" you gasped, losing your breath as his lips traveled down to your neck. You could've sworn he moaned in response, sucking at your pulse point, leaving it a delicious shade of red--

"Do you want me to keep going?" He gruffed, trailing light kisses along your throat.

Oh, gods, how you wanted him to. "Yes, but..."

Marcus withdrew instantly at your seemed hesitation, pulling his mouth away but keeping his hands in your hair.

"I'm fearful," you admitted, holding his tunic to keep your hands from shaking with both desire and nerves. "Not of you, but... the rest of it."

Marcus nodded, swallowing. "We could continue kissing, if you like."

You laughed lightly, the nerves mellowing for a moment. "I'm not sure I'm prepared to have you in that way, but I know that I want to. I know that I... I want you."

Marcus's soft eyes shone with fondness, but had a wicked edge to them, like he was plotting something.

"I know I want you as well, darling. I promise, I will make sure you are prepared to have me... perhaps even over-prepared."

Your brows furrowed with confusion. "What do you mean?"

The general smiled. "I'll show you what I mean."

Part 2 here!

[briseroyawritingsblog]

𝑩𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒖𝒍𝒆𝒔

𝑶𝒍𝒅𝒎𝒂𝒏!𝑳𝒐𝒈𝒂𝒏 𝒙 𝑩𝒊𝒎𝒃𝒐!𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

• +18 minors do not interact. unprotected sex (don’t do that folks), smut, cute farm things, size kink, reader has big gorgeous breasts, rough sex (if you squint), lots of cum, dom dynamics (kinda), etc.

𝟔𝟎𝟎+ 𝐅𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐂𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍!!! 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐒𝐎 𝐌𝐔𝐂𝐇 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐏𝐏𝐎𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐍 𝐌𝐘 𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐒! 𝐈 𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐋𝐄 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔!! 🤍🤍🤍🤍

𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒂𝒏 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 / 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕

divider by @anitalenia

Once the first snow stuck to the ground you were packing your stuff to visit your grandparents at the farm. The snow covered everything and you loved spending time with your grandma it was a tradition. Placing your foot out of your car you were smiling wide as your grandma greeted you holding a cherry pie. Your favourite. Running into her arms you hugged her tight. You were telling her everything, how you were and how happy you become since it was a long time since you actually visited the family farm. Several miles out from the city, the nature hit differently. Now– especially close to Christmas. You promised to decorate your grandparents house and cook many delicious meals with your grandma. After all… she was like your mom. A golden soul-

“Logan! Come in! Would you like a slice of pie?!” Your grandma called from the kitchen. The backyard door was open, so you peeked out seeing an older man cutting down several logs of wood. He wore a very cozy jacket- the tallest man you have ever seen. His hands wrapped around the end of the axe and he swung it effortlessly making you jump slightly. “I’m alright Mrs Harper just gonna finish this wood for ya. Laura is comin home from school soon.” He grunted out, you bit your lower lip. You swore that he had the most attractive physique you’ve ever seen despite the greying beard and the silver grey hair. He was so strong, the long legs of his- your thighs pressed together unaware you were actually staring he stopped cutting the logs giving you a gentle stare back. You were like a ray of sunshine– your eyes and the apples of your cheeks. Your height alone made his cock heavy in his jeans. He didn’t know how to feel whether to simply kidnap you and fuck you silly or to just stay away from you. Option number two was more suitable and it was rare that women would look at him and acted the way you did. Women avoided eye contact with him especially the younger ones because well- he was trice their age just like you. He swallowed and you watched his Adam’s apple bob. “Y/N! It’s cold come in” your grandma grabbed your arm gently yanking you inside the cottage. Logan smirked softly to himself. Thinking to himself you were certainly a very young flesh and he shouldn’t even think about anything- but you attracted him.

“Alright I’m done Mrs Harper” he came inside the cottage placing the keys from the barn on the counter. You kept your gaze down on your coffee warming your hands around the cup. “Thank you so much Logan.” Your grandma smiled. “Are you sure I can’t give you some pie to go?” He shook his head slowly eyes on you. Gosh you felt his gaze burning the back of your head. “I’m sure Mrs Harper you have yourself a good evening. Both of ya” surely this man had manners, and that was even more attractive. “Goodbye Logan! Tell Laura she’s more than welcome to come here and spend time with my granddaughter!” Logan smiled nodding his head “Surely.” Once the man left you took a deep breath. Your cheeks burned. “He’s a good man. But very, old for you.” Your grandma cupped your cheek and you nodded. “I wasn’t thinking differently.” You lied taking a gulp of the warm coffee. The warmth of the coffee leaving a pleasant feeling in your chest as you chatted away with your grandma until your grandfather returned home.

Early in the morning you attended the animals, of course you fed them and changed waters for them. You cuddled few chickens and collected the eggs from the hens and cleaned out their coop. Once the animals were taken care of you visited the horse stalls. Holding a bag with sliced carrots you fed your favourite before an exciting thought occurred to you. You could ride your horse- you haven’t got to in a long time and the morning ride could definitely refresh your mind. Saddling your horse you greeted your grandfather as he entered the stalls smiling wide as he thanked you for all the work you’ve done the entire morning. Galloping out the stalls you waved to your grandma, giggling as your horse nodded its head and jumped over the wooden railing. You rode him through the snowy field and your soul felt freed. It was so amazing that one moment you thought you were flying until you saw a truck drive by, you stilled your horse. It was Logan- it seemed like he was returning from town. “Good Morning!” You called as he slowed down. He wore specs, you blushed as he greeted you back “Mornin, didn’t know you can ride.” He parked his truck on the side of the road you mesmerised by the sight of you sitting on that beautiful horse wearing a jacket with simple jeans but the sexiness and good energy radiated from you creating warmmess all around you. You nodded eagerly “Of course I can. I grew up here, he’s mine” you caressed your horses mane. Logan observed you, how beautiful you looked and those thoughts quickly changed because his eyes fell to your chest. You were indeed ‘gifted’ by Mother nature. “Who’s Laura?” You asked him “My daughter” he responded lighting a cigar. The smoke escaped through the window of his car. “Are you married?” You wondered no agenda behind it of course you stayed respectful. “I’m not sweetheart, are you?” The question made you giggle. “No Mr, I’m definitely not married.” Logan smiled small putting the cigar between his lips still sitting in his truck. Your horse was becoming impatient so you said your goodbyes. It was a short conversation but he called you a sweetheart and that woke butterflies in your belly. Logan thought of you.. oh he thought of you more than he actually should. So he did anything to busy himself- not to think of you. Just a man after all… and you? This young happy woman. For him to ruin.. later.

You wanted to meet Laura. Your grandma said that she’s a young girl and that she loved animals. Knowing you’re great with kids you finished your evening by attending the animals again lastly giving your horse a gentle brush and you plated his mane. You were just a farm girl thinking big about men and how one day you wanted to get married. Unfortunately not having a good luck with men only once and that one broke your heart so you broke up two years ago. Work occupied your mind and truly you haven’t even registered that you were walking to the lake nearby the farmhouse. Seeing the lights in the cottage across and the truck parked near you figured it’s Logan’s. Life was different out here… it was so good. The peace and quiet. Closing your eyes smelling the fresh winters evening breeze– it was freeing. Your grandma called for dinner so you let the thoughts about the charming Logan be for a moment and you walked back inside your farmhouse. The next morning was the same, work with the animals and then cooking with grandma. You were picking the winter apples for apple pies since the bake sale would be on Saturday. You helped as much as you could and to busy your mind. “Look who is visiting today!” Your grandfather brought a basket full of apples holding Laura’s hand. She was a little girl.. with dark beautiful hair and dark eyes. She smiled at your grandma- you greeted her and soon you two were getting along. She wasn’t talking much but understood quite well. “Where’s your daddy today?” Your grandma asked softly. “Hunting” she responded tasting some of the sliced apples. You frowned “Hunting with a shotgun? Like hunting animals?” You were so against it but people did it of course those ones who owned a license for it. “Yes.” She nodded and you put the dough down. “Are you hearing this?” You let out a frustrated growl. “How can someone hurt innocent animals!”

“You are A BAD MAN MR!!” You ran up to his truck pointing at him. “Am I?” He gruffly responded getting out. “You shoot animals!” You scowled. “And?” He gave you another response fuelling your frustration. “Yes! Did you shoot any today?” You asked following him around the truck. “Maybe. Now whatcha doing here little girl? Go back to your horses. Are you even good at something different? Callin me a bad man.” He tsked. “Well yes I am!! Now that’s also rude!” You responded clearly angry with him. “Like what? Fucking?” He arched a brow lighting a cigar leaning against his truck. “Excuse me?!” You gasped, your cheeks growing hot. “Well you ride a horse good can you ride some cock too?” You couldn’t believe the way he said it. “Maybe” you closed the distance between you two bravely looking up at him. “I don’t ride strangers cock, a man at your age.. you’re not my type Mr.” Logan took a hit of his cigar blowing the smoke in your face. “So why the starin and fuck me eyes n’all?” You pressed your thighs together. “I can smell you princess. That pussy is wet” he motioned with his eyes and you pulled the cigar out of his mouth throwing it. Getting on your tiptoes you pressed your lips against his, Logan responded hungrily sweeping you off your feet carrying you inside his cottage. Throwing you in his bed he unzipped his jacket breathlessly looking at you. His stare was filled with desire, darkness.. and you were still too dumb to understand it. Your brain just couldn’t wrap around it- why did men look at women this way especially when they needed ‘some’– they were like hungry animals you feared you were about to be devoured like a prey.

“That’s it babygirl” Logan guided you on his cock, his eyes were glued to your breasts which threatened to jump out of your blouse as you shamelessly bounced on his thick veiny cock. You held his shoulders for support and those big calloused hands roamed your thick thighs. “F-fuck” he shuddered holding fistfuls of your ass before letting go and slapping it making you yelp and moan even louder. “I-I c-can ride so good just like my horsey” you babbled as he hummed letting you rise your hips up and take him back right inside of you bouncing up and down his cock. He was so hard, your ridged walls welcomed him coating him in your juice and that caused you to whimper out. “Too dumb to understand when a man wants you princess” he breathed slapping your ass again making you mewl clenching around his cock. “Argh I should be fucking you so good right now” he tsks drawing fast circles against your clit making you lose the current pace. You were not able to ride him as he continued to please your clit like that. “M’so close..” you sobbed. Your breasts bounced as you started to ride quicker, your core blooming with warmth approaching your climax but Logan seemed to be displeased. “Fucking yourself on oldman’s cock and being dumb about it too” flipping you over so he was on top of you- making you cry out. He sheated himself entirely into you your toes curling and you helplessly moaning as he began to snap his hips into you. “that’s right baby, cry around old man’s cock. So dumb because of some cock” you nodded truthfully.. you only had sex once and now you didn’t know how to breathe since he was filling you out so good.

One orgasm later, you cleaned yourself in the bathroom gosh you were so full of him seed. Blushing furiously, when he came to the bathroom. His body was littered in scars, smoking a cigar it rested lazily between his lips. Standing by the sink, you shivered when he stood right behind you hovering above you “already leavin?” Asking, you nodded touching the sink. His big calloused hand traveled over your side to your belly down to your sex. He smelled the mess on it.. and in it. You both made so much mess. “Could think of ways to make you stay buttercup..” you swallowed looking at him in the mirror. You felt his hot erection on the curve of your butt and soon he was sinking back inside of you from behind. This way you never had it this way- it felt so much more deeper and dizzying. “Oh gosh..” leaning your back against his chest gripping his big forearm he grunted snapping his hips into you clapping his front against your ass. The cigar still burned between his lips and your eyes rolled back into your skull. The endless lines of moans and whimpers Logan found himself wrapping his arms around your front both hands grabbing a hold of your breasts. “F-fuckkkk” he breathed speeding up his thrusts fucking into you, with not just vigour but joy. The way your walls hugged his cock was out of this world “feels so good baby.. letting an old man fuck your pussy like this” you whined trembling with approaching orgasm and as his thrusts grew rougher your were hit with an earth shattering orgasm. The tip of his cock nestled against your sweet spot and you couldn’t last any longer, you clenched and milked all of him until he was forced to still his hips leaning on the wall above you with his hand letting out hungry growls and moans against your ear filling your core with another load. You believed that your legs turned to jelly as you collapsed against his chest your head lolling back against his right peck. “You gonna come back buttercup..” you nodded with a small smile. “Maybe.. but promise me you won’t shoot any animals” he nuzzled his nose against your own before capturing your lips in a deep lusting kiss. You felt his cock grow in your core stretching it again, and you knew you weren’t going to make it back to the farmhouse anytime soon.

-

(Any mistakes or typos I apologise in advance)

[reidsworld]

Parties

Summary: Spencer, Reader's boyfriend, gets jealous of the Readers family friend at a party.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader

Category: Smut

Content Warnings: fake blood, fake knife and axe, Spencer being jealous, cursing, kissing, hickeys, semi-public oral sex(m receiving), face-fucking, praise/degradation, I think that's it, lmk if I missed anything! — you are responsible for the content you consume, if you are not comfortable with any of these warnings or are a minor, DNI!!!

Word Count: 1.7K+

A/N: For the readers parents house I was envisioning something like the Mikaelson mansion from TVD. The reader is described as having longer hair w/ curtain bangs! This is also my first fic so sorry if its bad lmaoo

Masterlist

Walking onto the jet, you sat next to Penelope, across from Spencer. This case had been a hard one, Hotch had Penelope come along as you needed all hands on deck.

ping!

You sigh taking out your phone to see a text from your mom.

Mother Call me, please.

"What's wrong, Sweets?" Penny asks, concern lacing her tone.

"Nothing, my mom is just trying to call me and I really don't want to deal with her right now." You reply with a groan. You click on your Mothers profile, hitting the call button. She picks up right away.

"Sweetie, let your team that they're invited to this year's Halloween party. Your father and I agreed on the Friday- the 25th, but we would appreciate your input on the date. It starts at 8 PM" she says into the line.

"Alright, the 25th sounds good. If we have a case I might not be able to come," you say with a fake-disappointed tone, praying that a case came up on the day of the party.

"Your father and I are excited to see you so please try to be there."

"Well I can't really control when serial killers decide to strike but you know, I'll try!"

Sighing, your Mother speaks, "Don't be like that honey, your father and I are very excited to see you. If it's any encouragement to come, Julius will be there!"

"Alright fine, I'll try my hardest to be there." you say, smiling at the name.

You exchange 'goodbye's' and 'I love you's' with each other before you hang up.

“Who’s Julius?” Morgan asks with a smirk, drawing your attention to rest of the team who’s staring at you. Spencer couldn't help but feel jealous at the way you smiled at this ‘Julius’ person.

“How did you-? And you’ll meet him at the Halloween party my parents are having on the Friday 25th at 8 PM. No extremely scandalous costumes or my parents will probably never invite you guys back.” You say with a laugh.

Luckily, on the day of the party there was no case. Even so, you had asked Hotch to get off early as you needed to get ready for the party and be there early, as per your parent's request.

Once he agreed, you rushed home and showered before getting ready. You wore a black velvet strapless body-con dress that cut mid-thigh. You had fishnet stockings and black gloves that reached just below your elbows. There was a knife strapped to your leg as well. You had your hair down, styled with curtain bangs.

Once you finished getting changed, you put on dark red lipstick, mascara, and did cat eye eyeliner. Finally, to complete the look, you grabbed the scream mask and rested it to sit securely on top of your head as if you had pulled it up to reveal your face.

You grabbed a small black handbag and put on some Doc Martens, heading out the door to your parents mansion.

Once you got there, their mansions was decked out with Halloween decorations. You parked your car in the garage and went inside.

"Y/N, sweetie, we missed you so much!" Your mother greeted as her and your father hugged you.

"I missed you guys too. And I love the costumes." You said when you pulled away from the hug, referring to their matching Gomez and Morticia Addams costumes.

"Thank you," your father smiled.

It was 8:45 and most of the guests had arrived, so you decided to go and mingle.

You were standing by the food when you heard a voice come from behind you.

"You look good, baby," Spencer said, giving you a kiss on your temple. You looked up at him. He held a fake bloody axe in the one hand and he was wearing a suit with a clear rain coat on top of it. He had his hair slicked back and fake blood splatter covered his face.

"Thank you, you make a hot Patrick Bateman," you winked.

"Well hello gorgeous." You turned to see someone that you hadn't seen in years.

"Julius! Hi, oh my gosh, don’t you look handsome. It's so good to see you." You smiled, hugging him. He was dressed in a orange jump suit with handcuffs on one hand. When he pulled away, you could see him check you out.

"It's good to see you too, love," He grinned.

Spencer would deny being jealous of how low Julius had his hand on your back, of how you smiled and hugged him. But who was he kidding, he was incredibly jealous. So, he stepped forward, wrapping an arm around you, smirking.

"Aren't you gonna introduce me, baby?"

You smiled, knowing exactly what Spencer was doing, "Spencer, this is Julius. Julius, this is my boyfriend Spencer."

Julius stuck his hand out for Spencer to shake. "I don't shake hands, too many germs. But it's nice to meet you," Spencer said, leaving Julius hanging.

"I'll be back, Spence, I gotta go to the washroom."

With that you walked off into a hallway, Spencer following quickly behind you. When he caught up, he grabbed your arm and pulled you into the laundry room, locking the door behind you.

“Spencer what are you—”

Your words were cut off as he pushed you up against the door, smashing his lips on yours. His hands roaming all over your body as you threaded your fingers through his hair, tugging on it and earning a soft groan from his lips.

He tugs on your bottom lip with his teeth, making you moan, before breaking the kiss moving his lips down your neck. He lightly bites down on a spot before soothing it with his tongue. He repeats this all over your neck, surely leaving multiple hickeys.

"Fuck, you see what you've done to me? Walking around with that pretty little outfit and flirting with some other guy who would never be able to make you feel as good as I do," he speaks with a low tone, pushing your hips against his growing bulge as his hands grope your ass.

His words make you weak at the knees, the pool in your panties building with every passing second. Spencer's eyes are filled with hunger and lust as he pulls you in for another kiss.

"On your knees," he says into the kiss, lightly pushing you down by your shoulders. You get on your knees, making quick work of taking off his pants.

You slide off his boxers, freeing his cock, precum leaking out of the tip. You grin before licking a stripe up the underside of it, making him groan.

You spread the precum around the head of his dick before taking it in your mouth and swirling your tongue around the head. Spencer's breathing picks up and you start taking more of it into your mouth.

He takes the mask off the top your head, tossing it somewhere in the room. He grips your hair, making a make-shift ponytail. You hollow your cheeks and start bobbing your head.

You swirl your tongue around his dick as you suck harder. He groans and throws his head back, "shit, baby." As you take more of his dick into your mouth, his hips buck, hitting the back of your throat.

You gag around his dick, making him let out a low groan. He looks down at you for approval before he starts thrusting into your mouth.

He fucks your throat, making you gag and moan around his dick. Tears begin to fall at the feeling and restriction of air flow. He pulls back a bit, letting you get some air.

Once you give him a small nod, he resumes his motions. "Fuck Y/N you take my cock like such a good little slut.”

You feel his dick begin to twitch in your mouth, indicating that he’s close. You look up at him as he pushes in and out of your mouth, moaning so loudly, you're sure people can hear you.

"I'm close," Spencer moans, sloppily thrusting into your throat, hitting the back every time. After a couple more thrusts, he pushes his dick as far into your throat as he can, making you gag. The vibrations send him over the edge. He holds your head still, sending warm ropes of cum down the back of your throat.

He pulls out and looks at you, your mascara is running and your hair is a mess, "you look so pretty like this baby." He caresses your cheek before helping you up onto your feet. He pulls his boxers and pants back on before kissing you on the forehead.

"I love you," you smile at him.

"I love you too."

He picks your mask up off the ground and hands it to you. You take him to the washroom and take out makeup wipes from the cabinet. He helps you take off your make up so you can reapply it.

You both walk out of the room and into the hallway. Just as your leaving you bump into Julius. His eyes flicker down to the dark marks scattered across your neck and Spencer smirks.

"We're leaving now, it was good to see you," You smile at him, holding Spencer's hand.

"Yeah, you too."

As soon as you got home, Spencer pulled you onto the couch to straddle him. His lips were on yours, engaging in a heated kiss. His hands roamed to the back of your dress, pulling the zipper down and sliding the dress down to your hips.

He unclipped your bra, freeing your breasts. he pulled back, looking down and grinning.

"Are you just gonna stare or are—” You were cut off by Spencer's lips on your nipple making you moan. He swirled his tongue around the bud as his other hand kneaded your other breast. You were moaning, running your hands through his hair.

Just as he was about to move to the other nipple, your phone pinged. You groaned and got off him. you walked over to your phone and unlocked it.

Mother Your car is still here...?

Y/N I'll pick it up in the morning, I went home in someone else's car

With that you put your phone down and walked over to Spencer, swaying your hips.

"Now, where were we?"

A/N: chat I’m rlly debating posting this rn. I wrote it in 2022 and now, 2 years later, I found it in my drafts. I decided to edit it and fix it up a bit. I’m pretty happy with how it turned out, when I first found it, I expected it to be a lot worse lmao. lmk what you think of it!! if no one reads this I’m taking it down cause I’m kinda out of my criminal minds phase lol. Any feedback is greatly appreciated🫶

[seasprincess]

cowboy!rafe x mayors daughter!reader

part 1 here

Warnings: smut, mdni, unprotected s3x (wrap it), praise, nicknames, nippl3 sucking, degrading if you squint sweaty man

Rafe had spent his evening in a east he usually does when being around you.

His hands in his pants touching himself to the thought of you in that dress.

That god damn dress.

He loves when you wear dresses, which is most of the time if not all.

He loves the way they flow on your body, the way they stop just on your thighs or the way that when you sit down and it rides up a bit it shows him what colour panties you’re wearing. God does it get him hot and flustered knowing what the panties he should be taking off look like. Jesus does he want to take them off. See that pretty pussy of yours.

But he know it can’t happen, he knows he can’t do that.

So he has to stick to his hand.

For now at least.

The sun beams down on your skin as you make your way to your porch. Sitting in that swing seat you got for your birthday. You practically live there.

It’s calming to sit there and just swing back and forth. And it also gives a great veiw of Rafe when he’s chopping up wood for your fire for that evening. Your father really does make that poor guy work. Working any job at this point. But Rafe doesn’t care. He wants this job.

He looks so good with that axe in his hands. Muscles flexing as he cuts the wood. His biceps on show due to his white tank top. Which he decides to take off in that moment. Like he wants to tease you more.

Your eyes are immediately drawn to his abs, the way they glisten from the sunlight and sweat. You could just lick them. Maybe when he’s less sweaty. He looks so good, you could just-

“Darlin’ it’s rude to stare.” Rafe’s voice brings you out of the trance and you look up at his face rather than his other body parts. He just smirks as he watches you swing back and forth. Back and forth.

“I wasn’t staring.” You were.

“Mhm sure.” He says as he takes his hat off to rub his for head of any sweat. Guess he does take the hat off.

“I wasn’t!” You say with a small pout, acting like a spoilt child. Well you are spoiled so that parts right at least.

“You know it’s okay if you were. I don’t blame you.” He says as he places the axe on the ground and starts making his way over to you. His boots clacking on the wooden planks of the decking as he reaches in front of you. He towers above you when you stand up, so when you’re sat down. It’s like a mountain and a rock. He leans against the wall as he puts a toothpick in his mouth and fiddles with it. Looking at you. “So when we riding again sweetheart?”

The nickname makes your heart skip a beat as a small blush forms on your cheeks. Making them pink and rosy.

“Oh um, I don’t know. Don’t mind.”

Rafe chuckles and rolls his eyes as he pushes off the wall.

“God you do give up fast.”

“I’m not giving up!” You retaliate as you sit up straight, defending yourself. “I’m just busy.”

“Doing what?” Rafe quickly says back as he gets closer to you. So close his knees are touching the chair you’re sat in. “Cause you look like you’re just sittin’ down to me, darlin’.”

Rafe’s hand comes to your chin as he makes you look up at him. Eyes taking in every feature of your face as his rough thumb rubs your chin.

“Do you know how wild you drive me baby?” Rafe says as he smirks down at you. He’s decided he’s had enough of your back and forth flirting with no outcome. He needs you.

Bad.

“Hmmm no.” You smirk back. Yes you did know. Of course you knew. But you didn’t think it was that bad. “My dad is out.”

“I know.” He replies before he leans down and kisses you. Softly and passionately. Hes wanted to do this for so long and now it’s finally happening. He’s finally getting his wish.

And of course you kiss back. You’ve been waiting for this hair as long as he has.

“Why don’t you show me that pretty room of yours baby?”

Immediately you spring up and slot your hand in his. Leading him to the room.

He wastes no time to push you up against the door as soon as you shut it. Hands finding the hem of your dress and pulling it over your head.

“So pretty f’me.” He says as his kisses move to your neck, biting and sucking. Causing you to whimper and moan as you squirm in his touch. You’ve needed this so much.

His hand slithers down your body before reaching your panties, earning a gasp from you as his finger brushes over your clothes clit.

“So wet for me huh?” He smirks. Almost like he’s proud of himself for making you like this just from kissing you. “Needy girl.”

Both his hands travel to your hips as he looks at you.

“Are you sure about this?” He asks as he scans your eyes for any doubts.

You quickly nod your head and reply a small “Yeah.”

He smiles before picking you up and laying you on the bed. Undoing your bra.

“Fuck you’re so pretty doll.” He says as his lips attach to your nipple.

You’re just a whimpering mess as you play with his hair. Tugging on it slightly as his hands slowly pull down your pants.

“Gonna fuck you so good sweetheart.”

Rafe discards your panties somewhere in the room before working on taking his jeans and pants off. And in a few seconds he’s naked like you. He climbs onto the bed as he holds out his hand.

