#i want to bury my face in the beast fur!!

[yet-another-haven-of-dollya]

Busy today cuz FGO boss raiddddddd~~~

This is the prettiest boss I'll ever be seeing for a while. Isn't she just so majestic, and her voice too. Beast IV: Left - Evil of Human Reproduction

From wiki. I swear I love her design so much, Wada Arc neva disappoint XD

But of course nothing my Kiara can't handle✨ Prettiest demonic mermaid against prettiest demonic beast, with sweetest voices (Tanaka Rie & Chiwa Saito).

I'm in heaven for sure 🌸Ư w Ư)✨✨✨

And I get to bring all my favs to the raid and receive huge bond bonus! Yiss

[br0kenangel]

𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐂𝐔𝐁𝐒: 𝘓𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘓𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘯.

Aegon and Aemond, along with little Daeron, played with the great beast. The boys were fearless in their affection, cuddling close to the lion, burying their faces in his soft fur, and giggling as his tail swished lazily from side to side. Silver Fang tolerated their antics with the patience of a creature who knew he was the king of the jungle—though he was well aware that his true queen was you, the lady who sat nearby, watching with a soft smile.

"Mother, tell us how you got Silver Fang," Aegon asked, his eyes wide with curiosity as he stroked the lion's thick mane.

Aemond, who was more reserved but no less intrigued, looked up from where he was resting his head on Silver Fang’s massive flank. "Yes, please, Mother. Tell us."

You smiled, your heart warming at the sight of your boys so carefree and happy. "It was a gift from my father," you began, your voice soft, your eyes distant as you recalled the memory. "He gave Silver Fang to me when I was just a little older than Aegon is now."

"Why did he give him to you?" Aemond asked, his voice tinged with awe as he glanced at the lion, who lay still and majestic beneath their hands.

A knowing smile tugged at your lips. "Because I was afraid something might happen to me. I was a child, and the world seemed so big and dangerous. My father, Lord Gerold Lannister, knew this. He knew the fears that lurked in my heart, so he gave me Silver Fang to protect me, to keep me safe when he could not."

Aegon’s eyes sparkled with excitement. "And did he? Did Silver Fang protect you?"

You chuckled softly, leaning back in your chair as you regarded your sons. "Oh, yes. He did. Once, a man tried to harm me. I don’t remember his name—he was someone who thought he could get what he wanted by force." You paused, watching as Aegon and Aemond leaned closer, their young minds enthralled by your tale. "But Silver Fang… he didn’t let that man take a single step toward me. He tore him apart, devoured him alive."

You said the words calmly, almost casually, with a smile that was both serene and chilling. There was no fear in your recollection, only satisfaction in the lion’s loyalty, in the protection he had offered you when you needed it most.

Aemond’s eyes widened, a mixture of amazement and admiration in his gaze. "He ate the man alive?"

"Yes, Aemond," you replied, your smile widening slightly. "He did. And that’s why I know you’re safe with him, just as I was."

Aegon reached up, placing a small hand on the lion's massive paw, marveling at its size and strength. "He’s so beautiful… and strong."

"That he is," you agreed, your voice filled with pride as you looked at Silver Fang, who blinked lazily at you, his golden eyes reflecting the light of the setting sun. "And he will always protect you, as long as you treat him with love and respect."

Your conversation was interrupted by the soft sound of a servant approaching. The young woman curtsied deeply, her voice deferential as she spoke. "My queen, your brother has arrived. He is waiting in the hall."

You rose gracefully from your seat, your golden gown shimmering in the light. "Good," you said with a smile. "I have been expecting him." You looked down at your sons, your expression softening. "Stay here with Silver Fang, my loves. I will return shortly."

Leaving the boys in the lion's care, you made your way to the hall, where your brother awaited you. As you entered, Jason turned, his face breaking into a broad smile at the sight of his sister.

"Y/N," he greeted warmly, enveloping you in a tight embrace. "It’s good to see you."

"And you, Jason," you replied, returning the embrace with affection. Though he could be brash and arrogant, Jason had always been a loving brother to you. He wanted nothing but your happiness, and you appreciated that more than words could express.

Jason stepped back, his smile turning mischievous. "I brought what you asked for."

Your eyes lit up with anticipation. "You did?"

Jason nodded, gesturing to the guards who stood behind him. They stepped forward, each one holding a small, squirming bundle of fur in their arms. Four lcubs, barely old enough to be away from their mother, their eyes wide and curious as they took in their new surroundings.

Your heart swelled with joy at the sight of them. "They’re perfect," you breathed, reaching out to take the smallest of the cubs into your arms. It was a beautiful and rare creature, white as snow, with striking red eyes that seemed to see into your very soul, very much like your daughter. This one, you knew immediately, would be for Helaena.