“I told you I was going to tech you how to ride.”

You pick up on his words and start straddling him. Looking at him as he places his hands back on your hips.

You slowly lower yourself down onto him with a moan. You’ve imagined this for a while. And he is definitely bigger than how you imagined.

“Fuccckkk baby.” Rafe moans out as you start moving up and down. That good feeling building up every time you go back down. “Taking me so well.”

Rafes hands help you move as he watches where he enters you. This is so much better than he imagined. And gosh has he imagined this. A lot.

Your movements get more difficult as you keep trying to ride him. But it’s just too much for you.

“Rafey.” You say with a slight whimper. Immediately he picks up on it and nods.

“Shhh baby. I’ve got you.” He says before flipping you over and getting on top of you. Smirking above you as he renters you.

You moan again as he kisses the corner of your mouth, his thrusts fast and deep.

He needed this so of course he’s not holding back. “Good girl.”

He places a kiss on your forehead as you grip on his bicep. Steadying yourself as he just watches you.

Rafe lets out a moan as your legs start to shake. His finger slowly rubbing your clit, he wants you to cum. He needs it too.

“Cum baby. Cum on my cock.” Rafe says before placing another kiss on your neck.

It doesn’t take you long to cum after that. Just like Rafe wanted.

His thrusts slow down slightly as his dick twitches before painting your walls with his seed.

“Fuck baby.” He says as he kisses your soft lips. Smiling as he lays down next to you, arm wrapping around you as he pulls you closer.

You may regret this decision later.

a/n: there will be a part three 🥳 Divider- @anitalenia

tags: @littlelamy @maybankslover

[hiiikiko]

001: ‘She’s in a band’

TW: Light smut, Ellie being a jerk tbh. (Not proofread bc I took my meds and I’m feeling lazy :P)

Moving to Seattle wasn’t your first choice, I mean, you were perfectly happy in Arizona. You had friends, family, and most importantly, a band but some drama happened and you wanted to get away from it all. Your first choice was going to California but you had no money, no stable job, and no place to crash so, you reluctantly went to Seattle. At least you’d be closer to the music scene and you haven’t seen your favourite cousin in awhile..

Gazing out the window as the amtrak came to a halt you see Jesse sitting on a bench, legs obnoxiously sprawled out and a toothpick hanging on his lips.

“Can take the boy outta the country but can’t take the country outta the boy,” you chuckle as you gather your luggage and make your way off the bus

“Hey, y/n/n,” Jesse drawls, grabbing your luggage with ease and slinging his arm around you.

“Ugh, get off me you reek of axe and cigarettes,” you tease with a smile playing on your lips as Jesse ruffles your hair and throws your things into the back of his truck.

Jesse’s place was a lot nicer than you though, I guess being a welder does pay off. It was a little messy and could use a homey touch but it was rather nice but you would never admit that to him. Your room was nice too, a little small, but had a great view and even had access to the balcony. The room was bare, plain white walls with a red brick wall on one side, a bed and one singular lamp sitting in the middle of the room.

You settle in while Jesse rifles through your things and rants about his current situationship, “She’s just insane like who asks for your credit score on the first date? Don’t get me wrong, my credit score is so good that it would make ANY girls parties drop.”

You scrunch your nose and throw a hoodie at him as he continues “Hey, I’m just say—“ he begins before hes abruptly interrupted by a call, “Yeah?.. right now?… Alright, alright, alright… on my way, doll.”

“Hmmm, I wonder who that could be,” sarcasm practically oozes off your words.

“It’s Dina,” Jesse winks as he rushes to put his boots on, “Don’t expect me to come back tonight,” he winks.

“Oh, come on,” you trail after him, “It’s my first night! Can’t you stay? We can, like, get dinner and maybe go to a bar?”

‘Nah, I’d rather get laid than hang out with my dorky little cousin,” He says, the door cutting off his voice.

Asshole.

And that’s how you find yourself all alone, sitting at a bar and cheering on the local bands when two girls sit next to you. The girl with short hair remarks, “Those guys were so ass, ‘The Serpahites?’ What the fuck kinda name is that,” her friend laugh at her joke.

“Sounds like a cult,” you mutter under your breath, not meaning for them to hear you but the girl with auburn hair laughs, “Ah, sorry, didn’t mean to eavesdrop—“ you begin but are quickly interrupted by the girl resting a hand on your shoulder.

“It’s okay, dude,” a soft smile on her lips.

Fuck, she’s so cute. The way the dim bar lights dance over her facial features and the way her short hair falls softly over her green eyes. She was wearing a flannel but you could tell she had one hell of a body.

“Sorry,” you say again.

“It’s all good,” she smirks, crap, did she notice the way you were staring?

As you’re debating on whether or not you should call it a night or get on your knees and start apologizing profusely for ever thinking lewd thoughts in the presence of an angel, she gets up, grabbing her friends hand and heads into the back.

Crap, I should’ve asked for her number..

Just as you take another sip from the fruity drink you ordered, you hear the announcer introduce another band called “the Infected.” Sounds pretty cool, you think as you get up from your seat and make your way into the crowd of people.

Must be a popular band.

The curtains are pulled back to reveal the girl you met at the bar earlier, she’s taken off her flannel and is now wearing a form fitting black tank top, low rise jeans, and a pair of worn converse, on her shoulder rests a beautiful black guitar littered with stickers of stars and planets, cute. Along side her is a girl with piercings, long black hair, looks like the lead singer, and oh. my. god. IS THAT JESSE?? He’s no longer wearing a flannel but a plain black tee, denim jeans, and of course, his boots, he’s on drums.

“Jesse!” you cheer as his head whips around and shoots daggers at you, you’ll never let him live this down.

The band plays a wonderful set and gets a lot of cheers from the crowd. Some fans, mostly girls, approach the band afterwards to gush over them, the girl with the auburn hair seems to have the most fans.

You make your way towards the stage to find Jesse, hoping to tease him about what you just witnessed.

“He’s in the back changing,” a voice rasps from behind. “Ah, I see,” turning around, you see the bassist towering over you.

“Heyyy, I know you, we met at the bar, yeah?” She says while looking you up and down.

“Yeah, at the bar,” you manage to get out.

“You’re Jesse’s cousin? Huh, didn’t know you were coming out tonight, if I had known, I would’ve put on a better show,” she smirks as a light blush sweeps over your face. How could such a small comment illicit this small reaction from you? Maybe it was the way she said it, her voice raspy from singing on backup.

“That show was really great, I enjoyed it a lot. Seems like y’all are popular,” you glance over at a small crowd of girls shooting glares in your direction for talking to their bassist.

The auburnette chuckles and glances back, winking at the girls, “Yeah, we got a few.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes at the faux humility, unfortunately, she catches this.

“What was that?” She laughs, studying your face.

“I can tell already, you’re such a cliche, right? I bet you sleep with all your little fangirls, give them the night of their lives then leave them in the dust, right? Just so you can feed your ego and make yourself feel better for whatever attachment issues you got going on.”

She looks awestricken. You knew her type all too well, I mean you were in a band and you’ve encountered A LOT of band mates are like that. Hell, even rock’s beloved dad, Dave Grohl, did something similar.

“Touché,” she smirks and leans up against the stage, her green eyes hungrily taking you in, “You’re interesting, let me buy you a drink.”

About half an hour later, you’re in the back of her van, panting with her lips on your neck and her knee pressing up against your aching cunt. She’s whispering sweet things into your ear which causes your hips to involuntarily buck up against her hand.

“So fuckin’ needy f’me, aren’t ya?” She mumbles against your neck, “All that talk just for you to melt into my touch,” you can feel her smirking against your neck.

“Shut up,” you say, barely getting it out through desperate whimpers and pants.

The next morning, you wake up in her apartment, alone and half naked, only wearing your panties and a shirt you didn’t recognize. You groan as you stumble out of bed, this hangover might actually be the death of you. You make your way over to the kitchen for some water only to find a sticky note next to some tylenol and water, it reads ‘Don’t forget to lock the door on your way out.’

What the actual fuck. Not even a good morning or at least a hi?

You crumple up the note, leaving it on the counter to hopefully get the message across.

“Typical bassist,” you mutter before leaving.

Later that evening, you facetime your friend, Lila.

“So… she basically told you to get out? What the fuck! You should’ve totally wrecked everything, stolen her shampoos, bleach wash her clothes, pour glitter all ov—“

Laughing you say, “Okay, okay, Lils, I get it but seriously? Glitter is going a little too far.”

“Not far enough, I’d say,” she mutters, “So…. was it good, at least?

“Good? It was total ecstasy but I mean, that’s to be expected.”

Lila cocks her head to the side, obviously confused, “Wha?”

“She’s in a band, meaning, she obviously has a lot of experience.”

“SHE’S IN A BAND???????” Lila’s eyes are practically bulging out of her head, “Wait, nah, girl, this is all on you. Rule number one, never sleep with a girl in a band, they will totally ruin your life. They’re good at giving head because they have to hide how evil they are somehow.”

You groan, “Ugh, I know., I know!” but your mind goes back to last night, the sight of her between your legs, the feeling of her hot breath against your ear, the sight of her on top with your legs draped over her shoulders, the way—

Fuck.

(A/n: This is my first fic since I was like 16 so be nice lol next one will be better, I promise, I just really suck at writing intros)

[dduane]

Invictus

In the dimness he woke and knew it was too late. Morning never came so late unless the world was ending.

Fortunately, he knew what to do about that.

He blinked and ruffled his feathers, looking around. This was his place. Surrounding a patch of grass were two holly trees, a pine, a cypress whose branches all went the wrong way, and much shrubbery, mostly beech and thorn. The shelter was good here, even on nights like last night. And in the holly, food appeared hung up: good food that tasted of fat and meat. It was all his. Later, when it was time for sex, there would be someone else who’d get some of it. But right now, he owned it.

This cold white stuff on the ground did complicate matters. It came and went without warning, and here it was again. Now, others who might have spent the morning scratching around the ground instead of stuffing themselves full up here would be turning up in his territory, eating his food. His feathers ruffled up again, this time with rage at the thought. Bastards. Bastards. Kill them all.

He hopped up onto the branch that had the best view across the patch of grass and into the bushes, and sang. Bastards! Who wants a piece of me? Come and get it! Because this was when it had to be said, no matter how much you might have preferred to sit quiet with your feathers fluffed up, conserving your heat. The dim sky was already paling toward that too-cold blue. It would be a bad day, cold, everybody and his family would turn up here trying to get at the tree food, which was what you needed this time of year if you meant to stay alive until dusk –

And suddenly he heard the harsh dark cawing coming from across the hardened path, across the wall, in the wood full of tall starved pines. He shivered. Not so early, he thought, what are you doing up at this hour? But he knew. That one wanted the tree-food too. It had come for it before. Now, in the silence before the morning wind, he heard the flapping of the wings.

Hastily he turned to the food cage, ate a few mouthfuls, felt the fat melt down his throat like blood, like life. Almost before he finished, the darkness had landed with a noisy thrash of leaves and branches up in the holly. A huge expressionless black eye gazed down at him.

He sang. It was almost all he could do. It’s mine! Stay away, or I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you! But the outcome was hardly so simple. The black-headed, white-backed shape with the axe-like beak bounced down another branch, and another, its eye on that tree food, that meat. It liked meat too. He’d once seen it zoom down onto the pond and simply pick up a baby duck and fly off with it. I’ll kill you if you get any closer! Don’t push me! I will!

It came closer. It was winter, it was death, the shape now only one branch of holly away. He sang as if life depended on it: because it did. If he had enough to eat, the sun came up. If the sun came up, the world was safe. It was as simple as that. Go away! I have to eat the food or the world will end! I’ll kill you to keep that from happening! Monster, go away, don’t make me rip you up — ! He fluttered at the monstrous gaping head, enraged, desperate.

A clacketing, rattling noise from behind. The black eye went wide, the death-pale bulk roused its wings and flapped clumsily out of the holly tree. Desperate with relief, he flung himself at the food-cage again, and ate with frantic speed as the sky paled brighter, toward day-blue: and between mouthfuls, he sang at the top of his lungs, shuddering with relief and triumph. Bastard! I warned you not to mess with me! Victory! Victory!

The sun peered up over the far hill. The shadows fled. He gorged himself as the black bird flew off, and stopped, and shouted again, Victory!

…She stood there with her mug in one hand, looking out across the back yard snow at the dot of red breast deep in among the holly branches, pecking furiously at the suet in its little cage. “Boy,” she said to the husband, back in the kitchen, “listen to that guy. You’d think he’d just won World War Three.”

“Yeah. Where’s the milk?”

The door closed. On the snow, the sun of the shortest day shone.

Victory!

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

Overblot Universe (4) | Yandere Twisted Wonderland

Part 1 • 2 • 3• 5

There he was 

The first overblot you witnessed 

The Overblotted Riddle was as regal as ever 

Standing above your gilded bed fit for royalty decorated by arches of spinning ink 

You could see guards that looked similar to the entrapped dormmakers during the event

Standing in front of heart shaped doors that resembled an inky reflection of the Heartslabyul’s dorm

“Look at me when I’m talking to you, (Y/n). I haven’t forgotten how you ran from my forces meant to bring you home.”

“I…was just scared. Your army was fighting with Jamil’s and I just didn’t want to get in the way.”

Riddle scoffed,”You think I’d allow any of my vassals hurt you?! I thought you heard me last time we saw each other.”

His gloved hands clutched your cheeks and chin forcing you to hold his gaze

“In my world, I am the law. I am order manifest! 

The words brought back the memories again

But you couldn’t drift off especially now that Overblotted Riddle was smiling 

You could practically smell the idea of something awful coming from him

He let his ink gloved hands trail from your jaw to rest around your neck

“I have been eagerly awaiting the day I’d meet you again. For so long I’ve been replaying the sight of the collarless king working alongside those rogue cards.”

He pulled away leaving a ring of ink that tickled your skin, shaping to hug your neck letting a black splattered rose hang from it’s center

“All this time I’ve thought about having you and now I’m this close to having everything be perfect.”

You watched his eyes drift down your body, letting yourself follow his gaze 

Finding your outfit to be matching his own, you hoped it was just the ink doing its things

He beckoned you to follow him 

And the moment you deliberated you could feel the bodice of your outfit slightly squeeze 

So that was it’s purpose+

You hurriedly caught up to him minding the overwhelming line of soldiers collared and at the ready 

“Riddle what do you plan to do?”

Riddle’s distorted chuckle exploded into a diabolical laugh

Calming himself he turned over his shoulder as you both left the dorm/castle for the garden

“I’m recreating where we met of course. An unbirthday celebration that changed everything. A coronation that would have been perfect if you and those cards didn’t ruin it.”

Arriving to the entrance of the garden it was exactly as he said

The table and treats for an unbirthday party all different shades of black with that sheen that said was ink

All surrounding a grand stage where to thrones sat at the edge of it

He took your hand, more gentle than you were expecting and led you on a red carpet that led to the thrones

Out of nowhere this Riddle brought out a box setting it on a pedestal

He opened it to reveal a crown…fit for a king

“Bow, (Y/n) and receive your right as my king.”

Idia’s crown flashed in your mind making you cower instinctively

His glare was paralyzing

“Bow. (Y/n).”

The pressure around your body was intense, as if sapping your energy to make you fall to your knees

Riddle sighs,”That’s good enough.”

He places the crown on your head 

It doesn’t hurt like Idia’s but it feels hard to remove 

And as Riddle helps you stand you can feel the something wet drip from the  crown and into your eyes

But it doesn’t burn…more like clouding your vision as you were led to rest in the throne

“Now! Bring the relic! It’s power will be what finalizes your king's coronation!”

Carried by many of the soldiers was the mirror–The mirror that you originally traveled to 

“That–”

“Recognize it? This is the accursed object that let me bring you here. But it’s done it’s job and no one has any intentions of you using it again.”

“Wait but I have—to–go back!”

The overblotted Riddle gave you that sly smirk all to similar to the dormleader you knew

“You’ll find that world will fade from memory when the portal does as well.”

With a trumpet sound and coordinated shouts an ink covered axe was brought to Riddle

Despite being so close you couldn’t lift yourself from the throne, courtesy of the ensemble you were wearing

You could feel your tears blend with the ink trailing down your face as the Overblotted Queen raised his axe to smash the mirror

You tried to reach in vain as he brought the axe down

You felt as though it was helpless 

Until you heard a whisper

“(Y/n) don’t despair we wouldn’t leave you by yourself.”

A new bout of energy let you sit up

“Oh my gosh! It’s you! You’re here!”

“Hush, we’ve got to be quick the main event is on its way.”

“I summon thee cauldron!” 

[fictionalmenobsessor]

Viking!simon 👉🏻👈🏻🥺

RULES ─ MASTERLIST ─ REQ BOX

viking!simon, who has a scowl on his face every time he sees you. being in an arranged marriage was hard enough, but to have your husband hate you every waking moment was just the cherry on top. you thought you were good enough, coming from the daughter of another powerful village, however according to some of the other villagers you were softer and daintier than they expected.

sure you were less bulky, but you were still on the taller side! just not as tall.

all of your thoughts came to a screaming halt when your village was in the midst of getting raided. the soft pads of your feet as they hit the rough bark and coarse dirt beneath you, were the only other noise except for the howling wails in the background, luckily for you they were slowly fading away.

you knew how to fight, and you wanted to, but simon didn’t let you. as soon as he saw you swinging an axe into an enemies skull, he stripped you of your weapons, and pushed you away while yelling at you to hide in the forest.

so here you were, running in and out of the deeply defaced trees, trying your hardest to not eat shit and stack it, over something stupid like a rock.

a quick look behind you was all it took for you to be tackled to the ground. the distraction left your organs squished, lungs winded, and completely helpless on the floor, writhing under what felt like a ton of bricks.

using the remaining strength you had left, you pushed the stranger off. or tried to. as they sat up, a knife was pulled out of their waistband, presumably to stab you or slice your throat.

you never knew thanks to simon who swooped in at a second to spare, decapitating them.

the head slid off of their neck, while sticky ichor gushed over your bare stomach; the draining, lifeless face took its time rolling onto the ground.

with a helping hand simon brought you onto your feet. blood, sweat and dirt smothered his blonde hairy chest, creating a mixture that was dripping everywhere, including over fresh wounds that adorned his skin.

“you should’ve ran faster.”

[wttcsms]

you wouldn't be the first renegade to need somebody, atsumu miya

pairing atsumu miya x reader word count 1.4k synopsis love for you is holding him; love for him is allowing himself to be held. content contains hurt/comfort, intimacy, atsumu-centric, insecurities, unconditional love, showering together but make it sfw

The stinging spray of scalding hot water from the showerhead should be enough to get him to leave, but he barely registers the pain, can’t seem to bring himself to feel the heat, can’t seem to bring himself to feel anything.

No — that’s not entirely true. He feels one thing.

Devastated. 

Everyone knows Atsumu Miya likes to talk shit on and off the court. It’s his thing, his trademark, his brand. Lots of athletes like to talk big about how they’re going to win; who the hell is going to support a guy who walks onto the court with a well, it’ll be alright if I lose. 

He’s staring down at the tiles of the shower, can somewhat register the persistent barrage of water spraying onto his back as he has one hand splayed on the wall, shoulders slumped, water dripping from his hair and running into his vision, making everything blurry. 

Don’t blink, he tries to demand of himself, but the issue is, we can’t always control our bodies. He has to shut his eyes, just for a brief second, and in that second, it all comes back to him.

The opposing team at set point. His team depending on him to serve. One point left. Only one chance. He can feel the stadium’s crowd holding their breath, can feel the lack of air in the atmosphere, can hear how loudly the blood is rushing to his head. Dizzy. Dazed. He doesn’t give into pressure, not anymore, not ever. Doesn’t feel performance anxiety, knows better than to try to attempt something flashy just for the glory of a good story to tell. 

Give ‘em a serve they don’t have a chance of receiving, he demands of himself. 

The final seconds of the match all come to him like stills from a movie, each frame another devastating blow to his ego, his self-worth, his very being. The ball is in the air, he’s bending his knees to prepare for the jump, his hand making contact with the ball. Something’s off, he can feel it upon first contact, but it’s too late to save, too late for him to change anything.

The ball lands.

On his side of the net.

He’s frozen in place as he stares ahead. He can tell the other team is cheering, slapping each other on their backs, and he can hear the blow of a whistle, the celebration from the crowd. But all he sees is the ball. All he sees is his failure.

Atsumu has spent a good portion of his volleyball career knowing that he plays the game better than most. It’s why he feels so comfortable talking about the lack of skills other players display. It’s why he always has something to say at practice, on the court, during a post-game interview. 

And he knows he makes mistakes. He knows that he’s only human. But a bad serve in the middle of a game isn’t as crushing as knowing that he is the sole reason as to why the Black Jackals’ season is going to be ending early. 

Where did he go wrong? He did everything perfectly, did everything the way he usually does. Why couldn’t he perform? Why did he let his team down? Why—

“Atsumu?” 

He doesn’t look up, and all you can see is the sad shape of his outline from the foggy glass door of the shower. You know that Atsumu probably wants nothing more than to be alone right now, but you can’t help but worry when fifteen minutes have gone by, and you could still hear the shower running. That’s your first sign that something is wrong.

Atsumu is a notoriously quick showerer, to an almost concerning degree. When you first started living together, you debated planning elaborate tricks to see whether or not he was even using soap. (Which, in hindsight, was just flatout silly; he walks out the shower smelling overwhelming of his Axe Men’s 3-in-1 and Old Spice deodorant.) 

No — the first sign that something is wrong would be his uncharacteristic silence on the trip back home. He hadn’t responded to your it’s okay, baby, you’ll get ‘em next season. Instead, he just looked out the window, the devastated expression on his face silencing you as well. Even when he lost to Kageyama, he had been disappointed, upset, but still talking big about how he was going to crush the Adlers next time around. He had then made a comment about Tobio’s stupid haircut, and that’s when you told him if he doesn’t have anything nice to say, he shouldn’t say anything at all.

Now, you’d give anything to have him say something. Something for you to work with.  

“Atsumu?” You call out for him again, worried when you don’t see his figure moving. 

Pathetic. Atsumu thinks that’s what he is. A loser, a fucking scrub, a failure. Even if his teammates won’t admit it, the media will. And what then? Will you think that about him too? It’d be the truth, wouldn’t it? Isn’t that why you’re in the bathroom now? To pity him? 

He’s too busy tearing himself down to react to the distinct sound of you sliding back the glass door of the shower so you can enter it. There’s a brief burst of the cool air of the bathroom hitting his exposed body, but it evaporates the moment you shut the door. 

“Oh, ‘Tsumu.” You whisper it, and he wants to tell you that he’s not fucking fragile. That he’s not going to shatter into a million pieces if you just raise your voice, if you tell him how you really feel about him. He doesn’t move, doesn’t turn around to face you. He doesn’t want to. He can’t.

His skin is red from the heat of the water, his back staring at you angrily, hurt. The skin’s going to need some time to heal, and you turn the faucet, lowering the temperature of the water. 

“Turn around, honey. Please?” You’ve never seen Atsumu so upset before, so quiet. You wait several minutes for him to actually do as you request, and you think it’s only because he wants a way to get rid of you sooner. 

You don’t say anything to him as you reach for his shampoo, letting it lather in your hands before you give him a pleading look, one that has him leaning down so you can reach his hair. It feels nice, he thinks, the way you’re shampooing his hair. You’re gentle with your movements, and it almost relaxes him. 

You use your body wash on him. Massage the suds into his skin, but you’re mindful of the amount of pressure you apply. You know which areas of his skin is more sensitive from its exposure to the hot water, and you are careful with the spots of his body that he had chosen to be negligent with. 

“Am I so fuckin’ worthless that you have to do somethin’ as simple as bathing me?” He’s not angry at you. He might spit out the words — words that come out sounding all raw and scratchy, like they had to personally claw themselves from his throat — but the anger is not directed at you. It’s at himself. 

“Look at me.” 

His eyes are glossy, wet, shiny, and you know it’s not because of the shower. You’ve never seen Atsumu cry before, and you’re not sure what you’re supposed to do. So, you do what feels right. You whisper his name softly, tenderly, and it’s this tenderness, your unwavering softness, your unconditional love, that breaks him. That makes him feel safe enough to break. That makes him think of the possibility that you’ll take these jagged pieces of him and piece them back together for him, with him. 

He’s so much bigger than you. You tell him all the time that he’s larger than life, and he thinks about that comment as he lets himself sink into your open arms, as he lets himself be held. He has never felt smaller in his life, and in your embrace, he buries his face into your shoulder, letting his warm tears mix in with the water already on your body.

“I don’t know how you can still look at me.” He mutters, and every word is spoken onto your skin, tiny blades striking you. 

Atsumu isn’t sure what he wants to hear, isn’t even certain that there’s anything that could be said to ease his devastation, but melts into you even more so when you tell him,

“Atsumu, I thought you already knew that nothing can change the way I look at you.”

[jarofstyles]

Scarred

Harry and Y/N work at a haunted attraction together- but no one’s ever seen his face.

WC-5.2k

Patreon

Warnings- mention of scars, bullying, anxiety, mention of blood, exhibitionism hint, slight angst and fluff

------

When Y/N had first signed up to be a scare actor, she had heard a lot of things.

Be careful of guests with fear aggression. You may get punched.

Do not take candy from guests, there was an incident. 

Go for the people who are acting like they are too good for it. They make the best scares.

But the one she had thought was the most amusing? 

Everyone is hooking up. Be careful who you choose. 

Y/N had no intentions of hooking up with anyone. This had been a side job, a side hustle if you will, some money to pay off bills and let her get a head start on holiday gifts. She’d never anticipated that a scare attraction would have the amount of drama or hook ups that she had been exposed to. It seemed like people paired off, even her friends she’d made that had warned her in rehearsal runs, had found people to fuck around with. She had no plans on doing anything with anyone- until she’d met Harry. 

They had been in full costume when she’d met him. Skull makeup skillfully painted on his face, hair slicked back and some fake blood trickling down his temple. It was also splattered on his white dress shirt and knuckles, as well as the large axe he dragged along with him to make sparks on the pavement. He had a swagger to his walk, a smirk on his face as he approached Y/N, eyeing her up and down. 

Her own costume was of a crazed vampire princess. An elvira adjacent dress with multiple rips, loads more fake blood on her dripping down her chin and smeared around her neck and hands. The choker holding a cross pendant had been his area of attack, gently tugging on it with a hum as he got into her space. Even with the red contacts in his eyes, she could read them well. It was hard not to. “Look at that….” he mumbled to her, their faces nearing as he lifted his hand to expose his cross tattoo near his thumb. “We match.” 

That had been it before he walked away that time, but it wasn’t the end of it. It was only the beginning. 

The first time they’d hooked up had been in an empty dressing room. Her face in his neck as he fucked into her, trying to hide her moans as he had taken her deep, her leg held in his hand as she was pressed against the lit table. He’d been filthy, whispering into her ear about how he would have done this out there if she had let him, how much he loved to feel her wrapped around him, his makeup smearing on her face and vice versa.

“There we go… what a tight little thing you are.” His breath washed over her lips, keeping their faces close. His cock had gotten deep in her, deeper than she had ever experienced without it being too much, and she had felt like he’d fucked her brain to mush. Repeatedly getting at her most sensitive spot, finding it and keeping right at it. 

“Found it, didn’t I? So responsive. Teased me all fucking night, didn’t you?” He held her throat despite it still being sticky with the fake blood, watching her mouth open and panting. Her fingers held to the edge of the table and her knuckles pale, the slight wobble of her leg still on the ground cluing him in. “Do you know what I wanted to do?” 

“What?” Y/N whispered. “What did you want to do to me?” She was desperate to know, not able to hide the desperation in the slightest with how well she was being fucked. 

“I wanted to bend you over that bench. Brushed my stomach with those fucking nails… saying ‘oops’, like you hadn’t meant to. You did, you little slut. Just like you meant to push that perfect ass into me when you felt me come up behind you.” He hissed, tightening his grip on her throat. “Should have lifted up your skirt and taken you there. You were soaked for me then, weren’t you?” His grin was wicked, making her brain short circut. He was fully done in makeup despite it smearing near his mouth, and there was something so erotic about being fucked by a man in disguise. 

“Fuck- more.” She pleaded, gritty voice gracing his ears along with her whimpers. His hand was wrapped deliciously around her throat and his fingers expertly pressing right against the sides, showing his experience and honestly, expertise at the art of erotic choking. “Spit- spit in my mouth, please? Please I just-“ she was cut off by his snicker.

“You’re filthier than I thought.” He laughed, watching in pleasured awe as her mouth opened and her tongue laid out, eagerly catching the string of spit as he messily gave it to her. She could feel his cock twitch in her as her eyes hazily looked up at him, swallowing it with a slightly deranged giggle. 

“So dirty.” Her voice wheezed, opening her mouth for more. “Give me everything. I’ll be good, just- I want it all.”

Harry had definitely followed through in that promise. Hell, the man made her cum twice that first time, gently helping clean her up before they’d gone their separate ways. 

Y/N had yet to see him without the face makeup on. She’d caught him without the costume and seen the gallery of tattoos he had inked on his skin, but he always beat her there and seemed to like the game of having seen her face without her seeing his. In some ways, it was like a bit of foreplay to them both. Y/N never knew she had a kink that was mask adjacent but here she was. 

He didn’t even bother taking it off at the attraction, rather driving home in full makeup. Her friends had said they’d never seen him without it either, but the only thing they knew was his real eye color was green. Harry was a bit secretive and apparently had never hooked up with anyone in the past, despite working here for the last 5 seasons. 

“He’s looking at you like he wants to eat you.” Kristen mumbled to her as they did their makeup next to one another. In the reflection she could see Harry standing in a group with some other scare actors, but his focus was on Y/N. Seeing her find his gaze in the mirror, he didn’t look away. Instead, he winked at her, continuing his observation. Y/N felt herself heat under her skin, shaking her head as her hand trembled slightly as she lined her lips. 

“I bet he does. Come on, how big is he?” Her friend hissed, trying to gain some sort of juicy tidbit she’d been holding off on. 

“Big.” Y/N laughed, placing the cap back on her lip liner. “I don’t know any more about him than you guys do. I know what car he drives, that he doesn’t have any social media, has green eyes and a big dick. But he’s still a gentleman above all else, he always walks me to my car. But that’s about it.” She wished she knew more. Having hook ups happen exclusively at work was hot, but she’d love to be on a bed. And not have to rush. 

“I think he’s actually into you.” Kristen muttered. “I heard he was asking around about you. He hasn’t asked me anything yet but he asked Lila if you lived around here or if you travelled.” 

Y/N’s brows furrowed, meeting Harry’s in the mirror yet again. He rose a brow in return, narrowing his eyes at her with his smirk. “I don’t know why he’s asking other people that stuff when he can just ask me.” She replied, going back to filling her lips in with the lipstick. It irked her a little bit, she couldn’t lie. Y/N had tried to get more information on him but he’d sort of froze when she tried so she respected it and didn’t bring it up again. 

“Maybe it’s because when you both are together you’ve got each other’s tongues down your throats.” Her friend snickered, making Y/N kick her shin. That got her to stop, but it didn’t make it any less true. It was real, she feared. Every night, since they were in the same scare zone, it was like foreplay when they walked by each other. His hand brushing her back or her arm, whispering something dirty to her as he passed by, or vice versa. But still. 

At the end of the night, when Harry popped up out of nowhere while she cleaned her bag, she felt his hands grip her hips from behind. Her costume had been hung up on the rack, leaving her in athletic shorts and her tee shirt as his fingers dipped under the waistband, pulling her back into him and letting her feel his cock. It was in his jeans, his black tank top exposing his tattoos yet again as she looked at the hands feeling her up. “Heard you were asking around about me.” She said simply, allowing him to touch as she zipped up her bag. 

“I was.” Was his answer, lips brushing over the shell of her ear. “Pretty little princess is a bit of a mystery. I’ve found the answers to be satisfactory, though.” He sighed, making her skin flood with chills as he kissed the delicate skin right behind her ear. Y/N found it hard to think when he touched her like this but it was hard to pull away when his touch was something she craved. Even in her day to day before she went to work, she thought about his mouth and his hands, How he tasted. She had bruises from him and they were constant reminders. 

“What answers did you find?” She asked, leaning back in his hold and letting her ass rub against his length. His nose exhaled a harsher breath at the action, hands tightening on her as he groaned. 

“Well.. You live around here. You’ve got a cat. Work full time. Know your age, know you like banana taffy which, in my humble opinion, is vile. But I don’t know enough. I want to know more.” His deep voice was hypnotic, making her want to spill her life story to him, but looking in the mirror to see his face still painted made her pause. 

“I’m the mystery?” She laughed. “You don’t let anyone see your face. All I know about you is your name, your car, that you like ACDC, and you’re good in bed.” She huffed, turning around to face him. His contacts were out and the mossy green looked down at her, a grin lighting up his features as he replied. 

“Good in bed, aye?” 

“Harry.” She deadpanned, crossing her arms. “I’m serious. I don’t know much at all. Is this something you want to keep just here? Cause I’m a little confused why you’re asking around and wanting to know more when you’ve never let me see you without the makeup on before.” She could see him sober a little bit, body stiffening a little when he could tell she was serious. “It’s like you make it a point for no one to see your real face, which, it’s cool if that’s a boundary but I feel a bit at a disadvantage when you’ve seen all of me and I’ve barely seen any of you.” It felt a bit ridiculous to say, perhaps she was overreacting but it was something that she felt. She’d felt there was a bit of an imbalance.

Harry was quiet for a moment, releasing her from his grip as he ran a hand through his hair. He seemed to mull over it for a moment, making Y/N hope she didn’t upset him but it was a conversation they’d eventually have to have. 

“I’ve never done this before.” He finally mumbled back. “I like this job because it lets me escape the day to day. The stares I get normally, it's the stares I want. I don’t- I don’t want you to feel disadvantaged because of it.” Obviously that bothered him. His brows were furrowed and his stance stiff, which she felt slightly bad for but it was simply the truth. It confused her a little bit, but he continued. “I just like what I’ve got going on here, and I don’t want people to look at me differently or anything like that. As for you, for us… I don’t want to keep it just here, but it’s the excuse I’ve got to keep the makeup on.” 

Now she was very confused. Looking at him with it written on her face, she placed her hand on his arm for comfort as she tried to get his eyes to meet hers again. “What do you mean?” She asked gently, trying to approach the subject delicately. It was relieving to know he didn’t want to only keep it here, but it made her concerned to know something was holding him back from showing her his face. “You know, if you show me your face I’m not going to tell anyone else what you look like. If you want privacy, I respect that. It's not my secret or face to share.” Y/N hoped he would know that even in the short time they’d known each other. 

“No, I know- I don’t think you would. I just worry because-” He obviously didn’t like talking about it and it made him uncomfortable, as this was probably the most they’d talked without slipping into something sexual, but he seemed to take her concern seriously. “I worry that you’re going to see me without the makeup and be repulsed or something. All of my exes, well both of them, they said they were okay with me and then it got too much when people stared at me and- fuck, okay….” He groaned, taking a deep breath. “I’ve got a massive scar going down the side of my face. Goes through my eyebrow, over my eyelid and down my cheek. Some skin is fucked up on the side too, s’textured- I was in an accident when I was younger and it fucked it all up.” He breathed, making Y/N’s heart ache. Once he started talking though, he was going and she didn’t want to interrupt, so she just slipped her hand down to hold his and nodded for him to continue. “I’ve grown up being called all sorts of shit and a monster- hell, even coming here to audition, they thought I was in some special effects shit. They were mortified when I told them it was just my face after they said they’d want to make it more gory, but… I come here in my makeup and no one sees the scar. They just see me and they think I’m attractive, and even if it's a little weird, I can anticipate the staring cause it’s not my imperfection. It’s anticipated. Dunno if I’m running my mouth for a stupid reason, but-”

“No. It isn’t stupid.” Y/N said firmly. “First, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry that you had to go through that, had to be hurt like that, and had people who hurt you because they’re cowards and can’t deal with people staring at you. That’s bullshit and it pisses me off.” She huffed, obviously irritated. “But I am not going to be repulsed or horrified. I like what I’ve seen of you this far, didn’t even think I’d hook up with anyone here if I’m honest, but you are extremely attractive, Harry. I’m positive that once the face paint comes off, that isn’t going to change. Scar or not. It’s how you carry yourself, how you talk. How you touch.” Her other arm lifted to wrap over his neck, pressing her body into his own. “If you aren’t ready to show me, you don’t have to. I won’t ever make you show yourself here either.” She motioned to the room around them. “ I understand, having an escape from that must be so nice but… I promise you, I’m not going to run away just because of a mark on your skin. I like you from what I know so far- even if it isn’t a lot.” Her voice was tender, trying to convey just how much she meant it. It could be such a good thing, at least in her opinion. They had incredible chemistry and got on and she wanted to see how far it could take them. 

Harry took a moment to absorb what she said, nodding hesitantly before he pulled her back into an embrace. It broke her heart to feel his shaky hand on her back. He didn’t seem to be afraid of anything but this, working in a place built for screams and monsters, his real face was his secret. Y/N didn’t like that people had made him feel ashamed over something he had no control over. “I-I do like you.” He said quietly, chin on top of her head. “I was even worried, y’know, for after the season was over because I like how I feel around you, but I’ve been scared t’show you. If you really want to see…” He was a bit braver with her face tucked into his neck, her fingers stroking the hair peeking from his beanie that covered his head. “I think it could be cool if you came over t’my house.” 

“Yeah?” Her face brightened and Harry swore right there that it would make it worth it. The underlying anxiety was still there but hell, Y/N hadn’t even blinked at the idea he maybe wasn’t as attractive as she thought underneath the makeup. “Okay! When?” Her body bounced in excitement and it made the pressure on his chest lift just a smidge. 

“Uh- tonight? If you want.” He offered. “Or tomorrow, I’m not like, super bus- I write from home as my other job, and I do on the side too- so I make my own schedule, it’s really up to you.”

“I’d love to come tonight.” The excitement was audible in her tone, the more she spoke the less he felt anxious. “Let me grab my bag. Uh, why don’t you text me your address.” She suggested, pushing some of his hair back. “I’ll follow you there but in case we get lost.” 

“Course.” He went to take out his phone but was interrupted by a pair of petal soft lips connecting with his, making him abandon his plans and inhale sharply as he reciprocated the soft kiss. His hand on the side of her neck, pulling her back in when she went to pull away and making her giggle. 

“There will be plenty of that once we get there. Let’s get this show on the road, yeah?”

—————

Harry’s place was cute. 

In a row of condos, his was at the end and she could see a fence hiding what must be a hard. Long rather than wide, she was impressed immediately as she pulled up behind his car. He had already arrived but waited patiently at his front door, seemingly already put his stuff away. 

Y/N wanted to coo at the decoration of the front porch of his place. There were a few carved pumpkins, a spider web, and purple and orange string lights hanging on the banisters. He obviously liked Halloween but she got her explanation when she started up the steps. 

“Got a niece and I watch her for my sister sometimes.” He began to satiate her ravenous curiosity. Y/N was dying for any bit of information about him. “We uh, we had a pumpkin carving night with her and my mum.” There wasn’t any embarrassment which she loved. The man in front of her seemed to love his family with no shame and that was attractive to her beyond belief, her wide smile pairing with her nod. 

“You get cuter the more I get to know about you.” Being openly flirtatious wasn't her norm, no, but she wanted Harry to actually see she liked him. She was sensitive to his insecurities and wanted it undeniable that she was into him, which wouldn’t be hard to prove. She really, really did. “Though I’m sad I missed out. I haven’t carved a pumpkin in years.” 

Not wanting to be presumptuous, her bag was left in her car but… she definitely did want to stay for a while. 

“That’s awful.” He clicked his tongue. “If I had a spare, I’d remedy that but… maybe another night.” The hint towards having more time with her away from the attraction made her heart soar if she was being honest, but she tried to hold composure so her smile didn’t look absolutely insane. 

“I’m holding you to that.” She controlled her grin as he stood up, opening the front door for her. Immediately she was greeted with a comforting home. It was the exact opposite of what she had expected as a bachelor living alone. Photos of what looked to be his family on the walls, the odd art piece, a hanging rack with his keys and a few beanies and a sweater. He had a wicker shoe rack and a woven red rug in the entryway, stairs immediately to the left and what looked to be a dining room to the side. 

“I’m sorry for a bit of a mess. I don’t really have people over much, so my dining room is my work space and… yeah. It’s got papers and shit.” He rubbed the back of her neck. “My office got small and I like to spread out.” It was a cute little quirk that she found to be fucking endearing. Seeing the neat stacks of paper and his laptop, what looked to be a light box? She wasn’t sure, but she thought she recognized it. He had a knit cardigan hanging off the back of a leather office chair on wheels, softening the look of it and making her wonder what he was like outside of work even more. He seemed to be… soft. 

The house smelled like apples and cinnamon and she saw a wax melter thing as they walked through and he led her towards the living room, a step down to the space from the kitchen. Hardwood covered in a few different rugs that should look bad but didn’t. They all fit somehow, even on top of one another. A soft looking couch and giant bean bag looking thing were there too, making her wonder which he preferred to sit in. 

“Can I get you something to drink?” He asked, standing with his hands behind his back. A slightly nervous thing he did. “I’m gonna go uh, take the makeup off.” It broke her heart to see his nerves come back like that. Her hand gently tugged on his arm, trying and succeeding to pull his hand into her own. 

“I’m fine for right now but, I just wanted to remind you that I do like you already. I want to get to know you, to see your face. Okay?” Her thumb brushed over the back of his hand, noting his knuckles were still split. He’d blamed it on the gym. “I know it’s still scary but believe me when I say that you aren’t going to scare me away, and I’m not going to tell everyone what you look like. You’re safe with me.” 

Her reassurance seemed to do a lot, his head falling from his stiff shoulders and looking at his feet as he sighed. Of course he was riddled with nerves. The one girl he actually liked had never seen him without his so-called mask, and he knew he could look jarring to people who weren’t prepared- but there was no use in wasting time. 

“Alright. I trust you.” Weirdly enough, he actually did. 

-

Hearing Harry’s return down the stairs, Y/N sat up a bit straighter. He’d been gone for about 10 minutes, 15 maybe. She tried to distract herself on her phone but it would be a lie to say that it worked. Her own nerves were acting out. Her biggest fear was reacting in a way he perceived as negative. He was trusting her with this, and she really didn’t want to fuck it up. 

Y/N had no idea what to expect besides a scar.  So seeing his face for the first time had really thrown her for a loop- because the scar held the least of her attention. 

Harry was hot. Handsome. Attractive. Every word you could use to describe a god of a man, that’s what she would use to identify him. 

His hair that was usually slicked back had been washed clean, damp waves falling slightly in his face. Paler skin than she had imagined, but it was still beautiful. His nose was on the bigger side like she preferred. His jaw and cheeks sharp, carved to perfection. If she could have compared him to anything it would be one of those Greek statues, or maybe what she had always imagined Apollo to look like. His skin was smooth and it looked soft, sans the slight stubble on his chin and around his mouth- she was familiar with that, though. So were her thighs. 

His eyes looked even greener like this, not hidden behind the elaborate makeup. His lashes were still slightly clumped together from the shower, and by the time he had hesitantly sat in front of her, she was itching to have the eyes look up and back into hers. 

The scar was noticeable, yes. It went down his face as he had previously described, the pinker skin with some puckering trailing down his left side. It made her heart hurt to know that this was the cause of his insecurities though, because honestly? In her opinion, it didn’t take away from his beauty. 

It wasn’t often that she would describe a man as beautiful, but he truly was. Her words escaped her for a moment, but as soon as she had a coherent thought, she took a breath. “Harry….” She began to reach a hand up before pausing. “Can I?” Motioning to his face. He hesitated before nodding, leaning forward. 

Her hands cupped both of his cheeks, looking over his face with a saccharine smile, feeling the heated skin under her fingertips as she traced over the raised skin. “You are absolutely fucking beautiful.” She mumbled. “Wow. You had nothing to worry about because… I’m a little shocked at how attractive you are. Knew you would be regardless but I'm kind of in awe of you.” She laughed, making him smile. She could feel it under her hands, pulling one away to make a discovery. 

“For fucks sake! You’ve got a dimple too?” She whined. “That’s unfair. You should get to choose between chiseled features and dimples.”

Harry was flushed, but he joined in her laughter. There was no part of it that felt inauthentic. A bit of him felt silly, actually, with seeing her react so well. He’d worked himself up, gotten so anxious and upset over the prospect of her seeing him and being horrified that he had almost denied himself of getting to know her deeper. 

“Yeah?” A shy tone tinged his voice making him want to cringe, but he truly was slightly shocked at how well she took it. 

“Yep.” She chirped, climbing into his lap, helping herself to him. His hands went around her body as she took a closer look at him, seemingly enjoying what she saw and it made him a little flustered. The look in her eye was of genuine desire and attraction, the same if not more intense from when she had flirted with him at work. It wasn’t a reaction he was used to- or one he really looked for. “Harry… can I be honest?” 

His stomach dropped to his feet, terrified for a mere moment before she continued at his jerking nod. “I think people stare at you because you’re fucking hot.” The blunt words were not at all what he expected, eyebrows shooting up at the opinion of hers. That’s… certainly not what he had thought she would say. “I’m serious. I’m kinda drooling over you. I have and do when you’re in your costume cause, duh, but you’re genuinely one of the most attractive people I’ve ever seen. And the scar…” her finger ran over it on his cheek. “It’s part of you. It’s attractive. To me, and I’m sure many others.” Her mouth turned downwards for a second. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not trying to erase the trauma you had to endure from growing up with it. I’m positive people have bullied you and said horrific things. But I just think… more people probably find you attractive than you realize. And your ex girlfriends are absolute fucking morons, no offense.” 

The passion in her last statement had him sputtering out a laugh. She truly meant that! “I can’t say that’s the reaction I expected but, it’s better than I hoped.” He admitted, arms looped around her waist. Her eyes were drinking him in and admiring him, something he wasn’t used to. Maybe she was right about that, but he was used to and conditioned to believe his scar was ugly. Her approval wouldn’t necessarily fix that overnight but it definitely gave him a confidence boost. 

“I’m sorry I hid from you.” His voice was quiet, letting her explore his face. “I really… I really liked you and I was so scared that it would scare you off. I got in my head about it. I don’t like being known as the ‘scar guy’ when there’s a lot more to me but I knew that if people at work knew what I’d look like they’d see me as that.” Which, it was understandable. Y/N seemed to get it, nodding along in support. “I don’t think I’m ready to show my scar there. I kinda of like being someone else there, but…” he licked over his bottom lip. “I'd like for you to see the real me. If that’s something you’d still be interested in.” 

“Of course it is, Harry.” She insisted. “I’m only more into you now. Don’t get me wrong, your makeup is sexy and I love your persona there but… you’re right. There’s so much more to you that I’m dying to learn.” Her fingers pushed his damp curls from his eyes, exposing his face and tipping it up so she could brush her lips against his scarred cheek for a soft peck.  “So let’s start. Tell me who you are.”

[mymindisneverhere]

FAVORS (8)

Part Eight

warnings: 18+, MDNI!, no smut, ANGST, explicit language, lots of dialogue, (forgive me if I missed any)

heads up: 7.8k word count

Masterlist

21 Days 

Heavy grunts filled the room as Terry landed hard punches into the bag that hung from the ceiling. Jab, Hook, Uppercut, Jab. This was how he spent the last few weeks to keep himself busy and keep his mind off of her. It had been 21 days since their last encounter and Terry did everything he could to not remind himself of it. 

There was hardly any room for downtime in this new rigorous routine he chose to stick to. He’d go to work, then head directly to the gym, then go to Summers and lastly he’d head home. If he spent every day how he planned, he’d get home late enough just so all he had time to do was shower, have dinner and go to bed and do it all over again the next day. 

His weekends were spent at the boxing gym. Hours would fly by, boxers would pour in and out and he’d still be releasing all of his frustrations in the dimly lit gym. His hands were wrapped in white tape, sweat dripping from his body causing the thin wife beater to stick to his torso. His muscles flexed as he threw the punches into the large bag. 

“Aye T, it’s about that time man.” The owner of the gym announced, letting Terry know that they were preparing to close the gym for the night. 

Terry threw the last punch, causing the bag to quickly fly away from him and fall back into place with great force. He caught it as he looked over at the owner, nodding to let him know he heard him and that he was leaving. 

Once he dropped by to shower at his place, he headed back out to Summers to find something to fix, even if there was nothing that needed fixing. He was avoiding his thoughts as much as he could, afraid to face the harsh truths that he was somewhat already aware of. 

“Terry, it's freezing out here! You can come in and get some hot cocoa if you want.” Summer yelled from the patio door, squeezing her coat tightly around her body. 

“I’m good.” He responded, slamming the axe down the center of the wood sending it flying into two smaller pieces. He picked up another short log and placed it where the last one once was before sending the axe down the center of it. 

“You’ve been out here for hours, I think you’ve chopped enough wood for the whole neighborhood Terry.” 

Terry ignored her and kept chopping, unphased by her constant attempts at getting him to stop what he was doing. 

Summer stepped out of the house and shut the patio door. Folding her arms tightly across her chest, she walked over to him and stood a few feet away from him, making sure she wasn’t hit by the logs or the axe he was swinging. “You know avoiding this isn’t going to make it go away.” 

Terry chopped the last piece of wood and turned to look at Summer. His breathing was heavy, each exhale visibly ascending into the air as the warmth of his breath met the cold temperatures. Summer could see the frustration in his face but that wasn’t going to stop her from getting him to face his current reality. 

“It’s okay that you actually have feelings for her, but filling your days with heavy labor isn’t going to make those feelings go away.” 

“I hope you’re not telling me I should try and work it out with her.” He said, grabbing another log and placing it a few feet in front of him. “You think I’m wrong?” He asked, eyebrows raised. 

“I’m not saying you’re wrong at all! You had every right to react the way you did. However, you’re not completely innocent in this either.” 

Terry turned his attention to her once again and frowned at her words.

“She didn’t tell me she talked to you Summer. She lied to you, tried to intimidate you just to get me. Then lied to me about it.” He tilted his head, somewhat confused at how he could be at fault in any of this. 

“You lied to me about who sent the check for Bailey, I’m not mad at you.” 

“That’s not the same thing.” Terry stood there shaking his head at Summers' responses. “I didn’t tell you exactly who sent you the check, but I did tell you it was from a friend that’s not lying to you.”

“Omitting information is still lying, Terry, whether you want to admit it or not.” Terry rolled his eyes at that statement as he remembered Khloé uttering the same exact words to him. He could see her lips moving so clearly in his mind, jaw clenching as he remembered them emptying him moments before.  

“Did you really think the same woman paying you to help her lie to her own parents was going to be completely honest when it came to keeping you by her side?” Summer started, “You had an idea of who she was before you fell for her. You knew she could be a bit of a bitch, you knew she hid the truth from whoever she saw fit and yet you still fell for her. Now you’re trying to pin this whole situation on her to avoid the fact that you played a huge part in all of it.” Summer was right and Terry couldn’t stand it one bit. 

“That’s not what I’m doing at all.” He denied, turning his attention back to the small cuts of wood.