Jason watched you with a fond smile. "I’m glad you like them. I thought they might make good companions for the children… and perhaps ease some of your worries."

You looked up at him, your expression softening. "Thank you, Jason. You’ve done more than I could have asked for." You kissed his cheek, and he smiled, pleased by your approval.

"I just want you to be happy, sister," he said, his voice sincere. "You deserve it."

You gave him a grateful smile before turning to the guards. "Bring them to my chamber," you instructed. "I want the children to meet their new friends."

The guards nodded, carefully carrying the cubs as they followed you back to your chamber. As you entered, Aegon and Aemond looked up, their eyes widening with wonder as they saw the cubs.

"Are these for us?" Aegon asked, his voice filled with awe.

You smiled, kneeling down to their level as you cradled the white cub in your arms. "Yes, my loves. They are for you." You gently passed the cub you held to a guard, then gestured to the other cubs. "You may each choose one. They will be your companions, your protectors, just as Silver Fang is mine."

Aemond’s eyes were drawn to a playful cub with a mischievous glint in its eyes. The cub was rolling around on the ground, batting at the guard's boots with its tiny paws. Aemond smiled, reaching out to pick up the spirited creature. "I want this one," he declared, laughing as the cub nuzzled into his arms.

Aegon, meanwhile, was drawn to a slightly larger cub with a wild, untamed look in its eyes. It growled playfully, baring its tiny teeth, and Aegon grinned, clearly captivated. "This one is mine," he said proudly, holding the cub close.

You watched them with a soft smile, pleased by their choices. "Take good care of them, my darlings," you said. "They will grow with you, and one day, they will be as strong and fierce as Silver Fang."

Little Daeron, sat nearby, giggling as he watched his brothers with their new pets. You approached him, your heart swelling with love as you picked up the calmest of the cubs. She was a gentle creature, her eyes soft and trusting as she looked up at you.

You knelt before Daeron, placing the cub in his small arms. "This one is for you, sweetling," you whispered, smiling as Daeron immediately began laughing and hugging the cub, his tiny hands stroking her soft fur.

The sight warmed your heart, and you watched for a moment longer, reveling in the joy on their faces. But there was still one more child to tend to, and you knew exactly what you had to do.

Holding the white cub with red eyes close to your chest, you left your chamber, making your way to Helaena’s chamber. The guards followed, but you dismissed them at the door, wishing to be alone with your daughter.

You found Helaena sitting on the floor, surrounded by her collection of bugs. The girl was lost in her own world, humming softly to herself as she watched a beetle crawl across her hand. You paused for a moment, your heart aching with love for the gentle, strange girl who was so different from her brothers.

Steeling yourself, you approached Helaena and knelt beside her, holding the cub up for her to see. "Helaena, my love," you said softly, holding the white lion cub up for her daughter to see, "this is for you."

Helaena looked up from her bugs, her pale lavender eyes focusing on the cub in your arms. For a moment, she simply stared, her expression unreadable. Then, a small, almost shy smile curled at the corners of her lips.

The cub squirmed slightly, letting out a soft, high-pitched sound as it gazed at Helaena with its striking red eyes. It was a strange creature, just like Helaena—different, unique in a way that set it apart from the others.

"She's different," Helaena murmured, her voice soft and melodic, as if she were speaking to herself rather than to you. Her fingers brushed lightly against the cub's fur, and the little lioness responded with a gentle purr.

"Yes, she is," you agreed, your heart swelling with a mixture of love and sorrow. "Just like you, my sweet girl. I thought you might like her."

Helaena’s smile widened, her eyes lighting up with a rare spark of joy. "She’s beautiful, Mother. Thank you."

A pang of bittersweet emotion welled up in your chest, but you pushed it aside. You gently placed the cub in Helaena’s lap, watching as your daughter cradled the tiny creature with a tenderness that belied her years.

As Helaena stroked the cub’s fur, she looked up at you with an expression of quiet understanding. "You’re doing this because you’re scared, aren’t you?" she asked, her voice soft but unwavering.

The question hit you like a blow to the chest. For a moment, you could only stare at your daughter, caught off guard by her perceptiveness. You had always known that Helaena was different, that she saw things others did not, but hearing those words spoken aloud shook you more than you cared to admit.

Your smile faltered for a brief moment, and you felt your carefully constructed composure begin to crack. But you forced yourself to remain calm, to keep the fear at bay. "I just want to make sure you’re all safe, my love," you said, your voice steady, though it took more effort than you would have liked. "That’s all I want."

Helaena tilted her head, her gaze softening as she watched you. "You’re afraid of what’s to come," she said quietly, as if she could see straight into your soul.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them back, refusing to let them fall. You couldn’t afford to be weak, not now, not ever. Your children needed you to be strong, to protect them from the dangers that lurked in every shadow.