“You’re also using this as an excuse to run from possibly loving someone and letting them love you after years of being by yourself.” 

“I was getting paid to be with her, it was never that serious on my end.” Terry lied through his teeth, turning his face away from Summer so she wouldn’t be able to see through his bullshit. 

“You’ve ignored every phone call but you watch it ring until she stops calling. You haven’t responded to her texts but you read each and every last one of them. Every attempt she’s made at trying to fix what she messed up, you won’t let her do it but you don’t want her to give up either. So tell me, what’s really stopping you from hearing her out?” Sumer was pressing the issue and it was making Terry grow more irritated the more she spoke. 

Terry dropped the axe to the ground and brushed past Summer, making his way into the kitchen to make himself some hot chocolate. Summer trailed right behind him, not letting him get off easy. 

“Why are you doing this to yourself?” 

“Summer please.” 

“Terry you’re working yourself like crazy, eventually you’re gonna burn out and then you’ll be forced to sit with this.” Summer said, unmoved by the look he was giving her. “Khloé was dead wrong but at least she has a bit of remorse for what she did and deep down you feel some remorse too.”

Terry poured the hot beverage into a large coffee mug and made his way to the dining table, not bothering to respond to Summer. 

“What is the real reason you’re running from this?” Summer pulled a chair back from the table and sat across from Terry. “You love her don’t you?” 

Terry stared at Summer for a few seconds before looking back down at his cup. He didn’t have to respond with a yes, it was already obvious to Summer. 

“What’s so wrong with that Terry?” 

“I’m a broke ass Veteran with a 600 sq ft apartment and a pick up truck. I wear khakis five days out of the week and sweats on the weekends. I barely got any money to my name and the money I did have was coming from her.” Terry shot back, finally revealing his true insecurities. He sat back in the chair staring down at the ground, temples aching from clenching his jaw so much. 

The truth was he didn’t feel like much of a man when he replayed the entire situation in his mind. His ego was taking a huge hit when he ran down everything he had agreed upon in their deal. The plan was never to catch feelings for her but somehow he did. However the thought of him being with a woman who can have it all, who has had it all, was puzzling considering the fact that he didn’t know where he would fit in her life. Khloé didn’t need him for anything but a part of him wanted to feel like a necessity for her. 

If he’s not providing for her, putting her up in nice houses, renting luxury vehicles for her, then what would he be there for? 

“She could have any man she wants, any guy in the world, why would she want so badly to be with me?” Terry leaned forward, elbows on the table as he continued ignoring Summers' eyes. 

“Maybe because none of that actually matters to her, Terry.” Summer responded. “Maybe she’s not as superficial as she pretends to be.” 

Terry scoffed at that last statement.

“Khloé had you put on a front to impress her family, but when you two were alone, just the two of you together, who did she want you to be? Some egotistical rich guy with millions and connections around the city? Or did she want you to be yourself?” 

Terry ran his hands down his face and let out a deep sigh. It was still too hard for to accept the fact that Khloé had actually fallen for him too. 

“Her parents won’t approve of this shit anyways, once they find out who I really am I don’t stand a chance.” 

Summer rolled her eyes letting out a sigh of frustration. “Y’all are both so worried about those people’s approval, their opinions don’t matter!”

“Wait so you’re on her side now?” 

“Hell no and don’t try to deflect.” Summer shot back, pointing a finger at him. “I’m just saying that the both of you are searching for every excuse not to do what you want to do all because of a few opinions and the thoughts you are creating in your mind. Terry sitting back and watching you wear yourself out everyday trying to run from this is stressful for me. You can forgive her, but you also have to overcome your own insecurities as well.” With that, Summer stood from the table and left to check on Bailey, leaving Terry to think to himself.

73 text messages, 101 missed calls and a voicemail for every other one of them. Khloé had spent the last 21 days reaching out to Terry, begging him to speak to her ever since their last interaction with each other. That oh-so very intense conversation that had completely rocked her to her core. 

She slowly rolled over in her bed and eyed the clock on her night stand that read 3:45pm. Groaning, she threw the thick comforter off of her body and dragged herself to the bathroom. She eyed her reflection in the mirror completely unaware of who was staring back at her. Her hair that was usually pressed straight had returned to its normal state, kinky and curly. The thick curls lazily rested on her shoulders as she bent down into the sink to splash cold water on her face. 

Khloé was suffering from yet another hangover after drowning herself in bottles of wine almost every night. She stood up straight, gripping the edge of the sink as she closed her eyes. Her head was killing her. The pounding migraine only got worse as she heard a loud knock at her front door. 

Slowly walking to the door, not an ounce of urgency in her steps, her house slippers scraped against the tile floor. After a long dreadful trip down the long hall, she had finally reached the entrance. Pulling the door back without bothering to see who it was, she stared at her assistant uninterestedly. 

“Ms. MacArthur?” Olivia asked in a shocked tone, eyeing her boss up and down. 

“What is it Liv?” Khloé turned on her heels and headed into the kitchen to grab herself something to eat. 

“You haven’t been to the warehouse in weeks, are you okay?” Olivia said, stepping into the condo as she looked around, nose scrunching in disgust from the smell of the cluttered condo. 

The place was a mess. Wine bottles sat open on the counters, coffee table and computer desk, some empty, some half full. Dirty clothes were sprawled out everywhere across the floor and take out containers sat open bringing an unpleasant smell into the home. Olivia carefully tiptoed over the random piles of clothing, making sure not to step on anything. Even though they were collecting dirt from the floor, they were still designer pieces. 

Khloé grabbed a pack of graham crackers and plopped down on her couch. Grabbing the remote to her tv, she powered it on and went straight to her comfort show “That’s So Raven”. 

“I was trying to give you some space because I assumed you needed it but this is out of control.” Olivia spoke bluntly, standing right next to the television.

“Liv, I’m not in the mood right now.” Khloé stated dryly. 

“You have totally lost yourself! I never thought I’d see the day where you stop giving a damn about your looks and your space.” 

“Olivia please!” 

Olivia began picking up the random pieces of clothing and placed them in the laundry basket that sat empty for weeks. 

“Are you even going to be at your parents house for Sunday dinner tomorrow? I mean what is your mother going to say if she sees you like… this?” She eyed Khloé up and down, scanning down from her messy hair to her worn out clothes. 

“Fuck her.” Khloé spat. She sat up and reached for the unfinished bottle of Merlot that sat right in front of her. “She’s the reason I’m in this shit now.” 

“Well…” Olivia trailed off. 

Khloés eyes snapped in Olivia’s direction as she lowered the bottle from her lips. “Well what?” 

“I mean she does play a huge part in why you are the way you are, but you made this mess yourself Ms. MacArthur. You’re the reason why Terry isn’t here.” Olivia stated matter of factly. 

“If it wasn’t for her fucked up advice, I would still have him here.”

“You know the type of woman your mother is, why would you take her advice and actually think it would help you.” 

Khloé stared at Olivia with a strong look of disgust on her face “Shut up Liv.” She finally said, bringing the bottle back up to her lips. 

“You shut up!” Olivia dropped the clothes from her hands and marched over to Khloé, snatching the wine bottle from her grasp. “You can try and find someone else to blame for your fuck up, but I’m not the one you’re mad at. You’re not mad at Summer, hell you’re not even mad at your mother. You’re mad at your damn self!” Olivia grabbed two other wine bottles and made her way into the kitchen, emptying the bottles into the sink. 

“You’re so afraid to live your life the way you choose so you take it out on everyone who actually cares for you.” 

Khloé smacked her teeth and stood from the couch, walking into her bedroom to get away from the sound of Olivia’s voice. Olivia followed her, not letting up on her boss whatsoever. 

“If you want to know my opinion-“ 

“I don’t want to know your opinion, I didn’t ask!” Khloé shot, turning toward Liv.

“Terry shouldn’t come back!” Olivia watched as Khloés top lip twitched as they both stood in place. Olivia placed her weight on one leg as she finished delivering the blow. “Maybe you’ll learn from this and stop treating people like your footstools. Maybe he’ll find someone else, someone with a little more integrity and genuine confidence.” 

Khloés eyes began to water from pure anger. Her fists were balled so tightly, her knuckles were starting to ache. She could feel her throat swelling as she tried to fight the urge to cry. “Get out.”

“It’s about time you had a reality check and this was it. You cannot continue going through life being a bitter bitch because you’re too afraid to stand up to your mother.” 

“Get out!” Khloé screamed, voice cracking as she tried to swallow her tears. Her hands shook tremendously while her chest rose underneath the pajama set she had been in for the third day now. 

“I’ll leave Ms. MacArthur, but if you don’t get it together, Terrys not the only person you’re gonna lose. You’re gonna look up and realize you lost yourself too.” Olivia stated, returning to the living room to grab her things. Khloé stared at the wall until she heard the front door close. 

She walked back into the living room searching around for another bottle, one Olivia had missed. Her eyes landed on her computer desk, thankful that she hadn’t run out of the only thing keeping her warm throughout the night. She turned the bottom of the bottle directly into the air only to realize it was empty, not a drop left in the glass. 

“Ugh!!!!” The loud shatter of glass filled the room as she aimed right at the wall, watching the bottle explode into small pieces. She dropped to the floor and sobbed, rocking back and forth trying to gain her composure. Trying to fight the sobs that left her lips was pointless as the tears continued to pour regardless of her restraint.

She held onto the couch as her other hand rested on her chest. Her heart was breaking. It wasn’t because of Terry but simply for herself. She had spent so many years trying to fake it to be liked, putting on a front to be loved. Just for her to realize that no matter how hard she tried, it still didn’t fill that empty void she felt every single day. It was like she was chasing after something that she would never be able to reach. 

The realization hit her like a ton of bricks and she decided to no longer fight against it. Years of disappointment were flowing through her tears, a lifetime of heartache released in every sob. She needed all of it to leave her body for good, so she could start fresh. A brand new slate for her to finally begin to feel whole for once in her life. 

Eyes slowly opening, waiting to come into focus, she blinked a few times trying to remember where she was. The sounds of Disney shows played quietly in the background as she lifted her head from the couch. After a long night of weeping, she fell into a deep slumber in the living room. Sitting up from the sofa, she grabbed the remote and pressed the home button to see what time it was. 

5:00pm 

Khloé had slept for just about 12 hours straight. This was a much needed rest. Standing from the couch she looked around at her place, still a mess, as was she. She started picking up the clothes that laid on the floors, throwing away the old to go boxes and trashed the last couple of bottles that were left. 

After a good two hours of cleaning up her place, she ran herself a bath. Scents of lavender and vanilla filled the room and inhaled deeply, taking in the comforting scents. Throwing her hair into a messy bun, she sank into the warm water and stared up at the shower head. She was trying to come up with a way to help jumpstart this brand new slate. The first thing that came to her mind was her family. 

She had a little time left to make it to the dinner but she decided not to rush. They weren’t going anywhere any time soon. Finally building up the courage to step out of her home, she took a quick shower to wash off all of the dirt and energy they had built up over the past few days. 

Stepping out of the tub, she began her usual routine as if it was never interrupted. Body butters, face oils, and leave in conditioner for her hair. 

Khloé stared at the reflection for a while, taking in this somewhat new version of herself. It had been so long since she’d seen herself in her complete natural state. No silk press, no bold makeup, no red lipstick, no business attire, just plain Khloé and she embraced it. 

She threw on a pink Juicy Couture tracksuit and sand colored Uggs. Placing a matching headband right at her hairline, she pushed her curls back so that they weren’t falling in her face but framing it. Small diamond earrings in each ear and a bracelet to match, she looked like teenage Khloé again, the real Khloé. God how she missed her. 

Khloé walked up to the front door of her parents house ringing the doorbell. After a few seconds, the large doors opened revealing Lucille, the family cook, a look of shock that quickly softened on her face as she eyed Khloé. 

“Are you alright dear?” Lucille asked, stepping aside to let Khloé in. 

“Never better.” She replied with a soft smile, pushing past her and making her way to the formal dining room to join her family for Sunday dinner. Khloé walked into the dining room, greeting her sister and a few other family members as she took a seat at the table right next to her. 

“No silk press, no stilettos, no red lip?” Kandace asked. 

“Nah, I like the natural look on me.” Khloé smiled, looking over at her big sister. 

Kandace nodded with an approving smile as they waited for the rest of the family to pour into the room. The two girls engaged in deep conversation, discussing the most important topic at the moment, what Khloé was going to do next in this Terry situation. Khloé simply assured her sister that she’d handle it her way and that no matter what happened afterwards, she would be fine.

“Kandace, Khlo.” Nia greeted as she walked into the room, placing her tote on the floor and taking a seat directly across from Khloé. 

Kandace greeted Nia but Khloé simply nodded her head, turning her attention back to her sister. Nia stared at Khloé with a smirk on her face, aware that this sudden change in her appearance meant something had gone on with her. 

‘Terry must’ve left her for good.’ She thought to herself, proud that she had gotten what she wanted. 

“Khloé my dear, how are you?” Mrs. MacArthur greeted loudly as she entered into the dining room, arms out for a hug as she took in her daughter's appearance. “What’s the matter with your head?” 

“Nothing, I wanted to wear it curly today.” Khloé stated, standing to embrace her mother. 

“Hopefully it returns back to normal very soon.” Her mother stated, lightly squeezing her daughter and quickly releasing her once she realized- “Terrance isn't coming?” 

“No mom, he’s not.” Khloé replied, sitting back down as she braced herself for what would come after she broke the news. 

“Well why not?” Mr. MacArthur asked, taking a seat in his usual chair at the end of the long table, his wife taking her seat as well.

Khloé looked over at her father, his eyebrows raised as he waited for her response. “We’re not together anymore.” 

Mrs. MacArthur let out a rather frustrated sigh as she sat back in her chair. “My God, what have you done now?” 

“She took your evil ass advice and he found out about it.” Kandace shot. 

“You’re not supposed to date workers anyway, that’s against the rules isn’t it Uncle John?” Nia asked in an innocent tone, trying to mask her true intentions. 

“Well yes but-“ Mr. MacArthur began, turning his attention to Khloé. “Terrance isn’t a worker of mine.” 

“Oh but he is.” Nia stated, reaching under her chair into her tote and placing a folder on the table in front of Mr. MacArthur. It was Terry’s work file, the same one Khloé had spent hours going over the day she met him. “He works at the Greenville location. That’s how she found him and convinced him to pose as her boyfriend, dangling a few dollars in his face so he’d agree.”

Khloé’s heart sank as she stared at the folder then up at Nia, her eyes burning holes in Nia’s face. She wanted to be the one to tell them the truth, it was supposed to jumpstart her brand new slate but Nia had beat her to the punch unbeknownst to her for the second time.

“You should really be careful of how loud you speak, someone might be listening.” Nia whispered harshly across the table. 

“Why would you need to pay someone to be with you?” A family member a few seats over asked. 

“All of the men in the city and you chose a warehouse worker?” Another member of the family muttered. 

“Wait, why does Nia know this? Why is she just walking around with his file?” Kandace asked, looking over at her dad. 

“I’ve been running the routine checkups for the warehouses, since Khloé has been too busy with her fake boyfriend.” Nia stated, staring directly at Khloé. “Searched his name and he popped right up in the employee directory.” 

Khloés head snapped in her dads direction. “Why is she doing my job?” 

“It was only going to be temporary sweetheart, we knew you were enjoying your time with Terrance. We didn’t want to interrupt.” Mr. MacArthur stated in defense.

“Just for all of it to end up a farce.” Mrs. MacArthur spat as she stared at her daughter. “God Khloé, who taught you to be so desperate?” 

“You did!” Khloé yelled, her voice silencing the entire room. “You taught me how to be so desperate for a fucking man!” 

“Khloé!” Mr. MacArthur yelled. 

“Every time I come around I’m reminded of how lonely I am! How I have no children, no man, no ring! I can’t just be happy being single because something has to be wrong with me.” Khloé was fuming, directing all of her anger at the one she felt deserved it most. “Trying so damn hard to impress you and I end up losing the one man I actually loved and who probably loved me too.” 

“Oh Khloé you’re pathetic!” Mrs. MacArthur shot back. “You had one job and you couldn’t even keep a warehouse worker happy? A man you were paying? You are obviously the problem, don’t blame your shortcomings on me!” 

“I took your dumbass advice and it blew up in my face. ‘Get rid of her Khloé, you’ll lose him to someone less deserving, get rid of the friend’.” Khloé mocked her mom’s voice, appearing a bit childlike as she spoke. “How do you even stomach her, there’s no way she’s a good wife to you!” She spat, turning to her dad. 

“Oh she was a good side chick first then she graduated to wife status.” Kandace stated calmly, taking a sip of her wine. 

“Shut up Kandace!” Mrs. MacArhur yelled, slamming her hand on the table causing glasses to tremble from the impact. 

“Kandace, that’s enough!” Mr. MacArthur demanded. 

“Tell Khloé how you used that same bullshit advice on my mother too except you must’ve really had some dirt on her because she disappeared for a really long time until she found the nerve to come back.” Kandance sat back and folded her arms, waiting for Mrs. MacArthur to respond. Mrs. MacArthur just sat there, breathing heavily as her body shook with rage. 

“Wait what?” Khloé looked back and forth between her parents and Kandace. The rest of the family sat silently, just as confused as Khloé was. “Your mother? What the hell is Kandace talking about?”

“Angela’s not my mother Khloé, but admitting that would ruin her image of a “perfect family” so they decided to keep it a secret from everyone including me and you.” Kandace’s gaze never left Mrs. MacArthurs, daring her to speak. 

“What?” Khloé asked, her voice just above a whisper. She started down the table at her mother who was clearly filled with rage but decided to act as if nothing was bothering her. “If moms not Kandace’s mother then who is?” 

“She lives alone down in Lafayette, a small home and a few pets to keep her company. Apparently she was dad’s first and only love, but Angela was too jealous and far too overlooked to take rejection from the only man who gave the smallest bit of attention.” 

“You are the most ungrateful, selfish piece of work I have ever known.” Mrs. MacArthrur spat leaning against the table. 

“So she threatened to spread the news of my mother being an 18 year old preacher's daughter who ended up pregnant and unmarried by a guy her family knew nothing about, to everyone around town.” Kandace began, “Only problem was, I was already born and her dumbass was a few months too late.” 

“Dad couldn’t get a hold of my mom so he was stuck with me all by himself but a child needs a mother, so he unfortunately stayed with Angela because she was his last and only option.” Kandace looked over at her Dad. “Traveling the world will have you meeting some of the most interesting people, so imagine my surprise when I meet a woman a few years ago during a pottery class who tells me she thinks I’m her daughter.” 

Mr. McArthur's head hung a bit low, too ashamed to look his daughters in the face. “Kandace, I-“

“I’m the only mother you’ve ever known and the only woman your father ever loved.” Mrs. MacArthur shot through gritted teeth. 

“Wait!” Kandace laughed, placing a hand on her chest. “Guess who’s paying for her home in Lafayette?” Kandace continued laughing, watching as Mrs. MacArthur’s face slowly dropped into a frown. “Those solo business trips come in handy don’t they dad?” 

Khloé turned to look at her mother, not a word was said but her expression told the entire story. She had spent her whole life trying her hardest to get her mothers approval because from her perspective her mother had done everything right and the universe rewarded her for it. All for it to turn out that her mothers a fraud… just like she is. 

Mrs. MacArthur looked to her husband and then around the table, the family members whispering about not caring that she sat right in their faces. She pushed her chair back from the table and stormed out of the dining area, knocking over a glass of wine on her exit. 

“The apple really doesn’t fall far from the tree does it?” Khloé asked the rhetorical question aloud, the same one Terry had spat at her during his enraged rant. “I have to get the hell away from here.” Khloé grabbed her things and headed straight for the door, ignoring the calls coming from her sister and her father. 

Snatching the car keys from her purse, she pressed the unlock button repeatedly until she reached the door, practically detaching it from the car. The car started and she pulled out of the horseshoe driveway and sped down the road with no knowledge as to where she was going, she just knew she needed to get far away from there. 

“Bailey, don’t forget your mittens!” Summer yelled to her daughter. 

“Okay!” Bailey responded back. 

Summer wrapped the scarf tightly around her neck as she prepared to go out into the backyard to finish making the snowman she and Bailey had been working on all day. Constantly running back into the house afraid the fireplace would cause a house fire, they finally built up the courage to go back out and finish their project. 

*Ding Dong* 

Summers' head snapped in the direction of the front door. Staring up at the clock that read 7:45pm she wondered who could be at her door at this time but quickly remembered her good friend who was using every excuse he had to visit her just to keep himself busy. 

“He has got to go home and stay there.” Summer mumbled as she walked to the door. Twisting the locks one at a time, she finally reached the door knob and twisted it pulling back the heavy door. The person who stood on the other side of the threshold was a complete shock to her. 

“Khloé?” Summer asked, eyeing her up and down noticing the drastic change in her appearance. 

“Hi, I hope it’s not too late but I wanted to talk to you if that’s okay.” Khloé stated softly. 

Summer continued staring at her silently before nodding her head. 

“I just wanted to apologize for coming to your job trying to break up you and Terry’s friendship. It was really out of line and I-“ Khloé stopped, looking around for the words to say. Apologizing had never been Khloés thing but there’s a first time for everything. 

“Come in.” Summer said, holding the screen door open for Khloé to enter. 

Khloé walked in, looking around instantly feeling the warm comfort of the small home. Summer pointed to the couch signaling for Khloé to have a seat. 

“Can I ask you why you felt the need to do that?” Summer asked, sitting across from her. 

“Insecurity, fear…” Khloé started, rubbing the palms of her hands down her thighs. She was debating on if she should be totally honest with Summer but then again what did she have to lose right? “Look, all my life I’ve wanted to be seen and accepted by everyone; family, friends, classmates, teachers, my own parents. I wanted people to care for me simply because they wanted to without needing to perform for the affection.” 

“The way I would watch Terry drop everything and come to your rescue, the way he used most of the money I offered him to help you, I just wanted that feeling as well and once I got it I didn’t want to let it go. I didn’t even plan on falling in love with him but then I started feeling jealous of you guys’ friendship. Thinking about him returning back to his life without me in it once all of this was over wasn’t something I wanted to happen so I thought getting rid of you would prevent me from losing him.” 

Summer stared at Khloé empathetically. “Why not just be honest about how you felt? I’m sure he would’ve understood.” 

“I was afraid he wouldn’t feel the same way. I was paying him to be there, it wasn’t like I could tell if he genuinely wanted to be.” Khloé stared down at the floor. “I can’t tell what’s real and what’s not at the moment.” 

Summer looked over at the clock and back to Khloé. 

“Can you stay here for a while longer?” Summer asked. “Terry is on his way over and it’s about time you guys talked. You really need to hear the truth from each other.” 

“He’s not gonna talk to me.” 

“He doesn’t have a choice at this point. He’s been keeping himself so busy trying not to think about you, constantly coming to check up on me and Bailey when we don’t even need it.” Summer said, rolling her eyes in annoyance. “So sit here, he’ll be here in just a minute.” 

The sound of a loud engine humming made Khloés eyes grow wide. Tires scratching against the pavement, bright lights shining through the window, it was Terry. 

“Can I use your bathroom?” Khloé asked a bit louder than intended, looking back and forth from the door waiting for Summers' answer. 

“Sure, second door to the left.” Summer pointed in the direction of the bathroom, taken aback by the sudden nervousness that had taken over Khloé. Here she was feeling somewhat intimidated by her just to watch her damn near jump out of her skin at the sound of Terry’s presence. 

“Summer!” Terry announced, pushing through the door holding bags in both hands. “I got some more papers for the fireplace.” 

“We already have plenty but thank you again T.” Summer said dryly, grabbing the bags from Terrys hands. 

“Whose car is that outside?” Terry asked, frowning as he stared out the window. He pushed the blinds down, squinting as tried to see through the car's tinted windows.

“Someone here for you.” She responded. 

Terrys head turned in surprise. “For me?” 

Summer nodded. “You came at the perfect time, they’ll be out in a sec.” 

“Who came by here looking for me?” 

The sound of light footsteps coming down the hall interrupted their congestion as Khloé made her way back to the living room. Terry hadn’t turned around yet, assuming it was Bailey coming to the kitchen to grab a snack. 

Summer cleared her throat, gaining Terry’s attention before nodding her head in Khloés direction. Khloé’s heart practically fell out of her chest when his eyes landed on her. Terry turned to see her standing in the doorway, taken aback as he took in her appearance, she looked beautiful. Almost younger than she had before. He noticed everything about her; the curls in her hair, the way her bare skin glowed, the bright color she wore complimenting her tone and the accessories that were so subtle yet not going unnoticed by him. This change in her appearance fit her so well. 

“You two need to talk, bad!” Summer stated, walking away before Terry could protest. “Come on Bailey, it’s getting dark out.” 

“Coming!” Bailey yelled, rushing to the front to follow her mom to the back yard. She greeted Terry with a quick wave as she sprinted out of the patio door to finish working on her snowman. Summer shut the door and eyed Terry through the glass, raising her brows before turning away and following behind her daughter. 

Terry and Khloé stood in silence, the sound of the refrigerator humming being the only sound in the room. Her mouth began to water from the nervous feeling that had taken over. 

“Hi.” Khloé greeted, her voice low as ran her hands up and down her sides, attempting to calm her nerves. 

Terry looked down at the ground before looking back up at her. “Hi.” He responded dryly. 

“I came to talk to Summer but she insisted I stay until you got here.” She stated, with a nervous smile. 

“Wonder why she thought that was a good idea.” He mumbled. 

“I’m sorry Terry.” Khloé said, stepping further into the room. “I don't know what I was thinking, going to Summers' job and making up those things to get her to stop talking to you. I was wrong and I’m sorry, honestly.” 

Terry stayed silent, staring at her as she looked up at him. His silence made her anxiety grow greater as she chewed the inside of her cheek. Her nervousness was so obvious and she knew it was, but she couldn’t stand the silence anymore. 

“Can you say something?” Khloé asked, tilting her head slightly. 

Terry folded his arms over his chest trying to appear nonchalant but he was only fooling himself. In the last five years, no one other than those racist cops in Shelby Springs had gotten him to act so out of character. Here he was facing the only person who could pull such intense emotion out of him. He cared a lot more than he wanted to admit. 

“What would you like me to say?” 

“Whatever you want to say, anything!” 

“I accept your apology.” He stated, blankly staring down at her. 

Khloés eyes dropped to the floor. She was hoping he had more to say but his silence let her know that he was done speaking. They sat in silence once again, Terry continued staring at her while she refused to look up at him. He exhaled loudly, clenching his jaw as he prepared himself to do something he didn’t think he would be doing with another woman; be vulnerable. 

“Come here.” He instructed, dropping his hands to his sides and leaning back onto the arm of Summer’s couch. 

Khloé obliged, walking up to him until their feet were almost touching. 

“I don’t know exactly what you want me to say to you or what you want me to do. But I can tell you what I’m not doing.” Terry started, dropping his head down a bit to somewhat meet her at eye level. “I’m not putting on a front for your people, I’m not lying for you anymore and I’m not ending my friendship with Summer.” 

Khloé’s eyes darted back and forth between his eyes as he spoke. She didn’t give a damn that he was still being a bit cold with his tone, at least he was talking to her again. 

“I can’t play this game with you, although I agreed to in the beginning, too many lines have been blurred. So with that said, I’m going to be honest with you and then you’re gonna be honest with me, understood?” 

Khloé nodded a bit too eagerly, she was just happy they were getting somewhere. 

Terry went on to share with Khloé the same truths he shared with Summer a day prior. He admitted to having feelings for her and how tough it had been trying to erase her from his mind over the last few weeks. Telling her about his struggle with dating someone as wealthy as she is was challenging for him, but he continued anyway. He spoke about how he didn’t actually think she really wanted to be with him, believing that all she wanted was someone rich and successful, someone other than him. 

As Khloé listened to him speak, she felt a huge sense of relief. Here she was assuming that a man like Terry didn’t get bothered by anything. Especially irrelevant things like status and “gender-roles” but here he was admitting that to her. It made her feel a bit better knowing that he too had his insecurities just like she did. It made him appear more human to her after spending so much time playing the guessing game with his emotions. 

“Well I don’t care about things like that…” Khloé spoke softly. 

“You worry about your folks caring, that’s the problem.” Terry stated. 

“After today, I really shouldn’t have worried so much about their opinions.” She scoffed, looking off to the side, away from his gaze. 

Terry’s eyebrows furrowed as he tried to make sense of her last statement. He wanted to know what had happened today that caused such a look of disgust to appear in her face at the mention of her parents but he had other things he was worried about. “So, why’d you come to see Summer, again?” 

“To apologize for lying to her and trying to intimidate her.” She answered truthfully. 

“After all of this time, why now?” Terry questioned, hoping she wasn’t about to give a bullshit reason as to why she decided to visit Summer after almost a month of doing what she did. 

Khloé told him about how she had been spending the last few weeks, drunk and hungover, trying to solve this problem she had caused by hitting the bottom of every bottle she owned. She expressed the final crash she had and how it had rocked so much that she felt empty. She told him how she knew in order for her to start fresh she had to right her wrongs and she wanted to more than ever now knowing what she knew about her family. 

She went on to tell him about how Olivia had torn her to shreds and how the conversation at Sunday dinner put everything into perspective for her. Khloé admitted how she was trying so hard to chase something only to realize now that she would never be able to reach it, cause it never existed to begin with. Also admitting that unknowingly following in her mothers footsteps was the last thing she needed to do, considering how her father still spent time with another woman outside of their marriage no matter how hard her mother tried to keep his true love away. With her fall out with Terry, the words from Olivia and the family secret, she too wanted out of this game she had been playing. She was exhausted. 

Terry looked at her as she wiped a few tears from her face. As tough as Khloé tried to appear, she was a very sensitive soul. Terry caught onto this very early in their “relationship” but it didn’t bother him much. He was aware of the fact that she was simply a product of her upbringing. 

“Wait, so Kandace isn’t your sister?” He asked, a look of confusion and remorse on his face. 

“She is. She’s my dads daughter, not my mothers. That’s why they hate each other so much.” Khloé sniffed, drying the last tear from her eyes. 

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He offered genuine concern in his tone. 

“Me too.” 

An awkward silence fell over the room, this time neither one of them looked at each other. They didn’t know where to go from here. After going from spending everyday with each other to not speaking for almost an entire month, they were unsure where they stood with one another. 

“So, what now?” Terry asked. “Do we start over, pick up where we left off?” 

“Actually neither.” Khloé said, throwing Terry off guard. “I have some things I need to sort out on my own. Just need a little time to figure myself out, if you know what I mean.” 

Terry nodded. “I understand.” 

There was yet another silence and Khloé refused to sit in it again. 

“Well, I’m gonna go.” Khloé stated, searching for her belongings. She grabbed her phone and car keys and made her way to the door. “I’m glad we could talk.” She said, turning to him. 

“Me too.” He said. “You look beautiful Khloé.” 

Khloé smiled at him and nodded, giving him a soft “Thanks” before turning to walk out of the door. She left him there in the living room of Summer’s home and she was okay with it. Desperately searching for external validation, love, attention, admiration and acceptance had taken a toll on her. She needed some time to be alone, to be able to give all of those things to herself. 

Khloé always knew what she wanted; she was just too afraid to go after it. After experiencing a small taste of what being truly seen and loved by someone could feel like and just how quickly it could be snatched from her, she wanted to be sure that she was the source of it all first. So she set out on a journey all on her own… a journey to self love. 

to be continued… 

[damneddamsy]

second sight | cregan stark x oc (part x)

a/n: I'm bawling on today's last official episode of Stark-fluff. legit bawling as I type this. you spoiled shits are getting babies and so much love. I love these two so much, here is their much-deserved happy ending :)

The dawn stretched thin fingers across Winterfell’s courtyard, filtering through the smoky haze that lingered from battle. Survival hung in the air—fierce, unbreakable, and filling the early light with a kind of stubborn hope.

Claere paused just outside the doorway, her hand hovering against the wood. She let the silence settle over her, breathing in the mingling scents of herbs, iron, and smoke that still clung to the walls. Relief settled in first, grounding her, but it was quickly edged with something unexpected—an almost reverent pride. She’d heard the soldiers talk of Cregan’s perseverance in the fight, how he had defended Winterfell like he’d been forged for it, and now, here he was, alone in their chamber, mending himself as if he’d done it a thousand times.

Her heart swelled as she took in the scene. He sat half-lit by the dim morning light, his shoulders tensed as he worked the needle and thread, pulling a gash closed with painstaking focus. Bruises darkened his skin, raw reminders of the battle, while the wound stretched and tugged with each attempt. The basin of water at his feet and the bloodied rag tossed aside told her he’d even dismissed the maester. Typical.

As though sensing her, he looked up, catching her watching from the doorway. The frustration melted from his face, replaced by that familiar glint of warmth in his eyes.

“Come to check on the fool who stitches himself, have you?” he murmured, setting the needle aside with a wince as his hands reached for her, his gaze softening as it fell on her bare, bruised wrists.

“I didn’t want them fussing over me like a babe,” he muttered, his thumb brushing over the marks left by Luna’s reins, handling her injuries as if they mattered more than the blood drying on his own skin.

“What was the damage?” she asked, her voice soft as his fingers hovered over her wrists.

“A few Norrey men. Closest to the fire,” he replied, still focused on her hands.

She met his gaze, lifting a brow. “I meant you.”

His mouth tugged into a rueful smirk. “A scratch or two,” he replied, though the tension around his eyes betrayed him. He chucked her chin lightly. “Only you’re allowed to coddle me.”

With a gentle hold, he lifted her hand, his thumb tracing the bruises on her wrist. For a moment, the battle’s toll fell away, leaving just the two of them, here, safe.

“You held those reins like a vice,” he muttered.

“And you,” she countered, “should be tending to your own wounds, not mine.”

She allowed him to keep hold of her hand, taking in the bruises and scrapes, and feeling a swell of gratitude as he continued his inspection despite his obvious pain.

With a quiet chuckle, he flinched as it jarred his ribs, then shook his head. “Can’t have you bruised for the whole of Winterfell to see, can I?”

She took in every scrape and bruise, tracing the mottled shades of blue and red with her gaze before gesturing to the chair behind him. “Sit. Let me help before you stitch yourself to ribbons.”

Though he grumbled, he did as she asked, sinking back into the chair with a sigh. Claere knelt by his legs, gently taking his arm to examine the wound he’d been trying to stitch. The axe had cut him clean, the edges already darkening around the gash.

“It’ll scar,” she said softly.

“Good,” he replied with a glint of pride. “When anyone asks, I’ll tell them it was from fighting for my lady.”

A faint smile crossed her lips as she dipped her fingers into the balm. With practised ease, she settled onto his thigh, feeling him tense as her hands pressed over the raw flesh of his ribs, tracing the edges of the wound with delicate care.

Cregan stiffened beneath her, a wry smile tugging at his lips despite the wince the movement sent through him.

“Steady now, my lady,” he murmured, capturing her wrist. “You sit this close while I’m in this state… we may soon find ourselves in a different sort of position.”

She lifted a cool, unimpressed brow, gently freeing her wrist from his grasp as she leaned in and continued her work, dabbing balm with the same cool precision. His words fell away, met with her customary indifference. She didn’t even spare him a glance, though his smirk grew as her fingers worked down his bruised arms with her unfailing calm.

Unfazed, he tilted forward, brushing his battered lips against her cheek, trailing a line down to her neck, his roughened breath warm against her skin. She allowed the light pressure of his lips on her jawline, not so much as flinching as he pressed a lingering kiss there. Her focus stayed on his bruised forearms, ignoring the warmth he radiated as if her heart hadn’t leapt a little at his touch. Her hands kept on, gently covering each bruise, each scrape—unmoved by his insistence.

But suddenly, her hands paused. Her gaze drifted down to his calloused hands, her fingers stilling over his. “I’ve granted the wildlings a place on our land,” she said, her tone even, the words carrying a weight they both felt.

Cregan pulled back slightly, meeting her eyes with a mix of surprise and pride. He didn’t hesitate, though—just nodded with calm conviction. “Alright.”

Claere blinked, studying his face, taken aback by his immediate acceptance. “Alright?” she echoed.

His mouth softened into a smile, one so warm and knowing it reached his eyes, and he brushed a stray wisp of her hair back. “Aye, my love. You’ve spoken as Winterfell’s lady, as the shield and keeper of its walls. If this is your will, then it’s thought through, and it’s wise.”

There was pride in his gaze, as unshakable as the stone of Winterfell’s walls. Her breath caught, seeing herself reflected in his eyes not as a Targaryen but as a woman who held the North’s fate in her hands, and it struck her to the core. His approval wasn’t mere agreement; it was reverence, the kind a lord offers his queen.

Cregan’s fingers trailed slowly up her back, and he drew her close, resting his forehead against hers. “You know,” he murmured, his voice dipping low, “I think I’m a little in awe of you.”

“You're the first.”

A soft huff of laughter escaped her, though her gaze softened as Cregan’s fingers brushed slowly up her back, his touch warm and steady even as his voice took on a more serious edge.

“What if I hadn’t come back?” he asked quietly, words heavy in the space between them. “If Sylas had struck true, had plunged his axe into my throat… what then, Claere?”

She stilled, meeting his gaze, but he didn’t look away, didn’t let the question rest unanswered. “Would you go back south? Mourn alone?” he pressed, his voice soft and deadly serious. “There’d be no more Starks here, no other bonds tying you to Winterfell.”

For a moment, there was nothing but the crackle of the distant hearth, and the faint hum of the waking castle outside. Then Claere’s voice slipped through the silence, quiet and resolute.

“Then I would rule in your name.” She held his gaze with power as tireless as his own. “I'd live out my days as a Stark til my end, no matter what your people say.”

X

The crypts of Winterfell were cloaked in shadow, their familiar chill hanging heavy in the air. Tyrion’s torchlight flickered against the ancient stone, casting wavering shadows over rows of solemn, worn statues—the Stark dead, silent witnesses in the depths.

They paused before a statue near the end of the line, where Cregan Stark stood in sombre effigy, a likeness of power and steely will carved in the weathered stone. At his side, in an uncustomary break from Stark tradition, was another statue—a woman whose regal features were captured with remarkable care: Claere Stark. Or perhaps more fittingly, Claere Velaryon. Though she had not been of the North, her statue rested beside Cregan’s as if by some ancient right.

Tyrion’s gaze lingered on Claere’s statue, marvelling how the sculptor had chiselled his devotion for her, as though she held a silent mystery even in stone. There she stood, not just beside Cregan, but as if guarding him in death as fiercely as she had in life. It struck him that Claere wasn’t even a Stark by birth, yet here she was, given the rarest honour.

"The fire of Old Valyria and the Winter's Queen,” Tyrion murmured, almost to himself, a small, wry smile tugging at his lips.

The stories of her life unfurled in his mind. He’d read about her and pored over accounts that painted her as a legend—a woman of fire and ice, Targaryen and yet something new. And her mighty dragon, the White Dread—Luna. The beast with scales like frost and flame, so fearsome in its majesty that even Northerners had spoken of it in whispers. Claere had been the first rider to take her dragon beyond the Wall, to ride over that barren, haunted wilderness with nothing but Luna’s wings carrying her, blazing trails through skies no other dragon had ever dared to reach.

"Have you heard of her, Lord Tyrion?”

Tyrion steadied himself, recovering from Sansa’s unexpected question with a small laugh, his eyes drifting back to Claere’s statue.

“Claere Stark,” he said, “I'd be a fool not to know her tale.”

X

The hall at Winterfell brimmed with the scent of roasted game and the crackling warmth of hearthfires. Spiced wine flowed as freely as water, and clashing tankards rose in steady cadence to songs sung in the old Northern tongue. The tables were heavy with bread, venison, and thick stews, a reminder that victory lay upon death. Meat fat glistened on plates as Cregan’s men devoured their food, their laughter spilling over one another’s voices. Wildling bodies were still burning in the woods beyond the walls, but here, their voices rose in songs for their Lord and Lady, even as the night grew late.

Oh, howl for the wolf, howl strong and bold!

His fangs to guard the keep!

But Cregan's smile was worn thin, forced. The seat beside him remained empty, the absence of Claere more palpable than any wound he bore.

“They celebrate the deaths by my hand,” she had told him when he had invited her to join the feast in the hall. “That is no celebration at all.”

They hailed Cregan, lifting their tankards to the “King in the North.” Then, with fervour, they cheered for the “Winter’s Queen,” their voices rising in earnest. She, who had taken to the skies with fire in her veins, commanded their respect now. All around him, he heard fragments of praise murmured to Claere, a reverence that they had been slow to bestow on her Targaryen blood.

“She was born to this,” a stout lord from the Barrowlands muttered to his neighbour. “She held her own like the Starks before her.”

Cregan took a slow drink of his ale, his eyes darkening as he listened. Now they speak of her as though she is their kin, he thought. Only days before, these same men had muttered of Claere’s “Southron blood,” questioning her loyalty, her fire. Now that they had witnessed her force, they bent their knee as if her worth had suddenly doubled. It was as though they’d forgotten their suspicion, bowing as if she had been born among them as if she was a Stark of old. Hypocrites, he thought with a simmering, silent disdain.

With another courteous grimace, he pushed back from the table. He’d had enough of these men’s fleeting gratitude. Let them toast and sing all they wished; he had no patience for it.

As Cregan limped toward his bedchambers, he barely registered the ache of his broken ribs or the gash that had opened anew beneath his shirt. He only wanted to be away from the empty revelry, the shallow praise ringing out for a battle that had nearly cost them dearly.

Footsteps pattered behind him, quick and hesitant. A young Norrey squire—a lad scarcely sixteen, bruises still smeared across his cheeks like war paint—caught up to him, eyes wide with worry. In his trembling hands was a sealed parchment, its edges marked by the red emblem.

“My lord, this—” the boy hesitated, glancing at the missive. “A letter, from King’s Landing. For Lady Stark.”

Cregan took it, his fingers brushing over the mark of the three-headed dragon, one that he recognized instantly.

The boy watched him expectantly, lingering for any acknowledgement, any glimpse of what lay within. Cregan met his eyes, his tone low. “Get yourself back to the hall, lad. Take a drink or three. You’ve earned it tonight.”

The squire opened his mouth as if to protest, his curiosity plainly written on his face, but one look from Cregan silenced him. The boy nodded, then darted back down the corridor, leaving Cregan alone with the sealed letter and his doubts.

Once the boy’s footsteps faded, he turned the letter over, studying the heavy wax. He knew he shouldn’t, knew it wasn’t meant for his eyes—yet the words of her mother, the queen, were not something he could ignore.

His fingers found the seal, and with a sharp snap, he broke it, unfolding the parchment to reveal the message inside. His eyes scanned the words, tightening with each line.

My dearest Claere,

I wish to speak plainly to you, daughter—I miss you. I admit that, though our time together has felt like an echo from the past, we have not shared sentiments often. I ask not for forgiveness, but for some more time. The hours drift heavily here, and your absence weighs more than I’d like to confess. Not a day goes by without Joff wishing to fly North to see you. Luke yearns to hear your harp when sleep evades him. These rumours of northern threats beyond the Wall trouble me deeply; I pray you are well-shielded. I trust in your lord husband's prowess and familiarity in dealing with such a crisis. Be that as it may, the White Dread was chosen for my little girl, and I expect Luna to guard you as fiercely as I would. If only I could be there. If only you were here. If only you would return... King's Landing is silent without your music. Be safe, always. Please come home when you can.

All my love, Mummy.

Cregan scanned the short letter, his brow knitting at the unfamiliar, graceful hand, and then he saw the name at the end: Mummy. It was a simple word, yet it carried the weight of something far larger—a reminder that Claere, fierce and untouchable as she seemed, belonged to more than Winterfell, that her blood tied her to a family who loved her and feared for her in ways he could never fully understand.

The words were plain, unadorned by politics or courtly flourishes. A mother missed her daughter deeply, openly. It was a rare, raw honesty—one that cut through the cold air and slipped like a dagger into his own misgivings. They would always want her back, wouldn’t they?

Cregan’s mouth softened into a quiet smile, one not often seen on him, as the unguarded sentiment of the letter eased something unspoken within him. He could see her, the Queen, imagining Claere’s presence in King’s Landing as though it were sunlight that could return to warm her halls.

And then, wordlessly, Cregan folded the letter back over itself, his fingers lingering on the delicate, foreign script. He looked into the flame of the nearest candle, watching it flicker and dance with a steady hunger.

He brought the letter closer, not out of spite, nor from any possessiveness. She was his wife, the Lady of Winterfell now. She belonged here, to the people of this North they’d pledged to protect together. No one, not even the Queen, could call her back south as though she were some visiting sparrow, blown north on the wind.

Without another thought, he fed the letter to the flame, watching the edges curl and blacken until the words vanished in the embers. The sentiment would remain, but it needn’t haunt her. If Claere wished to write to her mother, she would. But he would see to it that no one willed her away from her place here.

X

As the North endured its second endless winter, Claere had become a constant warmth within Winterfell’s ancient stone walls. Under her touch, even the frosty Glass Gardens thrived, their flowers and hardy herbs reaching toward the faintest glimmers of sunlight that pierced through the thick, grey clouds. Those who had once eyed her “Valyrian witch-ness” now found themselves drawn to the quiet strength that seemed to emanate from her, as enduring as the snows. It wasn’t just her presence that had transformed Winterfell—it was the way she softened its cold edges, threading warmth and peace through a place of ancient, unyielding stone.

On this particular morning, a group of young women and children gathered around her as she knelt beside a plot of hardy winter herbs. They were bundled in thick wool and furs, their cheeks ruddy from the cold that lingered in the air despite the shelter. Her hands worked deftly, and with a few murmured instructions, the ladies and children followed suit, gingerly reaching to touch the silvery-green leaves and rich soil beneath.

“Careful with that one,” Claere murmured, glancing up at a wide-eyed girl who had eagerly plucked too hard at a sprig of sage. “It bruises easy. Think of it like… well, like a kitten,” she said, her expression gentle. “You don’t hold a kitten like a sword, do you?”

The girl giggled, her hands softening at once, and a ripple of laughter ran through the group.

One of the older women—a stout, spirited lady from Wintertown—leaned closer, her eyes twinkling. “And here I thought you only knew how to keep dragons,” she teased, holding up a plucked stem with exaggerated delicacy. “I don’t suppose there’s a dragon-sized watering can hidden here, is there?”

Claere’s lips quirked, a faint smile breaking through her usual composed expression. “A dragon can be a bit impatient for that,” she said, glancing out toward the sky as if she could glimpse Luna hovering above. “I think the herbs would have much to fear if Luna were here to tend to them.”

Her joke, dry as it was, sparked laughter around the little circle, and the ladies exchanged knowing glances. They hadn’t seen this side of her often—a hint of playfulness, a softening of her typically solemn gaze. That was carefully tucked away for her husband. It was as though Winterfell had unlocked something within her, a part of her that even she hadn’t known could flourish here in the frozen North.

One of the children tugged at her sleeve, peering up at her with wide eyes. “Lady Claere, does Luna like sage too?” he asked, half-believing that her dragon might sneak into the gardens for a nibble.

Claere looked down, arching a delicate brow as if pondering the question with great seriousness.

“Oh, she does,” she said at last, with a solemn nod. “But only on special occasions. Perhaps if you listen very closely next time, you’ll hear her roaring approval.”

The children’s laughter rang out as they exchanged delighted glances, enchanted by the thought. “Luna the Herb Dragon!”

Winter might reign outside, bitter and endless, but within these walls, Claere had brought a touch of spring. As she returned to her work, she noticed how the women and children moved around her with gentleness and reverence, as though something sacred lived within the soil of these gardens.

Yet, as much as Winterfell had warmed to her, Claere remained just a little apart from the world around her. Hiding in plain sight. Her rhythms were her own; she moved in the night, a lone figure tracing the silent halls or slipping through the gardens as though she communed with the very roots of the castle. Her soft, unearthly songs drifted through the corridors like a balm, weaving into the silence, and at times it felt as though the stones themselves listened, her voice soothing the ancient shadows within them. At first, her night wanderings had unsettled the Northmen—they had seen her as strange, perhaps even touched by some kind of magic. But in time, her strangeness became familiar, her presence like an old, comforting tale whispered through Winterfell.

Cregan knew her better than anyone. He lay awake on those nights, waiting for the familiar sound of her steps, the soft murmur of her voice drifting through the dark. Her habits delighted him now, even as they stirred a strange, gentle ache in his heart. To him, she was always a marvel, something fragile and fierce, woven from both ice and flame. When he heard her moving through their chambers one winter’s night, he felt the faintest tug of worry—she wasn’t sleeping again, even on a night as bone-deep cold as this.

Rising from bed, he watched her for a moment, noting the faraway look in her eyes as she slipped toward the door, muttering faintly about the cold. It was as if some part of her was still dreaming, lost in a place only she could see.

He reached out, catching her gently by the arm. “Where are you going, love, hm?”

She blinked, looking up at him with hazy, half-lidded eyes, but said nothing, only murmured something soft, half to herself. “They're waiting in the Godswood. They're waiting for him.”

“Well, you can't be late,” he played along.

A sleepy smile tugged at the corner of his mouth; she was barely aware of him. He could have insisted she go back to bed and pulled her close, but he knew her too well. This was Claere—the woman who found solace in the moonlight and sang lullabies to the night itself.

He knelt before her, his hands steady as he reached for her bare feet. The chill in her skin made his brows knit, a fleeting twinge of worry threading through his affection. Still, he said nothing, only holding her ankle as he slipped on one of her shoes, then the other, his touch lingering a moment too long, feeling the frailness of her bones beneath his fingers.

“There. Now you can wander all you want,” he murmured, his voice soft with tenderness, a faint smile breaking through his concern. He brushed a thumb against her ankle, gently, as if to tether her to him before he let her go.

He rose to his feet, letting his hand linger on her shoulder as she drifted past him, her gaze already turning away. He stayed by the door, watching her until her figure melted into the shadows, her voice carrying through the silence, low and unhurried.

“Dreamy girl,” he muttered.

His heart swelled with a fierce, helpless love that no words could ever name. Claere—who was more like a dream than anyone he had ever known. Claere, who had brought him laughter, warmth, and mystery in equal measure.

As he returned to bed, he laughed quietly to himself. Settling back under the furs, he closed his eyes, a soft smile playing on his lips. This winter might be full of long, dark nights, but Claere’s warmth, her fire, was his own light in the cold.

What Cregan had not anticipated was how the stillness would settle over him that second winter. Two years. Nearly two years, and still, Claere’s belly remained unchanged, her slender form untouched by the promise of new life, her beauty as unmarred as the fresh snows in Winterfell’s courtyard each dawn.

Every night he held her, careful and considerate, as if she were made of something rare and breakable. But no amount of care or reverence had yielded the result he craved. His mind circled back on itself, questioning, doubting. Had he not proven himself worthy of her? Was he lacking in some way? He kept her well-fed, saw to her health, and watched as she grew stronger, more radiant—but that was not enough. Could it be him?

Swallowing his pride, he had sought counsel from the maester. The old man, wise and accustomed to all manner of concerns, had looked at him with a wry glint in his eye, perhaps a touch amused by Cregan’s uncharacteristic hesitancy.

“Take heart, my lord,” Maester Kennet had said, adjusting the weight of his maester’s chain. “There are herbs—strong ones, mind you. Wild roots from the Neck, saffron to be steeped in strongwine for three days. I’ve known it to aid many an anxious lord.”

The maester cleared his throat and went on, raising an eyebrow with an air of scholarly detachment. “And, if I may suggest… there are other... techniques, shall we say? Old wisdom passed down amongst the Southerners. Positioning makes a difference, particularly if the woman lies with her legs raised afterwards. It is believed to… encourage the seed to settle.”

Cregan pinched the bridge of his nose, torn between horror and bemusement. “You’re telling me to stand the poor girl on her head?”

The maester’s mouth quirked in the faintest smile. “Then it is also said that lavender oil rubbed on the skin under a new moon has coaxed many a reluctant heir into the world.”

“Lavender oil,” Cregan had muttered with a dour smile, caught between laughing at the absurdity of it all and throwing the list of remedies to the fire. “I’d wager Claere has plenty lying about. Have you noticed?”

The maester gave him a bemused look, raising a brow. “My lord?”

“Her scent—” Cregan paused, feeling strangely self-conscious but pressing on, his tone gruff. “Nothing like it grows in the Seven Kingdoms.”

The maester’s eyes twinkled with a faint, knowing smile. “Ah,” he said, “that would be spiceflower. A rare herb from the shores of Essos. Few use it; fewer still wear it. Quite the exotic choice.”

Cregan frowned, leaning back as he took this in. “Spiceflower…” he echoed, before shaking his head with a reticent chuckle. “And here I am, a lusty fool—yet still lacking in heirs.”

The maester chuckled, not unkindly. “Indeed, my lord. It’s a wonder you and Lady Stark had such trouble, considering. But, if I may say so, love often demands patience of the heart, even from those who burn like wildfire. Give it time. Try a few of the, ah… suggestions. And rest assured, the gods often surprise us in their timing.”

“Patience,” Cregan grumbled, scratching his jaw. “I’ll add that to the list, then.”

But the remedies had only deepened his frustration, leaving him feeling like a man grasping at shadows. None had yielded anything but silence, each attempt an echo lost to the biting chill of Winterfell. He wanted to give Claere this gift, this proof of their love—a legacy to carry forth into a new generation. Yet each passing month left him feeling more hollow, his hope thinning like frost in the morning sun, only to harden again when the day grew cold.

That night, as he lay beneath the furs, his hopes and fears pressed down upon him unrelentingly. Each failed attempt played through his mind like a song, one that had grown weary and out of tune. He had taken every herb, every supposed cure, had prayed to every god he could think of, but the same aching quiet remained.

Beside him, Claere lay in her own peaceful silence, her head resting on his chest, her fair hair spilling over his skin like silken snow. Her eyes, a deep, unwavering violet, watched him with a gentleness that felt almost mystical, and at that moment, he felt his turmoil ebb, if only for a heartbeat. She seemed so serene, untouched by the storm that raged within him. He envied her calm, even as he knew she might not share the same fierce desire for an heir that he did.

But her presence was a balm all its own. His hand came up almost absently to stroke her hair, his fingers tangling in those soft, pale locks as he held her to him, drawing comfort from her touch. Yet even that could not dispel the worry that gnawed at him—a worry that, unspoken, loomed between them like the darkness that lay just beyond the hearth’s glow.

“What troubles you?” she murmured, her voice breaking through the quiet like a peaceful thaw.

He exhaled, reluctant to confess the depth of his worries, but knowing that they’d continue to haunt him if he kept silent. “It’s been nearly two years, Claere,” he said, voice hushed and tinged with sorrow. “Even summer draws close, yet still…”

She raised her brow, her expression puzzled. “Still…?”

He paused, his fingers brushing absently through her hair. “Some might think our marriage has… gone cold. They may say that I’ve been unable to…” He trailed off, cursing his own pride for the thousandth time.

Her eyes softened as if she didn’t fully understand the meaning his words bore. But then she asked, in that quiet way of hers, “How many do you want, then?”

Her question caught him off guard, and he let out a short, surprised laugh. “How many?”

“Yes,” she replied with a small smile, tilting her head. “How many babes?”

He sighed, gazing up at the ceiling as he thought. “Five,” he murmured, his voice barely a whisper. “Maybe… six?”

She gasped, eyes wide in mock horror, laughter hidden in their depths. “Six! If you want six, Cregan, you’ll be carrying some of them yourself.”

He laughed, the sound rough and warm, as some of his tension dissolved. “Aye. I wish I could, I'd carry them all,” he admitted, a smile tugging at his lips. “You and I—we’d make fine parents. I’m certain of it.”

She watched him, her gaze as steady as ever. “Then perhaps I should speak to Maester Kennet tomorrow,” she said as if it were the simplest solution in the world.

He shook his head, chuckling softly. “I already have. He gave me more herbs than I know what to do with. And more ideas than any man could rightly attempt in a lifetime. Saffron, lavender oil, wild roots… I fear I may a grow a Glass Garden within my skin.”

A small laugh escaped her, easing her features and stirring a wildness within him. “And what other… techniques did he mention, hm?”

He rolled her over with a sudden, playful surge of energy, a breathless gasp slipping from her as he moved above her, his mouth brushing her neck, his voice low and teasing.

“Oh, there were a few obscene ones, my love. Even I flushed at some,” he murmured, his breath hot against her skin. “And I intend to try every last one of them, with your leave.”

She laughed, her rare and sweet sound filling the dark room, and his heart pounded as he held her close. He pushed a soft trail of kisses down her neck, the length of her collarbone, between her breasts, all the way to the curve of her navel. Her back arched off the bed, eyes rolling back into her head, a moan filling the silence.

“Ah,” he hummed into the seam of her legs, hefting them over his shoulder, “they're working already.”

For a time, the weight of his worries faded, leaving only her laughter and warmth, and the shared comfort of their embrace.

X

Claere sat alone by the low fire in Winterfell’s solar, her fingers drifting absently over the curve of her belly. Her gaze fell softly to the flame, her eyes half-lidded as though seeing something—or someone—beyond the walls of the castle, beyond the falling snow, stretching out all the way to Dragonstone.

In the flickering warmth, she began to murmur, her words barely above a whisper, yet steady, each one filled with quiet conviction. She’d imagined this conversation many times in her heart, but tonight it felt real, as if the distance between her and her mother, Rhaenyra, had fallen away, leaving only the intimacy of a daughter’s voice.

"Mother,” she began, a wistful smile playing on her lips, “I write this at a time when your presence is much missed here. I know you’d ask me of Winterfell, of life so far from what I was raised to know. And you’d wonder if I feel lost here if this place could ever be called home.” The words hung in the air, half question, half answer.

She took a deep breath, her hand resting gently on the small swell of her belly. “There’s a peace here, a rootedness,” she said, her gaze softening. "I have found love here—no less fierce than what I saw you hold for my brothers, what you taught us to dream of. Cregan is not a man who bends easily to others, nor would he take kindly to this North being called ‘strange’ or ‘harsh,’ for he loves it as truly as any man loves a woman. And through him, I have learned to love it too. To find warmth in these stones and shelter in the cold air."

The fire crackled, sending a flicker of shadow over her face, and her hand lingered on her belly with a tenderness that almost surprised her. She felt the life within her stir, a promise she hadn’t realized she’d waited her whole life to fulfil.

“I am with child, Mummy,” she murmured as if confessing to a dream. "And I know it in my very bones—she is a girl. A bright, wild soul, even now. She has your courage, your spirit, I feel it already."

Her gaze lifted, as though her mother could see her from across the ages.

“She is to be named Rhaenyra, to carry your legacy in this faraway land. She will be raised a Stark, she'll be who her father was, and have all the strength you gave me.”

Her voice softened, almost breaking. “I am so happy here. I am so far from you, and yet so close in my heart.”

As the fire’s light dimmed and the night grew quiet, Claere closed her eyes, feeling a warmth settle in her chest. She leaned back in her chair, as though her mother was present in the room with her, holding her in an unbreakable embrace across the many miles and years.

X

Sansa’s voice softened, echoing faintly off the stone walls of the crypts. She kept her gaze steady on the statues of Cregan and Claere, her eyes tracing the faint details carved into the faces that seemed so solemn, so eternal.

“Did you know, Tyrion,” she began, her voice low and measured, “they lost their firstborn? A daughter.”

Tyrion’s surprise flickered across his face. He’d thought he knew every corner of their story, but this was new—a shadow hidden even from the pages of history. “A daughter?” he murmured, almost to himself.

Sansa’s gaze didn’t shift, fixed on the cold, unyielding faces of the statues. “Claere had her labours too soon,” she continued, each word an echo of some deeper grief as if she could feel the loss herself. “They say she came in the sixth moon. Cregan had been away to the Wall then. The midwives refused to speak of her to him, and those who did wished they hadn’t.”

Tyrion tilted his head, watching Sansa as if trying to read some forgotten history from her expression. “Why?” he asked, voice hushed, as if afraid to disturb the old shadows around them.

“They said she was a beast—unlike anything seen in these lands,” Sansa replied, her voice barely above a whisper. “Old Nan told Bran once, that babe had scales as a dragon might, a hole where the heart was, but there was a wildness too—fur at her ears, horns at her brow.” Her hand drifted unconsciously to her own temple. “She was a creature of fire and ice.”

Tyrion’s face was hard to read, the curiosity in his eyes mixed with sorrow. “What happened to the baby?”

Sansa’s lips parted, the sadness settling deeper into her voice. “The White Dread cremated her.” She paused, her eyes on the statue of Claere, whose gaze seemed cast into some unseen distance. “They say her flames burned hotter than any fire the North had ever known until nothing remained of the child but ash in the wind.”

The silence that followed was thick, weighted with memories that did not belong to them. Tyrion stared at the statues, feeling the chill of the crypt press into his skin.

“Said it was a curse,” Sansa continued, her voice as steady as the stones surrounding them. “Some called it retribution for Claere’s dragon blood mingling with that of the wolf's. Others believed it was Winterfell’s vengeance for the foreign blood she brought to this house.”

“Curses… superstitions. Idiocy,” Tyrion muttered, though the words felt hollow in his mouth. He searched the statues’ faces as though they might offer some defiance, some challenge to the grim fate that had haunted them.

Sansa nodded slowly, her eyes never leaving Cregan and Claere’s statues. “Oh, how wrong they all were.”

X

The grief preyed on Cregan like a huntsman, aimed and unrelenting. He hadn’t been there when his daughter took her first—and only—breath. He hadn’t seen her small, twisted form, hadn’t held her lifeless body, hadn’t even seen the ash left in the pyre after Luna’s flames claimed her. All he had were the fractured whispers, the midwives' hushed tales of scales and horns, monstrous whispers that haunted him as he lay awake. They told him the babe was a creature—a child neither fully beast nor fully human, a twisted relic of a bloodline cursed.

And Claere… she had flown, disappeared across the bleak Northern sky on the back of her dragon. It had been a week of silence, of endless, hollow waiting. Every day he’d woken with a sliver of hope that she’d return, that she hadn’t simply left him behind to grieve alone. But each night she didn’t return felt like losing her all over again, as though the world had claimed not one but both of his girls. Perhaps she had gone back to her kin, her Targaryen blood too thick to weather Winterfell’s shadows. He was simply too removed into his head to send word.

When she did return, landing under the cold light of dawn, Cregan could scarcely face her. He felt his eyes torch in his head when he saw her, haggard and dirtied, travelling gods know where.

What could he say? How could he look into those fierce violet eyes, knowing she had borne their grief alone, toiling for two days to bring their daughter into a world that had torn her away before she’d even lived? He could feel the shame curling in his stomach like a sickness—he had left her to the darkest of agonies.

But Claere approached him with a stillness he hadn’t expected, a haunted calm in her eyes as she knelt at his feet, hands on her knees, her head bowing low.

“Forgive me, Cregan,” she said, her voice a hollow murmur, barely more than a breath against the cold. She kept her gaze lowered, refusing to meet his eyes. “The cost has been paid. For the lives I claimed, this was… the price. I've always known. I knew it would come. This burden should only be mine to bear.”

He looked down, stunned into silence. Her words echoed in the room, colder than the stone walls around them, more cutting than any blade. He could feel a sharp ache twisting in his chest as he understood her meaning—understood that in her mind, the world had claimed their child as retribution for the men she’d burned, for the blood she had spilt.

“And for that,” she continued, her voice steady but edged with sorrow, “I am yours to punish, in any way you see fit. If you’d have me return to my brother, I’ll leave. If you’d have my life… it’s yours to take.”

Cregan’s gaze snapped to her, raw anger surging up from the depths of his grief. He wanted to scream, to rage, to tear down the walls around them in his fury. But the sight of her—so proud, yet kneeling before him with her shoulders bent under the weight of guilt—left him hollow. He watched her as she knelt, holding back tears with an unyielding resolve, the faintest tremor betraying the walls she had raised around herself. For once, her impassive mask was cracking, and he could see the sorrow underneath, the grief she had borne alone in silence.

He reached out, his rough fingers brushing her chin as he tilted her face upward, meeting her eyes at last. Tears brimmed there, held back with stubborn defiance, but as she looked at him, something within her broke. Her features twisted, and in a raw, heart-wrenching sob, she let her grief fall free.

“I deserve this. I did this,” she whimpered.

It devastated him. Every ounce of anger he had felt, every bitter thought and word he’d held onto, melted away as he pulled her into his arms. Held her close until her breaths became his.

“No,” he said roughly, “please don't, Claere.”

She sobbed against his chest, her tears soaking into the rough fabric of his tunic, her frame trembling with each wrenching gasp. And as he held her, he, too, felt their shared sorrow, a grief so deep it felt like the cold itself had seeped into his bones.

Cregan let out a shattered sob, pressing his face into her hair, his hand running along her back in a desperate attempt to soothe her.

“I love you,” he promised, his rough voice broken with feeling. “And I would kill another thousand men before you blame yourself for this tragedy.”

“Forgive me,” she wept softly.

“No, hush, love. I have you, I don't want anyone else.”

They clung to each other, their sorrow woven together, a single thread in a tapestry of loss and love. And as the dawn light began to creep into the chamber, illuminating the room with a pale, ghostly glow, they mourned not just for the daughter they had lost, but for the life they had dreamed of—a life now gone, scattered like ashes in the wind.

X

Tyrion turned to Sansa, brow creased in confusion as he took in the significant words of her story. "They had children, did they not? Of their own?"

Sansa’s lips curved into a gentle smile, a glimmer of pride and sorrow mingling in her eyes. "They did," she replied, her voice quiet, almost reverent, as though speaking of something sacred.

“Four pups," she said. "Their eldest, they called the White Wolf."

Her gaze drifted to a tall statue a little ways from where Cregan and Claere’s likenesses stood. “That’s him, Brandon Stark," she explained. "Even in stone, you can see it in him. Brandon didn't get to rule until his twenty-ninth nameday.”

Tyrion's brow furrowed again, curiosity mingling with amusement. "And did Brandon have a dragon, then?" he mused. "Strange that I don’t recall any Stark children riding one."

Sansa gave a small, enigmatic shrug. “None of their cradle eggs hatched," she replied, her voice touched by a hint of irony. "Maybe our blood is too rooted in the ground, too determined for such Valyrian magic.”

Her words hung in the cold air, and for a moment, neither spoke. Tyrion could almost picture it—a line of Northern children, each with an unhatched egg at their bedside, bound by tradition and yet untouched by it. The eggs must have been exquisite: shimmering, dormant things, packed into chests or set aside in the Godswood. And there they lay, silent reminders of a legacy Claere had hoped to pass on but that Winterfell had quietly refused.

He looked over at Sansa, who was gazing at her ancestors with a rare softness. “Perhaps it’s for the best,” she murmured, almost to herself. “They needed no fire when they had the North.”

X

Claere stood behind Cregan, a faint smirk pulling at her lips as she tugged at a single strand of white hair stubbornly sprouting from his crown. Cregan winced, catching her gaze in the mirror with a halfhearted glare, though a small smile betrayed him. She leaned closer, brushing a lock of her own silver hair over her shoulder, its colour unchanged despite the years.

He turned to look up at her, taking in the gentle pride in her eyes, the warmth that had softened the cool distance she’d carried with her from King’s Landing. She had become the heart of Winterfell as surely as he was its spine; they had grown into each other, their love deepening with each new season. And now, they shared a life that seemed less of battle and duty, and more of small, cherished moments like this one.

"Careful," she teased, her fingers gently releasing the strand. "You’ve finally been touched by winter itself. White hair suits you, Lord Stark."

He gave a huff, rolling his eyes as he rubbed at his scalp where she’d tugged. “A Targaryen would think so. Means something different here in the North.”

“I think you look rather handsome,” she murmured.

Cregan raised an eyebrow, catching her gaze in the mirror. “Is that so?”

Claere smiled softly, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his cheek, letting it linger. “That is so.”

He was about to pull her in by her waist when, soon enough, Brandon’s mop of silver curls and wide grey eyes peeked over the door, and he strolled straight over and hauled himself up to sit on the dresser, swinging his legs and looking for all the world like he’d earned his spot.

The Stark children of Winterfell were a sight to behold, each one as distinct as the seasons that marked the North, yet bound together by the fierce blood that ran in their veins. Brandon Stark, the eldest, was born to an inheritance of heavy expectation and watchful eyes, his white hair gleaming starkly against the dark winters of his home. His labour marked the end of Claere and Cregan's grieving for their daughter, a silver lining that shone so bright after a two-year dark night. Though he bore his father’s strong frame and presence, his colouring made him seem almost unnatural, a blend of Stark and Targaryen that whispered of magic and legend. Brandon wore his status quietly, already showing a sombre diligence that mirrored his father’s. He was a boy who thought twice before speaking and thrice before acting—much to the exasperation of his younger siblings.

"Where’s your sister?” Cregan asked, quirking an eyebrow as he studied his eleven-year-old son, who’d already snuck his hands around the hilt of the longsword that leaned against the dresser.

Brandon grinned, mischief dancing in his eyes. “With Ed and Rickon. They said they’re going to try and mount Luna again.”

Cregan sighed, feeling the weight of fatherhood settle on him as solidly as the cloak over his shoulders. “I ought to tie all their feet together and hang them from that damned beast. I told you, Claere, to not feed the children with this madness.”

Claere chuckled, her fingers deftly weaving a section of his hair as if considering another silver culprit. “Luna wouldn't hurt what is mine. She's harmless.”

Cregan’s brow furrowed, but before he could retort, Claere gave another tug at a hidden strand, and he winced, swatting her hand away with a grumble.

“Have mercy, my love.”

Brandon’s eyes narrowed, fixing on his mother’s hand as she toyed with the strand, and he frowned. “Why are you doing that to Father?”

Claere’s smile softened as she looked from her husband to her son. “Because your father needs reminding now and then,” she murmured, her fingers finding his shoulders, “that even the strongest oak grows older with time.” She paused, ruffling Brandon’s hair with a gentle hand. “But don’t you worry. Your father is just as fierce as he was before.”

“She secretly loves it,” Cregan stage-whispered to his son, winking.

Brandon tilted his head thoughtfully, then gave a firm nod. “Father’s the strongest, even with grey hair.”

Cregan smirked, giving his son a warm, prideful glance. “Is that so? And what would you know about it, hm?”

Brandon shrugged, his small fingers still dancing around the hilt of Cregan’s sword. “Just… know it,” he said, nodding to himself as if his future strength were already assured. His gaze never left the blade, drawn to the legacy it carried. “One day, I’ll be as strong as you. I'll hold up Ice with a single fist.”

Cregan’s hand settled over his son’s, a gentle, knowing grasp that made Brandon look up, wide-eyed. “Strength’s more than what you hold in your hands, little wolf. It’s in here.” He tapped a finger against Brandon’s chest. “And in here.” A finger to his forehead. “Takes both to be worthy of a sword.”

Brandon looked between them, his brow furrowing slightly as if contemplating a great secret he wasn’t yet old enough to understand. He nodded solemnly, absorbing his father’s words with the gravity only a boy on the brink of his first ambitions could muster.

But before Cregan could say more, the door burst open, slamming into the wall, sending a gust of laughter and hurried footsteps echoing through the room. Rickon came barreling in, his face flushed with a wild grin, with Edric hot on his heels, a look of determined fury in his eyes. Rickon glanced back, cackling in delight, his feet carrying him just out of his younger brother’s reach.

Rickon, only seven, was a restless fire. He was the second-born son, wild and spirited, already proving to be as headstrong as he was loyal. He bore no outward trace of his mother’s Valyrian heritage—no silver in his hair, no unnatural glint to his grey eyes. Rickon was a Stark, through and through, with a fierce heart that sometimes got him into trouble. He had none of Brandon’s careful restraint; instead, he charged into life with the boundless energy of a wolf pup, bringing both chaos and laughter to Winterfell’s quiet halls. And he was adored for it, a boy who could lighten the darkest day with his mischief.

“Tell him, Bran! Tell our baby brother he's a big bonehead!” Rickon called, flashing a triumphant smirk over his shoulder.

“You're dead, Rickon!” Edric, face red and eyes alight with indignation, launched himself forward, intent on tackling Rickon.

The twins, Eddric and Luce, were only five but already made their mark. Eddric, the quietest of the brood, had a stillness about him that spoke of an inner strength. People said he was his father’s mirror in his younger years, with a steady gaze and a quietness that hid the steady turn of thought. He followed Brandon with a silent loyalty, never complaining, always watching. Although, his second brother always loved to keep him on his toes.

Brandon, ever the mediator, hopped off the vanity, stepping in front of his brothers, raising his small hands in a peaceable gesture that was years beyond his age.

Behind them, little Lucelle slipped quietly into the room, trailing her brothers with a gentler, watchful presence. Without a word, she gravitated toward her mother, slipping her small hand into Claere’s skirt folds, her delicate fingers clutching fabric as though it held all the comfort of the world. Claere smiled down at her daughter, brushing a gentle hand over Luce’s pale braid and planting a light kiss on her head.

Luce, by contrast to her brothers, was as loud as she was small, a tempest wrapped in a child’s form. Though she bore her father’s colouring, she had her mother’s violet eyes—bright, sharp, and entirely too knowing. Even at five, she held herself with fierce pride and a pearl of uncanny wisdom, and when she spoke, she did so with the quiet authority of someone far older.

“How was Luna today?” Claere asked her softly.

Luce leaned into her mother’s touch, her thumb idly rubbing the soft fabric, an unspoken bond of safety. “We barely even got to her before Ed and Rick started fighting. Idiots.”

“You cannot call your brothers that,” Claere hushed her, muffling the smile that cracked into her stern voice.

“Bran calls them that,” she opposed.

“Rickon told me I’m the spare!” Edric’s voice broke through the laughter, his hurt undeniable, despite the fire in his glare as he fixed it on Rickon. “He told me Mum only wanted Luce, and I was extra!”

Brandon sighed, glancing at Rickon with a slight shake of his head. “Rick…”

Rickon crossed his arms, his smirk deepening. “He is. It’s not like Mum has a choice with you.”

With a fierce growl, Edric launched himself at his older brother again, fists ready, but before he could strike, a strong arm reached down, lifting him clean off the ground. Cregan held him firmly, his son’s small body squirming in his grasp, and Edric’s indignation filled the room like thunderclouds gathering.

“Let me go, Da! I’ll pound him to dust!” Edric howled, kicking his legs in protest, though Cregan’s arms held fast.

“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” Cregan said, his tone dry, though there was a glimmer of warmth in his eyes as he held Edric up at arm’s length. “And what will that solve, lad? Leave a wily little fox like you to guard Winterfell alone? The walls themselves would flee.”

Edric scowled, struggling a bit as he dangled, though a faint smirk touched his lips. “I'm a wolf like you, Da,” he grumbled, still glaring at Rickon. “One day, I’ll be older, and I’ll pin him to the wall myself.”

Rickon, with a shrug and a careless smirk, crossed his arms. “When pigs fly, little brother,” he teased, the mischief in his voice unshakable.

Brandon, standing nearby with his arms folded, smacked the back of Rickon’s head lightly. “Why can't you pick on someone your own size?”

Rickon grinned at his older brother, shrugging off the swat as though it were nothing. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Cregan finally set Edric down, though his hand lingered on the boy’s shoulder to steady him. “Enough, all of you,” he said, his tone slipping into the low authority of a lord. “If you waste your energy fighting each other, we’re no better than hounds snarling over scraps.”

Edric pouted, but a look of consideration passed over his face. He mumbled under his breath, glancing at Rickon. “One day, though, I will be stronger.”

Rickon rolled his eyes, though a grin tugged at his lips as he tousled Edric’s hair. “And I’ll still be faster, so good luck with that.”

Brandon sighed, sounding far older than his ten years, and levelled a stern look at his younger brothers. “Don't make me knock your heads together.”

Edric scowled, scratching his jaw—his father's habit—glancing down before muttering, “I won't punch you, Rickon… I guess.”

Rickon, ever the little rogue, didn’t miss a beat. With a quick, sidelong glance at his younger brother, he gave his little brother's bottom a playful smack.

“There—apology accepted,” he laughed, darting out of reach.

Edric’s eyes went wide, and without another word, he took off after his brother, his face red again. “I’m going to kill you, you rat!”

Rickon only laughed harder, his steps light and quick as he ducked between the furniture and made for the door. The sound of their laughter and footsteps filled the room, echoing off the stone walls with a warmth that could thaw even Winterfell’s chill.

Claere looked back to Cregan, the glint of amusement unmistakable in her gaze. She rested a hand on his shoulder, her voice low but carrying a hint of shared mischief.

“Maybe we ought to tie all of their feet together,” she mused, a spark dancing in her eye.

Cregan chuckled, shaking his head as he watched the boys tumble after each other. He kissed the top of her head. “No need, love. They’re bound already.”

Claere’s smile muffled as Cregan’s gaze drifted to their daughter, his expression melting into one of pure adoration. He opened his arms, and Luce scurried over and nestled into him with a giggle. He swept her up, dirty skirts and all, cuddling her to his chest.

"C’mere, Luce. My little queen. Sweetling. Sunshine." he murmured, punctuating every endearment with a kiss. He pressed a flurry of kisses to her cheeks, each one met with a small, shy smile as she clung to his tunic, basking in his affection.

“Oh, your brothers are a handful, but I’ve got you, haven’t I?” he murmured into her hair, his voice a low, affectionate rumble.

Luce nodded, her tiny fingers curling around his collar as if to hold him close. “I'll tie them onto Luna for you, Da,” she said, her voice just loud enough for him to hear.

Cregan laughed, glancing up at Claere, who watched them, almost in pride. “She’ll keep this family in line,” he joked, his eyes dancing as he gave Claere a knowing look. “Someone’s got to.”

Claere smirked, brushing a stray lock of Luce’s hair back with a gentle hand. “It seems she’s the only one who can keep even you in line.”

Just then, a thump and a crash from the hallway sent a ripple of laughter through them as Rickon, Bran, and Edric clattered into view, wrestling in an entangled heap of elbows, snarls and shouts.

Cregan shook his head, still holding Luce close. “I’ll give them ten minutes before they’re back, claiming mortal wounds over a scraped knee or bruised pride.”

Claere laughed, her fingers trailing over Luce’s shoulder as she murmured, “So long as they keep coming back… let them bruise as they will.”

For the people of Winterfell, the Stark children were a fascinating sight. They were a blend of old and new, Northern ice and dragon fire, and their presence seemed to promise something powerful and strange. The household had watched them grow with almost reverent awe, and whispers ran through the kitchens and courtyards, soft as the snow: They are of both wolf and dragon, and who knows what their futures hold?

Claere and Cregan raised their children as both wolves and dragons, with love as fierce as winter and discipline as sharp as steel. Each child bore the marks of their parents' contrasting worlds, shaped by the ice of the North and the fire of Claere’s bloodline. Claere had come to Winterfell as a stranger, her Targaryen heritage making her an enigma to the Northern folk, but she carved out her place there with quiet strength. In her children, she found a bridge between past and future, each one a blend of her Valyrian roots and Cregan’s Stark blood.

She mothered them with a firm hand, fiercely protective yet unwilling to shelter them from the hard truths of their world. With Brandon, her eldest, she stoked a sense of duty and honour, guiding him to read the land and the people, to notice what others missed, and to understand that strength was often quiet. He was the heir, the White Wolf, and she reminded him that he held both fire and ice within him. Rickon, wild and reckless as a storm, needed her balance to hold his nature in check. Eddric, the watchful one, often content to linger at the edge, was Cregan's shadow. She knew his quiet was more than shyness; it was the start of wisdom, a Stark-born stillness that watched and weighed.

Cregan, in turn, forged his children in the Northern way, teaching them to endure hardship, to feel the weight of a sword and the pull of a bow, to know that their lives were tied to the land, as old as the wolves carved into the walls of Winterfell. All his boys learned the ways of a leader and his army—the honour in command and the weight of responsibility. Cregan had him stand watch on the battlements, and learn the lay of the North as if it was etched into his veins.

But it was with Luce that both Cregan and Claere softened. She had her father’s face, all Stark and strong-boned, but her mother’s spirit—a quiet ferocity, a softness she wore like armour. Cregan was gentler with her, the daughter who clung to his arm and had him wrapped around her small finger. She was her father’s pride, her mother’s wisdom, and though he would never say it aloud, Cregan often looked at her with the same bemused wonder he’d had for Claere since the day she entered his life.

And so, Winterfell saw the children grow under their parents' steady hand. They were loved fiercely, disciplined with purpose, and shaped by the ancient pillars and endless snow.

One night, Claere sat alone in the dim, quiet room, absently stroking Luce’s hair as she slept on her lap, singing lowly under her breath. It had been a long day, and she found herself missing Cregan’s company with an ache she hadn’t expected. Since the loss of their firstborn, he’d been reluctant to leave her side, especially when his duties called him to the Wall, yet he’d had no choice. The distance unsettled her more than she would admit, and she wondered if he, too, felt the hollow space she sensed at her back.

So sleep, dear starling, the night is long, with fire in heart and ice in song...

The soft creak of the door brought her from her thoughts, Claere looked up, her gaze softening as she saw Brandon standing there, silhouetted by the hallway’s faint light. He looked as though he’d come by mistake, and was ready to turn back—but Claere beckoned him with a gentle smile, patting the bed beside her.

"Come," she whispered.

Brandon’s shoulders relaxed as he slipped into the room, padding quietly across the floor before climbing onto the bed. He settled beside her, leaning his head against her shoulder, breathing in the faint scent of herbs and warmth that always seemed to cling to her. It reminded him of home, of safety—of the softness he didn’t find anywhere else. Claere’s hand continued to pat Luce’s back, but her arm extended to draw him close, letting him sink into her side.

For a while, they sat in silence, Luce’s breathing a lull in the quiet. Then Brandon shifted, and in a low, begrudging whisper, he said, “Why must I share a room with those two?” His tone was layered with exasperation, that distinct note of long-suffering only a brother of younger siblings could manage.

“What have they done now?” Claere’s voice held a hint of amusement.

Brandon sighed as if forced to recount a tale of unending woe. “They broke each other’s noses. Again.”

Claere let out a quiet laugh, and Brandon felt the warmth of it in the vibration of her shoulder against his cheek. “And now, does Rickon still hug Ed in his sleep?” she asked a glimmer of humour in her voice.

Brandon rolled his eyes. “Like I said—idiots,” he muttered, but the faintest of smiles tugged at his lips.

Luce stirred and whined in her sleep, and Claere’s hand returned to gently patting her back, sending her back to slumber with a soft hum.

Brandon’s gaze lingered on his sister, feeling a pang in his chest that he couldn’t name. It was something knotted, tight, a jealousy that tasted bitter at the edges. He wanted to be held like this, to be smiled at so fondly, to be the one looked at so softly, so protectively. He wanted to be more than the heir, the firstborn whose hands were always busy with swords and lessons. He wanted to be his mother’s little one, just as Luce seemed to be.

“Why does she get to sleep here?” he asked, unable to keep the envy from his voice.

Claere paused, her hand stilling on Luce’s back. She looked down at Brandon, and her gaze held an understanding, a sadness that he didn’t entirely comprehend. Her fingers traced a gentle line along his cheek, brushing back a stray lock of his pale hair.

"Because, my son," she said softly, “she is my last child, my small light in the dark. But you…” She cupped his face, turning him to meet her eyes fully, grey and fierce. “You are my first. You taught me what it is to be a mother. The babe I dreamed of long before I ever saw you. I see myself in Luce, but I see my heart in you.”

Brandon’s throat tightened, but he swallowed, the words sinking deep.

She held his gaze, her expression turning serious, almost solemn. “You must promise to protect her, Bran. All of them. You are my strength in this world.”

Brandon nodded, his jaw set, the weight of her words settling on his small shoulders with a sense of duty he was still growing into. His mother’s fierce love, and her gentle guidance—these were the things that built him, a silent armour he wore just as much as his father’s teachings.

Settling his cheek back on her shoulder, he murmured, “Why did my egg never hatch?”

Claere paused, then hummed thoughtfully, her fingers stroking down his arm in a soothing rhythm. “Perhaps,” she replied with a faint smile, “you’re more like your father than me. All of you are, in different ways.”

Her hand came to rest on his head, patting it with an absent fondness. Brandon looked up at her, his young face etched with curiosity. “Could I claim Luna, then?”

“If she’ll have you,” she answered, a hint of amusement coloring her voice. “Though you’ll need more than will to ride her.”

Brandon fell silent, mulling over her words, before he ventured again, his tone almost timid. “Ma?”

Claere hummed, giving him her full attention.

“Could I squire in the South? At Dragonstone. With Uncle Jacaerys?” He looked at her, eyes wide, a trace of longing lingering in his expression.

Claere snickered softly. “Lord Stark will have some thoughts about this. And they won’t be gentle ones.”

“But I know nothing about Targaryen customs, about our family’s ways,” he insisted, his voice carrying an earnest edge. “The things they say—the language, the dreams, Aegon the Conqueror…”

Claere’s gaze softened, and she reached to smooth a lock of Brandon’s silver hair from his face, her fingers lingering in the unruly curls that were so much like her own. She knew the pull he felt, that ache to connect with the other half of himself—the part that carried the blood of dragons, with all its legends and haunted promises. But she also knew Cregan’s thoughts on the matter, thoughts forged not from prejudice but from a bone-deep protectiveness and the history they’d both lived through.

"Your father…” Claere began, choosing her words carefully, “… would rather see you grow as a Stark than a Targaryen.” She smiled softly, though there was a sadness there. “To him, your family—our family—holds too many ghosts.”

Brandon frowned, his young mind wrestling with something he couldn’t fully grasp. “Why does he hate them?” he whispered. “Hate us?”

Claere shook her head. “No, he does not hate you or me. But he’s seen the way Targaryens turn on each other, even on those they love.” Her voice grew quieter, shadows darkening her eyes as memories surfaced, painful ones. “He’s seen the scars they leave behind. He would never want that for you.”

Brandon opened his mouth to protest, but Claere held up a hand, a glimmer of her resolve flashing through. “When I left King’s Landing, I was traded away for powerplay. The heir to the Iron Throne, the daughter who left the dragons behind, the sister who stood apart. To your father, they failed me because they never tried to understand me.” She held his gaze, and there was a spark of fierceness. “Your father gave me what they never could—home, love, belonging. He would never let you go somewhere that could take that from you.”

Brandon looked away, the longing still clear in his face. “But how am I supposed to be both?” he asked, frustration leaking into his voice.

“You don’t have to be both,” Claere said, gently turning his chin so he’d meet her eyes again. “You’re a Stark. Winterfell is your home, and it’s more than enough.” She leaned in, lowering her voice. “And if you ever want to know what the dragons were, or what dreams they carry, you have me.”

She saw the hint of a question on his lips, and she met it with a steady gaze, letting him see the truth, the warmth, the strength she’d carried. "I will tell you all you need to know,” she whispered, brushing her fingers against his cheek. “Of the dreams, the language, the stories of old Valyria. Those are yours to know here, by my side.”

Brandon seemed to consider this, his expression softening, though the flicker of desire still lingered in his eyes. He gave her a slow, uncertain nod as if coming to terms with the truth he didn’t fully understand. He shifted closer to Claere, his gaze drifting to his sleeping sister. With a quiet sigh, his hand rested on Luce’s hair, fingers threading gently through the soft strands, his gaze fixed and calm as he watched his sister sleep. In that small, quiet moment, Claere saw her children—each bound to Winterfell, bound to one another, and bound to her, the blood and heart of her life here in the North.

She leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss to both their heads, the warmth of her touch settling over them like a shield. In them, she had forged a legacy as strong as stone, something beyond the name and blood that marked them. Her children would not walk the lonely paths of dreams and ancient fire; they would walk the halls of Winterfell, as Starks and Targaryens both, together, woven in the stark threads of love and loyalty.

“Rest now, my heart,” she whispered to Brandon, her voice soft as snowfall. “All that you are—one day, you’ll understand.”

As Brandon finally closed his eyes, nestled beside his sister, Claere let herself linger, watching over them. The shadows in the room softened, a quiet peace settling in with the deep, Northern night, and in that stillness, it felt as though Winterfell itself held its breath, honouring a family forged from ice and fire.

X

Tyrion lingered before the statues, his fingers tracing an idle path over the stone as he mused, “So, Claere went first.” He shook his head, voice touched with a faint, almost reluctant admiration. “And Cregan… he didn’t last much longer, did he?”

Sansa’s gaze softened, a distant, wistful look in her eyes. “No. It was as if losing her carved him hollow.” She let out a small, sombre breath. “They say he couldn’t bear the thought of life without her. Even his children offered him no solace. His strength faded quickly, and he let it.” Her lips curled with a faint, sad smile. “In the end, he had her bones laid to rest beside him. He’d rather share the crypts than a world without her.”

Tyrion tilted his head, smirking with a dry irony. “Northern sentimentality… burying your wife in your own tomb. Poetic, if a bit possessive.”

Sansa laughed, the sound a soft note in the stillness of the crypt. “It’s the Stark way—blunt and stubborn. But we’re loyal to the end, even in death.”

She let her gaze drift to the statues, her eyes clouding over as the distant sounds of the battle above seeped into the silence, chilling the air around them.

A moment passed before Tyrion’s voice lowered, a touch of dark humour edging his words. “Do you suppose she saw him when she flew past the Wall? The Night King? Did she foresee this—Jon, Daenerys, the dead—all of it?”

Sansa’s lips turned in a grim smile. “Maybe he’ll raise her tonight, and you can ask her yourself.”

Tyrion chuckled, though a touch of unease crept into his voice. “I’d be honoured—though I’d rather she stay silent in their tomb.”

As the rumbling above grew louder, Sansa reached within her cloak and drew out a single winter rose, its pale petals stark against the shadows. She stepped forward, resting it on Claere’s carved hands, nestled within the etched garland of roses across her stone form.

Tyrion watched as Sansa drew back, her gaze never leaving the rose. “A Stark gesture if I’ve ever seen one,” he muttered.

She turned to him, a ghost of a smile lingering. “Some things deserve to be remembered.”

X

The night was a vast, velvet black stretched over Winterfell, the stars scattered in dazzling points of light above them. Claere and Cregan lay side by side on the old, stone battlements, watching the sky. A soft, cool wind rustled her hair, silver in the moonlight, and she felt Cregan’s warmth beside her, steady and familiar, like the rhythm of her own heartbeat.

They had aged together, the sharp lines of youth softened, but neither seemed diminished. If anything, Cregan thought he had never loved her more. They had grown together—each trial they faced only drew them closer. He saw it in her laughter, lighter now, and the ease with which she leaned against him. He turned his gaze to her, taking in the curve of her cheek, and the glint of her eyes as they wandered the heavens above. They’d come so far together—crossing the years like an open field, hand in hand, step by step.

Suddenly, she gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “I just saw a star fall!” Her eyes were wide with wonder, her face alight as she nudged him with her elbow.

“A what?” he replied, more amused than astonished, though her excitement tugged a smile from him.

“Look!” she whispered, pointing upwards, her voice laced with awe. “There’s another one.”

In a flash, a streak of silver split the night, fierce and blazing, trailing a tail of white fire that lingered before it vanished. The comet seemed to sweep across the heavens as though chasing some hidden destiny, filling the sky with a brief, impossible brightness.

For a moment, they were both silent, entranced by the spectacle. Cregan watched her as she looked up, her face soft in wonderment, captivated by something he could barely see. And then, with a slow smile, he rolled onto his shoulder, propping himself over her, so he could see the sky reflected in her eyes.

Claere shifted closer, tucking her head under his chin, and he wrapped an arm around her. He could feel her heartbeat, steady and strong against his chest, and he knew there was no place on earth he’d rather be.

Cregan’s gaze swept over her in the dim starlight, a quiet smile tugging at his mouth. “It’s a strange thing,” he murmured, eyes lingering on her, “to think how you looked that first night. Like some ghostly princess… Thought you might drift away before I could reach you.”

Claere tilted her head, a faint, amused smile gracing her lips. “And I thought you might send me back to King’s Landing on the next wheelhouse,” she replied, her tone dry.

Cregan chuckled, his voice soft with something deeper. “I think I’d have moved mountains to make you stay.”

She studied him, her eyes softening with an implicit fondness, one finger tracing the lines of his shoulder. “You always believed I’d fit here, even when I didn’t.” Her voice was almost a whisper, the words slipping out like a confession.

He turned, leaning in closer. “Guess I saw more than a stranger under all that Targaryen pride.” He smirked, kissing her nose. “Stubborn as a Stark, with a Northern heart.”

Claere gave a faint laugh, but her gaze lingered on him, her eyes reflecting the starlight. “You say that now,” she murmured, “but sometimes I still feel like I’ve brought winter itself to your door.”

His voice softened as he drew her nearer. “What about it?”

They fell silent, lost in each other’s eyes. Then, she gasped softly, her hand pressing to his chest as she looked up at the night.

“There it goes again!”

A streak of light tore across the sky, leaving a fiery trail as if some ancient power were tracing its path over the heavens. Her face lit up with childlike wonder, her smile reaching her eyes as she watched the comet blaze overhead.

Cregan chuckled, rolling to his side to get a better view of her expression. “A falling star,” he said, half to himself, “or some sign from the gods.” He leaned in closer, his gaze unwavering. “Doesn’t much matter to me, though. Because the way I see it, you’re all the gift I’ll ever need.”

Her smile softened, her hand finding his, their fingers intertwining as naturally as if they’d always fit that way. “Then make a wish,” she whispered, her voice barely audible against the wind.

“Already have, love,” he replied, brushing his lips against her brow. “And it came true.”

They lay there, wrapped in each other’s arms, as the comet burned on, lighting the sky above them. And though the years had weathered them, though battles had come and gone, in that quiet moment on Winterfell’s ancient stones, they knew that their love had endured all things, burning bright long after they were gone.

X

that marks the end of this series! thank you all so much for following along with Cregan and Claere, I am so proud of what I've accomplished in these past few weeks :D I am going to be opening my inbox to requests, and I'm going to post bonus scenes and one-shots of these two if anyone's ever interested!

[ taglist: @pearldaisy , @thatkindofgurl , @theadharablack , @cherryheairt , @beingalive1 , @oxymakestheworldgoround , @tigolebittiez , @cosmosnkaz , @lv7867 , @piper570 , @danikasthings , @acsc8 , @justdazzling ] -> thank you for your endless support everyone!

[heliads]

Hello im so glad it’s open. Hiccup x reader when the reader is afraid of dragon and she is a Viking that try to not to be vulnerable and strong but hiccup could see right trough her. Sort of enemy to lovers (reader mostly) and the end Toothlees love her.

Thank you 🙏 😍🥰🥰

'we'll be brave together' - hiccup haddock

masterlist

Hiccup is returning from a wild dragon ride through the clouds when he realizes that he might finally know the secret of the bravest Viking Berk has ever seen.

It’s not like he’s the first one who’s tried to parse out the details of Y/N L/N. There’s hardly a soul in the village who hasn’t. Y/N has been the strongest of the strong, the fastest of the fast, ever since she started training. Everyone their age either wants to be her or beat her, and neither option is remotely reasonable.

Hiccup is no stranger to Y/N’s reputation. How could he not? She started training to fight dragons a year early, purely because it was so obvious she would be an asset to Berk that the elders couldn’t wait to put her out there. She’s been saving lives since she was small. Hiccup wouldn’t be surprised if her first words as a child were a rallying call to arms.

Courage inspires courage, but it’s impossible to see someone that naturally good at everything without trying to find some chink in the armor, a way, no matter how miniscule, to prove that they’re still human. Still like you. But no matter how hard people search, Y/N still seems relentlessly, impossibly perfect. Sure, she has her off days, just like anyone else, but she’s so good that it doesn’t even seem to matter. There has to be something off, but no one else can figure it out.

Except Hiccup, maybe. Probably not, but maybe. Hiccup’s no stranger to the maybes of the world. He’s proven quite a lot of them in his time. Maybe Hiccup, skinny, clumsy Hiccup, could manage to do well in the dragon fighting classes. Maybe he could save Berk from threats. Maybe he could do a decent job of governing a tumultuous group of Vikings on one of the most inhabitable rocks known to man. And maybe, just maybe, he could find the loophole in Y/N L/N’s otherwise flawless streak of victories.

Hiccup only gets the idea when he’s touching down from another dizzying flight. No matter how many times he and Toothless take to the skies, it never gets old. Somehow, each and every time Hiccup and his dragon leave the world behind, chase the stars, shoot the breeze, it feels like Hiccup’s very first time up in the air. The majesty never leaves him.

And so Hiccup was very reluctantly starting to plan out his landing when he saw Y/N below him. Ax in hand, she was probably coming back from yet another round in the training grounds, and judging by the cocky grin on her face, she’d probably been very triumphant yet again. She had a victorious bounce to her step, and as she headed back to her house, it seemed as if nothing could happen to break the young woman’s stride.

Nothing, that is, until Toothless swooped in low from the side, casting his shadow upon the ground where Y/N walked. She had done her best to hide it, but Hiccup had seen it– an uncontrollable flinch, a quick jerk of her head towards the sky to assess the threat, and then, so foreign to him that Hiccup almost wondered if he had mistook another girl for Y/N, a spark of fear in her eyes.

Fear. In Y/N L/N. It made no sense. Hiccup has never known Y/N to be afraid. Not even when facing off against Vikings twice her height. It’s as if the word has simply never entered her vocabulary. Yet the memory of Y/N’s reaction to the arrival of Toothless is burned into Hiccup’s memory as if by a brand. Yes, there’s no doubt about it. Y/N was afraid.

This should mean nothing at all. Berk, although recently accustomed to think of dragons in friendlier terms, has been an enemy of the scaly fliers for as long as Hiccup can remember. A recent change in their mindset would not substantially change their long term memory, which firmly cements dragons as a dangerous enemy. Of course anyone would flinch upon seeing a dragon suddenly emerge from the clouds, especially a Night Fury.

But Y/N isn’t just anyone. Now that he comes to think of it, Y/N has been rather separate from the rest of Berk regarding her reaction to dragons descending upon the village. She has yet to adopt a dragon, claiming that she’d rather prove her skill as a Viking by herself instead of needing to depend on a dragon to do the work for her. And back before Hiccup even crossed paths with Toothless at all, he has memories of Y/N during her dragon training days, how she used to completely lock down her emotions, facing the dragons when required but never so much as looking at them unless she absolutely had to do so.

It couldn’t be, yet it is. The more Hiccup thinks about it, the more he’s certain it’s true. Y/N is afraid of dragons. Not just Hiccup’s dragon, all dragons. Hiccup feels a sudden rush of sympathy for the woman. Although she’s as proud and brave as any, being around the thing she fears the most day in and day out must be taking a toll on her spirits.

And so, although it’s probably a terrible decision, Hiccup makes up his mind to help her as best he can. They’ve never really been friends, in fact, quite the opposite; Y/N was in accordance with the typical Berk mindset that Hiccup was a nuisance since he didn’t quite think like the rest of the Vikings, and they’ve clashed over that ever since. However, Hiccup remembers quite painfully what it was like to fear what everyone else seemed to embrace, and it’s a nasty feeling. Y/N doesn’t deserve to suffer through that, even if their relationship hasn’t always been the sunniest.

True to form, Y/N is glaring at him from the moment she opens her door to find Hiccup smiling awkwardly at her from the front step. “What do you want?” She asks crossly, making it obvious that she has far better things to do than entertain him.

Hiccup grins weakly. “I think I can help you.”

Y/N raises a dubious brow, taking an obvious glance over Hiccup. “You do? With what, philosophy?”

Hiccup forces a chuckle. “Maybe some other time. No, I’m talking about your, ah, dragon problem.”

If there was any doubt in Hiccup’s mind that Y/N was really afraid of dragons, it is completely erased from the moment he brings up the subject. Immediately, her entire expression ices over, but even as her glare sharpens in value, he spots something bright behind her mask, something like fear. She really doesn’t want anyone figuring out, does she?

Y/N glances around quickly to make sure no one could have possibly overheard, then quickly jerks her chin towards the inside of her house. “Fine. Come in.”

Inwardly, Hiccup cheers. He wasn’t entirely certain that she wouldn’t do something drastic to protect her secret, like stab him in the back or shove him into the sea. He still runs the risk of being poisoned, but he figures he’s safe from that so long as he doesn’t eat or drink anything while he’s here.

Once they’re both sitting opposite each other across her wooden table, Y/N fixes him with a steely gaze. “Start talking. How did you know that I–”

Her voice trails off, but Hiccup can guess she’s talking about her fear of dragons. “I only figured it out recently, honest. I had no idea until just now. No one would guess.”

“Yeah, I try to keep it that way,” Y/N remarks dryly. “But you could tell?”

“You don’t like Toothless,” Hiccup explains. “And yeah, he is a Night Fury, and that takes a little while to get over, but most people in the village consider him an ally by now.”

“Except me,” Y/N supplies, glancing towards the table.

“Yeah,” Hiccup agrees. “Except you. Plus, the hesitance to get a dragon of your own.”

“No Viking should accept a dragon unless they can defend themselves!” Y/N argues. “Otherwise, you’ll leave yourself stranded in case something happens. It would be a monumentally stupid risk to take.”

“I feel like that’s a really targeted comment,” Hiccup complains, “but yeah, even with that argument, it made sense once I connected the dots. You’re afraid of dragons.”

Y/N’s eyes narrow. “Did you just come here to hold that over me? What is this, blackmail?”

Not a fan of the way she’s eyeing the carving knife near her place at the table, Hiccup hastily raises his hands, feigning surrender. “Hey. Hey. No blackmail. That wouldn’t be very, uh, Viking of me. Where’s the strength in that? And you know I’m all about strength. And courage. Lots of courage. In fact, that’s why I came here today. I want to help you get over your fear.”

Y/N looks at him doubtfully, but at least she’s stopped inching her hand towards the carving knife. “You want to help me.”

“Yeah,” Hiccup replies earnestly, “I do. It’s better for all of us if we don’t have to feel like we’re hiding things. So? Will you let me help you?”

Y/N stares at him for a long time. At last, she jerks her head up and down in a sharp nod and says, “I will.”

Hiccup claps his hands together excitedly before pushing away from the table. “Perfect. I already have a first lesson in mind.”

Y/N looks substantially less inclined to trust him when she realizes that her first lesson involves getting to know Toothless on a far more personal level. “I thought we were going to ease into this. Like talking about it or something.”

Hiccup shakes his head. They’re both walking through the forest, crunching leaves and stepping over fallen boughs on their way to meet up with the Night Fury. “Not a chance. You don’t gain anything from talking. Besides, I figured you’re the kind of person who likes action over sitting around.”

“I do when it doesn’t involve dragons,” Y/N mutters from somewhere behind him.

Hiccup just grins. “You’ll like Toothless if you give him a chance, honestly.”

They emerge into a clearing. Toothless is curled up in the center, soaking in the sunlight. Immediately, Y/N freezes behind him. Now that she doesn’t have to try and hide from him, Hiccup can see firsthand how bad her fear truly is. Y/N’s eyes are wide, and her breath seems caught in her throat. She seems unable to move a single step.

Hiccup comes back to her side. “Do you trust me?” He asks plainly.

“I think,” she whispers back, her eyes still firmly fixed on the resting dragon in front of her.

“That’s fine,” Hiccup tells her. “At least believe me when I say there’s absolutely no chance that I’d let you get hurt. It would look awful if a chieftain’s son got his best fighter killed by his own dragon, wouldn’t it? You know it’s my responsibility to lead Berk, do you really think I’d risk my popularity by getting you murdered?”

“I trust that,” she admits, and lets Hiccup lead her further into the clearing, until she’s right in front of the dragon.

Sensing visitors, Toothless pokes his head up, exhaling a soft snort from his nose. Y/N flinches back from the movement, but to her credit, she doesn’t try to run.

“This is Y/N,” Hiccup tells Toothless. “You two are going to get to know each other, alright?”

Toothless regards Y/N with faint curiosity. Hiccup reaches out and presses a quiet hand to the dragon’s snout. “Now it’s your turn, alright?” He tells Y/N.

Y/N shakes her head quietly. “There’s no way I’m touching the dragon.”

“He’s not going to hurt you,” Hiccup promises. “Come on, we’ll do it together.”

He takes his hand away from Toothless’ snout and presses his palm against the top of Y/N’s hand. Slowly, carefully, he moves their hands together until they’re both resting against Toothless’ snout. Y/N breathes out once, a great sigh, but doesn’t move. Carefully, Hiccup takes his hand away, and then it’s just Y/N and the dragon. Toothless leans slightly forward into the touch. Hiccup waits for something to happen, for Y/N to flinch away again or give in to her fear, but instead, a shaky smile crosses her face.

“He’s nice,” she says.

Hiccup pulls a face. “He’s only trying to impress you.”

Even his feigned irritation can’t last for long. At the sight of the quiet joy on Y/N’s face, Hiccup can’t help but smile as well.

“What’s my next lesson?” Y/N asks.

“Flying,” Hiccup says. “Do you feel ready for that?”

Y/N glances back towards him, a cross look on her face. “I’m a Viking. I’m ready for anything.”

She laughs, though, and so does he. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

Hiccup climbs onto Toothless, then extends a hand to help Y/N up as well. Toothless, to his credit, is quite gentle when going airborne, although Y/N still holds tight onto Hiccup just in case. He’s not sure that he minds, though. She doesn’t, either, because she keeps holding onto him, even after the flying turns smooth, even after the colors around them flit from saturation to saturation, as clouds frost their vision and the air grows cold from height.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Y/N announces as they soar over the sea. “Nothing about this is scary. I can’t believe I waited this long to figure that out.”

“It grows on you, doesn’t it?” Hiccup remarks. “All of a sudden, it’s the only thing you want to do.”

“Yeah,” Y/N says. “Exactly like that.”

When he looks back at her, Y/N’s expression is soft and sweet. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen her like this, unafraid to be vulnerable, to let her real self shine through. 

“Thanks for helping me,” she says quietly.

“Any time,” Hiccup promises, and he realizes he means it.

She smiles. “You have to be careful, I might take you up on that offer.”

Hiccup meets her gaze, and finds nothing but happiness there. “I’m looking forward to it.”

Below them, the waves surge, and the birds swoop. They fly on forever.

requested by @hope92100, i hope you enjoy!

disney tag list: @avadakadabra93, @blondsauduun, @lovesanimals0000, @mayfieldss, @eclliipsed, @faerieroyal, @goldfish4403

[junowritings]

Could I request pre-romanced but interested Astarion (spawn), Gale, Halsin, and Rolan each reacting to Tav, in a moment of desperation, transforming into a silver dragon to save him from death. The kicker? Tav did not remember that they were a true dragon due to the tadpole wrecking their memory and is just as caught off guard by this revelation as he is.

Oh now this was too much fun to write! I ended up trying to generate a different scenario for each of them bc it was fun to imagine the context for each of them! :D

Astarion

♡ What a foolish thing; to let your guard down. Astarion knows better than most that nothing good would come of doing something so utterly stupid, no matter how safe. And yet he makes that very same pitfall after a battle with gnolls goes awry. Most of the beasts had been knocked off the nearby cliff-face, an underhanded tactic but he knew well to make use of the terrain even at the cost of any worthwhile loot. The rest had been picked off easily, and when Astarion buries his dagger into the gnoll prone beneath him the tension in the air finally seems to ease - the battle is over, for now.

♡ He’s still picking bits of viscera from his clothes, bemoaning the effort it’s going to take to pluck the gore from the decals when he spots you across the battlefield. You’re helping Karlach pry her axe free from getting a bit too gung-ho on an enemy’s skull, and he watches your face scrunch up from the effort with a snort. You catch his gaze when you look up, returning his fanged grin with an unamused huff of your own. It’s a sweet sight, even marred by blood and dirt, and Astarion makes a move to rise to his feet intending to amble over and watch you either succeed or count the axe as a loss. That was the plan-

♡ Until the carcass beneath him lurches, a screaming mass that in its death rattle bowls them both straight over the edge. And in the blink of an eye he’s in freefall, barely catching the look of horror on your face before he slips from sight.

♡ It’s nowhere near as graceful as the tales make believe. The wind bites at Astarion’s face and whips around him hard enough that his ears ring as hands try to grapple for purchase against the wall of the cliff. Nothing catches, only grabbing fistfuls of dirt and catching on rocks that crumble away beneath his fingers. No, no, no this was not how he was going to die; but there’s nothing to hold, nothing to see but the vast expanse of sky above his head as though taunting his very fate-

♡ And something else. Something large and scaled and burning silver as wings fan out enough to block out the sun as it appears practically out of thin air.

♡ A dragon. As if things couldn’t get worse?! Astarion’s cursing just about every force in the universe that he can think of as the beast plummets to close the distance. It’s there in seconds, a rippling wave of silver that swelters the very air as a taloned hand shoots out and catches him around the midsection. He expects to be eaten, maybe plucked to pieces right there and then; instead the dragon’s body rolls mid flight, curling close around the vampire spawn like a protective shield as the ground rushes to meet them. 

♡ The landing isn’t gentle, having been too close to the ground to take flight. Both hit the earth but it isn’t the fatal fall it could have been. At one point he slips from the dragon’s talons, and by the time he’s wormed his way free he’s marred by dirt and spitting leaves alongside the plethora of curses in his vocabulary. But he’s alive.

♡ He certainly wasn’t complaining about that, but his head is still spinning with the ‘why’ of it all - where had that beast come from? Why  hadn’t it killed him when it had the chance? He’s already looking for his dagger that had been lost in the fall as he scrambles to his feet, whipping around to face the dragon as he hears it stir. But he doesn’t find it. No, instead he finds-

♡ You. The last of the draconic visage crumbles like burned parchment, and you slump to your knees in the gouge your previous form had carved into the earth. Your hands tremble as you bring them up to your face, inspecting them like you’re checking that they’re truly there before your head shoots up to look at the vampire spawn you’d just saved. There’s a wild look in your eyes, confusion evident as you mirror his own slack jawed expression and trip over yourself to get back onto your feet with a scream of “What was that?!”

♡ At first he doesn’t believe your pleas of ignorance, and doesn’t get why you’re trying to protest so hard that you didn’t know. It’s not as though he hasn’t kept secrets from the group before - it’s not as though he willingly shared he was a spawn holding hands around the campfire like a jolly old fellow, did he? He’s not going to fault you for keeping your secrets so long as it’s not getting him killed. 

♡ But then he catches you pacing later that night back at camp, muttering to yourself of how you could forget and mulling over what else you’d lost with the tadpole. That kind of panic isn’t easy to fake, and you aren’t even aware of the audience to fake it. Has that tadpole altered your memories that thoroughly? A disturbing thought.

♡ Of course he’ll be the first person to encourage you to use this ‘new’ form of yours to your advantage - why wouldn’t you? It’s not everyday that someone finds out that they can turn into a hulking magical creature at the drop of a hat, so why not make the most of it? Not to mention it will be excellent for both combat and persuading anyone who makes the mistake of thinking that you’re easy prey.

♡ Of course that brings the whole other question of - why the hells did you jump after him?! Did you think your little friend in the artifact would somehow save the two of you again?! You hadn't even hesitated to reach for him; to protect him…Astarion doesn’t know whether to throttle you over your own self sacrificing logic, or kiss your damned face until any thought of risking your life like that again goes out of the window.

♡ Perhaps he’ll do both - he hasn’t decided yet.

♡ Plus, he’ll never admit it, but the camp feels a little safer knowing that it’s got a fire breathing, flying scaled powerhouse for a leader - might move his tent just a little closer to your own after that realization. 

Gale

♡ Wizards and close combat rarely mix well together. It has been somewhat of a running gag between the pair of you since the first tussle back at the grove when he nearly went sailing off the rocks he’d been casting from when a sword got far too close to his flank for his liking. You’d been there to save him, of course, biting back a teasing comment on his ‘graceful trip’ and trying not to chuckle as you’d helped the man back to his feet when it was all over. Gale naturally had been just as quick to remind you that even with his lack of tact for fisticuffs he was just as capable at keeping you as safe as you kept him. As he’d proved with a well timed magic missile not even one fight later,.

♡ The understanding was mutual - he’d protect you with all of the magic at his disposal, and you would do what you can to shield him on the battlefront. As you got closer, and the wizard got the opportunity to know you better, that protection evolved to something deeper. Something more than just having one another’s back out of necessity; the thought of any harm coming to you in the first place had been a sour notion, but now it was downright unthinkable. You took every blow meant for him without hesitation; pushed back any blade or arrow meant for him even if it led to adding a few more scars to your repertoire. And gods if you didn’t look absolutely stunning doing it.

♡ This time is no different. The sounds of battle ring in his ears, the clashing of weapons striking drowned out only by the roars of a group thrust into combat. Considering just how many unique faces make up their party (with a githyanki warrior, a renowned hero of the coast, and an excitable yet combustible tiefling - to name a few) Gale is surprised that bandits would even try their luck against this gaggle of adventurers. But where your group has skill, theirs has numbers, and this fight has been going on long enough that everyone is exhausted, frayed and running out of steam.

♡ He watches you on the other side of the battlefield, weapon clutched tightly in clenched fists and eyes burning with the fire of combat as you call out to your companions. You’re trying to pinpoint everyone's locations, caught up in the fighting as your weapon comes down on a bandit’s head. Multiple voices call out to you and Gale opens his mouth to join them, the air around crackling as he rears back to cast another spell. But the words barely get past his lips before he feels a solid blow to the back of the head and for just a second his world goes white. There’s a kick to his back and the world topples before he hands on him. 

♡There is a fist wrapped up in his hair and a blade so close to his gut to breathe is a risk. One of the bandits - how had they gotten so close without him noticing? Had he gotten complacent thinking he was safe from his vantage point? A knee digs into him and the wheeze he lets out is pained as he attempts to throw the bandit off. But Gale’s not a fighter, and it’s getting harder to think straight when another hard yank knocks his head against the ground with a harsh crack. Magic pulses at his fingertips as they rake up dirt, the words forming in his mouth hoping to get them out before that blade decides to get familiar with his insides. If only he could just-

♡ What comes next happens suddenly. A rush of air, an unrelenting wave of heat and the weight suffocating him is gone. The bandit’s body is hoisted up in a cushing jaw, only able to get out little more than a scream before they’re essentially ragdolled across the field. The threat of an imminent gutting is gone, but Gale finds himself unable to breathe once again as he realizes what exactly has descended upon him.

♡ Multiple times his size with several layers of thick silver hide, and adorned with thick leathery wings, a dragon prowls overhead. Slitted eyes scan across the battlefield, taking in the carnage and what remains of the stragglers that Gale’s companions haven’t taken down with a surprisingly clarity. It’s…looking for something? No, someone - your companions. He watches the creatures head tilt, letting out something akin to a billowing rumble before setting its sights back on the wizard still very much pinned beneath it. 

♡ The dragon’s head leans down, a huff of air feeling sweltering against his face as he comes face to snout with the creature that could easily turn him into wizard-chow with but a bite of that wall of teeth in its maw. But it doesn’t; instead it lets out another huff and there’s a ripple that seems to shake every single scale on its body before it’s shifting. It shrinks, morphs, changes into someone all too familiar as you drop down to your knees. Poor Gale almost gets a limb to the gut again as you slump down beside him, shaking off some sort of daze as you come back to your senses. It’s you - that dragon was you?

♡Gale doesn’t realize he’s shouting till he hears your own voice shouting along with him just as confused and panicked. Surely the pair of you must look like fools, unable to get out any kind of coherent word as your brains catch up to. You end up having to cover his mouth with your hand so that there’s enough quiet to actually process what has just happened, but Gale doesn’t miss how utterly lost you look about the whole ordeal - clearly this is as much news to you as it is to him.

♡ Once things have calmed down (and he’s checked to make sure he didn’t infact get punctured by a stray talon on the way down) Gale is absolutely fascinated. Nothing short of a kid in a candy store, this man is enthralled by the implications of your transformation. He knows you’re shaken of course, and he gives you time to do whatever you need to to ground yourself before he thinks to act upon any of his burning questions. He hopes to shed some light on things by working through these questions with you, hoping that they’ll spark some recollection you couldn’t remember before. 

♡ He’s tactful, tries to be subtle but you can tell that he’s clearly excited to learn about the origins of this ability. Is it related to your bloodline? Or were you perhaps cursed? Could this be some kind of advanced wildshape unbefore discovered? It doesn’t hurt you, does it? The last question gives the wizard pause, and he can’t quite relax till you assure him that the process doesn’t cause you pain.

♡ Depending on if your memories came back after your first transformation, you’ll only be able to give him so many answers. Feel free to practice your abilities around him though. At first he keeps a safe, out of the line of fire-distance, but it doesn’t take long before he inches closer until he’s close enough to run a hand along your flank if you allow him. There is an almost reverent touch alongside his curiosity as he marvels at the sight of you - breathtaking, is the only word he can find to describe it as you extend a wing for him to examine. 

Halsin

♡ Halsin has lived long enough to see many beings, experience many things. But he’s not fool enough to simply assume that he’s seen all that this world has to offer. There are still plenty of things to discover, many days and events he has yet to live amongst these new companions that have stumbled their way into the druid’s life.

♡Every moment with you has been a shining example of that fact - from the tadpole in your skull that you somehow manage to resist with each passing day, to the very way you approach the world around you. You somehow always managed to leave Halsin guessing, trying to wrap his head around the impossibility of you - regardless of you background, regardless of your creed or the life you lived before the tadpole, you remained a walking anomaly. Once which kept him on his toes, wondering what facet of you that you would reveal to him next.

♡ Of course he had done the same for you - you’d just about knocked your whole team over when he’d transformed after you’d first rescued the druid; recalled to you events and moments in his life that had anyone else told you, you would have called bullshit. It was a mutual exchange - you were open to him, and so he would do the same for you. He trusted you after all, and hoped you felt the same for him.

♡ That trust extended to the battlefield as well. Halsin’s desire to protect extended to the entirety of your party, naturally, but you were under a watchful eye with this man. Your penchant for the disregard of your own safety left much to be desired in the ways of keeping you safe; the needs of others or obtaining what you want often put above your own safety in the throes of a fight. Your habits of getting into trouble were something he grows far used to by now, so Halsin willingly takes the mantle of your protector, if only to save you from all of the scratches and scars that you’ll no doubt earn yourself down the road with your current mindset.

♡ Such as now. Within a wildshape, Halsin acts as a defensive shield for the other companions in a fight against a stray goblin raiding party. The leftover dregs of the ones from back at the temple that were set on hunting the party down long after the fall of the cultist once housed there. Teeth and claws rip and tear into goblin flesh and bone with ease, the bear acting as an utter powerhouse shrugging off each and every hit as though he was being poked with sticks and not swords. Things look to be over swiftly, as alongside the attacks of yourself and your other companions the goblin’s ranks are quickly dwindling - having either been felled by your defense or fled once they realize it was not a fight so easily won. With luck, you’ll all be back at camp before sundown.

♡ It is you who warns him that that’s not the case. He hears your voice, hears your scream of his name and Halsin cranes his head in an attempt to seek you out worried that something had happened to you when he wasn’t looking.

♡ But then a blinding light bursts against his side and he roars, loud and anguished at the sudden pain that washes over - some kind of explosive, brutal and all too effective against the druid. It’s enough for him to drop, barely still clinging to his wildshaped form as he braces against the earth in a bid to get back to his feet. What’s left of the goblins swarm, threatening to overwhelm him in his vulnerability and Halsin prepares himself for the approaching onslaught that closes in on him.

♡ Then something slams overhead, the squeals and cries of the goblins drowned out by a blinding roar that rings in the air like a toll as something impossibly large lands above Halsin and the goblins barricading them from their assault behind the wall of its body. A thick sweltering heat takes over, emanating from scales that glint like fine silver as the large body of a dragon settles overhead, and the area around them becomes alive with noise and chaos in its wake. 

♡ The very ground trembles under thick clawed footfalls - the trees groaning barely avoiding the wrath of this dragon as it rises to its full height and lunges for the attackers. The goblins never stand a chance - whichever ones weren’t smart enough to scarper before are taken out with little more than a snap of jaws and the swipe of a tail. Large claws break into the earth below, digging deep as though to ensure the dragon doesn’t move an inch from the druid’s side even as the last of the goblins are reduced to shreds. 

♡ When it is all over the creature visibly loses its hostility as it rounds once again upon Halsin. A firm nudge to his side, as gentle as a beast of this size can be and Halsin manages to push himself back to his feet, shedding the form of his barely clinging wildshape as exhaustion settles heavily upon his shoulders. By this point he knows that it means no harm, head pressed to his side until he’s firm in his stance before slinking away and circling around the druid as though appraising, checking for more damage. When none is found there’s a twitch, a shift in its tail that works its way up to its skull as though its very being is unraveling before Halsin’s eyes - and that’s exactly what happens.

♡ Scales and talons shift and rend, giving way to familiar flesh and a face the druid has all but committed to memory. This time he is the one to offer support, large hands coming up to brace upon your shoulders as you stumble over yourself looking about with a bewildered expression. “That was…what did I…?” Your words are met with a gentle assurance that that can be tackled in due time - it’s better to tackle those questions with a clearer head after nursing your injuries. And he’ll be right there will you, even guiding you back to camp till you practically insist that you’ll be fine on your own.

♡ Halsin has heard of many species and many abilities, but nothing that’s quite like a dragon shifter. At least, not one like you seem to be. You seem just as distraught by that knowledge, alongside the fact that this appears. Yet another thing that the tadpole has taken from you, if your belief to have had this ability before is true. It isn’t much different than using wildshape, as you learn once you talk through the experience with Halsin - what you were feeling before, what you were thinking. You admit that the only thing on your mind had been protecting him when you’d turned, horrified at the sight of him hurt and just out of your reach to save. The look of momentary surprise on Halsin’s face melts into something far softer at the revelation, a gentle praise at your own thoughtfulness to protect others that may leave you feeling bashful.

♡ Halsin actively encourages you to shift whenever you feel the desire to do so. Learn more about this form and what it means to you; refamiliarize yourself with a part of you that you’ve been separated from for such a time. He’ll talk you through it should you express any need for support, but he knows that you’re more than capable of controlling this aspect of yourself just as you have before. Of course he’ll also be admiring you the whole time, nothing but honest praise about the power of your form and the beauty of this other part of you.

Rolan

♡ It was a mistake to have ever come to the shadowlands - now Rolan is losing everything. Cal, Lia, his very own life; all of it is going to be snuffed out by the oppressive darkness which has defiled every inch of this place, and he’s powerless to do anything to stop it. All he had wanted to do was to make a life for his family, to make Rolan a name that they and others could be proud of. But every good deed seemed to only make things worse in the end - hells had even that one act of kindness saving those damned kids been rewarded like this? Not even his attempt to save his siblings had worked and now he was facing perishing in a land where death was never kind, as though the world was giving him one final kick when he was down to remind him of his own shortcomings. 

♡ Shadows circle in, lured in by the dwindling embers of his torch which is the only thing barely keeping him alive in this forsaken wasteland. But that is not enough; they claw at the edges of his light, ripping and tearing at the hem of his robes and grasping for his ankles, hoping to get a foothold on the tiefling long enough to drag him off into the darkness to never be seen again. Panic unfurls in his gut, burning brighter than the useless glorified stick clenched between sharp nails as he wrenches himself free of their grasp and stumbles over himself trying in vain to make some distance.

♡ He’s got minutes at the most, moments at the least; and those creatures writhing in shadow and dark have the luxury of biding their time waiting out his final seconds. He’s going to die here - without ever seeing his siblings again. What had he ever done to deserve such a cruel ending?

♡ But it doesn’t end - at least, not here.

♡ A roar breaks through the sound of his pulse pounding in his ears, and every hair on the back of his neck stands up as a chill shoots down his spine like a shot of ice. What, had some worse creature come to finish him off? As if being torn to shreds within the shadowlands wasn’t bad enough, now he’s got to contend with something bigger. And gods, is it bigger. Even through the thick smog of the shadowlands it stands out like a beacon of silver, its very scales giving off a faint glow within the darkness as though the shadows themselves are reviled by its presence alone. A feeling sinks within the pit of his chest the moment that he realizes what manner of creature is stalking towards him.  A dragon - gods, why did it have to be a dragon?!

♡ The beast is huge, a rippling wall of impenetrable flesh that cuts through the space between them in little more than a few bounds. Wings stretch wide, an impressively intimidating display as taloned hands slam down on where the shadows persist. The shadows dissipate easily beneath its claws but their shriek in indignation warbles uselessly, clearly not expecting the sudden attack in their bid for new prey. What the shadows have in number the dragon compensates for in size, easily swiping down a handful before attempting to latch onto another with its sizable maw.

♡ Rolan can’t tell if it’s doing any damage, but whatever perceived slight this dragon has on the shadows Rolan isn’t going to question. The shadows have their attention turned to the beast; if he has any intention of making it out alive he reasons he needs to get out of here now. But that’s easier said than done when one wrong move could have him meeting the business end of a stray swipe or the lingering shadow taking the opportunity to pounce. He’s going nowhere - not while the fight persists.

♡ Eventually the shadows must decide that facing a dragon isn’t worth the trouble just for making the meal out of the tiefling, and no sooner had Rolan been surrounded, the shadowy figures slink back into the deepest recesses of the darkness. A wave of relief warms his bones at the realization that they’ve slithered back to whatever domain formed them - he’s alive.

♡ But then those slitted eyes land back on him, and Rolan decides his chances may have been better dealing with those shadows. His attempts to escape are thwarted, the dragon rounding on him in a manner far slower than the frantic thrashing of before. No, it’s watching him, and the tiefling is rendered frozen at the curious way it tilts its head as though it recognizes something familiar.. 

♡ Almost jumps out of his own skin when it nudges him, a quick bump of its head that almost knocks him flat. Rolan barks out a curse, but the winged creature insists on pushing him till he finally takes the hint and moves to where it’s clearly wanting him to go. Gods, this is unnerving and he doesn’t know what it wants until the nudging finally stops and he finds himself staring down at the lump of belongings haphazardly discarded at his feet. And he tenses. 

♡ This pack - that lantern - he knows who they belong to at a glance. And no sooner has he put the pieces together that there’s a ripple of energy, a shift in the very air as the dragon before him begins to change. It molds into something else, taking on a form far more familiar - the last face he’d thought to see, but perhaps the one he should have expected.

♡ You just about keel over, clutching your knees and shaking bad enough to match his own as you let out a wheeze. You’re not worse for wear aside from the general health risks of being out in a land so tainted by dark magic, but even as you dust yourself off and look over at Rolan, you once again leave him speechless with a quick quip of “So…that was new.”

♡New? NEW?! You mean you just suddenly discovered your shifting abilities, like some twisted epiphany?! The pair of you must be a right sight, huddled around the moon lantern with him slack jawed and you looking more confused than you have any right to be after that stunt. It’s too much to process, and he’s still reeling from the near death experience and everything that has happened in such a short amount of time. Doesn’t put up nearly as much of a fight as he would have in his right mind when you urge him to go back to the inn - you’re grateful for that, or he might have insisted on coming with you even more.

♡ He doesn’t get to grill you on your abilities until everyone is finally safe. Many are enjoying what little respite they can get before they move on to the next place away from here, and he catches you finishing up your own business at the inn hoping for answers before you leave. Like Astarion, he has doubts that you didn’t know. Really? Not even an inkling to the draconic blood in your veins or where it had come from. Tries not to be frustrated at the shrug you offer in response, having to remind himself that this is a new development for you - he’s not going to pry you with questions when you’re likely still struggling to wrap your head around the prospect yourself.

♡ Once Rolan realizes what had triggered your transformation he goes uncharacteristically quiet, staring hard at your face as though trying to gauge your bluff. When he finds none his voice breaks with his gratitude, hiding the shake behind a cleared throat as he breaks eye contact suddenly struggling to meet the sincerity in your gaze. That was…perhaps he needed to rethink what exactly that - he - meant to you another time; in a place where there’s not always life or death on the line.