So you forced a smile, leaning forward to press a gentle kiss to Helaena’s forehead.

Helaena smiled back at you, her eyes filled with a quiet wisdom that made her seem far older than her years. "I love you, Mother," she said softly, her fingers still gently stroking the cub’s fur.

"And I love you, Helaena," you replied, your voice barely above a whisper. You lingered for a moment longer, watching as your daughter continued to bond with the cub, before slowly rising to your feet.

You left Helaena’s chamber with a heavy heart, closing the door quietly behind you. As soon as you were alone in the corridor, you pressed your back against the cold stone wall, breathing deeply as you tried to steady yourself.

Helaena was right. You were scared—scared of what the future held, of the dangers that could threaten your children, of the possibility that you might not always be there to protect them. It was a fear that gnawed at you constantly, one that you tried to hide behind a mask of strength and calm.

You took a deep breath, willing yourself to stay calm. You had to be strong, for your children. They were your life, your everything, and you would do whatever it took to keep them safe.

After a few moments, you pushed yourself away from the wall, your composure once again firmly in place. You had a role to play, and you would play it well. There was no room for doubt or fear, not when your children’s lives depended on you.

With one final deep breath, you straightened your shoulders and made your way back to your chamber. Your sons were still there, laughing and playing with their new friends, their faces alight with joy.

You watched them from a distance for a moment, a soft smile playing on your lips. They were so full of life, so innocent and unaware of the dangers that surrounded them. You envied them that innocence, but you would do everything in your power to preserve it for as long as you could.

As you approached, Aegon looked up, his face splitting into a wide grin when he saw you. "Mother, look! He’s already getting used to me!" he called out, holding up his cub proudly.

You chuckled softly, nodding in approval. "I see that, Aegon. You’re doing a wonderful job."

Aemond, who was still cradling his cub, looked up at you with a serious expression. "Thank you for this, Mother," he said quietly. "We’ll take good care of them, I promise."

"I know you will," you replied, your voice filled with pride as you looked at your sons. "And they will take care of you, just as Silver Fang has taken care of me."

You spent the rest of the afternoon with them, watching as they bonded with their new companions, your heart swelling with love and pride. The future was uncertain, and the path ahead was fraught with danger, but in this moment, you allowed yourself to believe that everything would be okay.

Part 1 ♡ Part 2 ♡ Part 3 ♡ Part 5 ♡ Part 6

@ 𝒃𝒓𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒏𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒍 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒. 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒑𝒚, 𝒓𝒆𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒚 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌𝒔 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒆𝒃𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒔.

[seafarersdream]

Cregan x reader where the reader is betrothed to him but he gets close to Alysanne Blackwood and she feels insecure. But he then reassures her that he loves her. Could be fluff or smut, whatever you feel fits

Big Bad Wolf | 18+ (Cregan Stark x Y/N)

Y/N knows exactly why she has been sent to the frigid North: her grandsire, Otto Hightower, intends for her to secure Cregan Stark’s loyalty to the Greens with a proposed betrothal. A union that would bind the North to her family’s cause and strengthen her brother’s claim. She can’t help but wonder what he would sees in her—a willing pawn, a coveted prize, or perhaps, an unexpected adversary?

TW // Strong language and profanities, mild sexual content, mention of injuries and wounds, slow burn romance.

Note: I took a slightly different approach than originally requested to better align with my brainstorming ideas. I hope you all enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! And fair warning—it ended up being around 10k words because I got carried away and so into it😂

The wind howls around her like a beast, its icy fingers clawing at her cloak, desperate to strip her bare. Y/N Targaryen pulls the fur-lined fabric tighter around her shoulders, her silver hair whipping against her face as she stares out into the endless expanse of white that is the North.

The cold is sharp, biting against her skin, a relentless assault unlike anything she has ever felt in King’s Landing. There, the sun always warmed the walls of the Red Keep, the gardens bloomed with vibrant flowers, and the salty sea breeze carried the smell of soils from distant lands. Here, in the North, all of that feels like a distant memory—a dream now buried under layers of snow.

She shivers, and not just from the cold.

Being a Targaryen means something. Being a Targaryen princess means the realm is her oyster. She has always known this. The daughter of the late King Viserys Targaryen and the sister to the current ruler, Y/N has never wanted for anything. Born under the banners of black and red, her birthright is as weighty as it is illustrious. In the courts of King's Landing, her name alone is a force that can command, bend, and break. The Valyrian blood coursing through her veins has bestowed upon her an otherworldly beauty—hair the colour of moonlight, eyes that burn like molten silver. She is used to men and women alike vying for her favor, hanging on her every word, their desires evident in their eyes. She is used to being adored, admired, even envied.

But here, in the North, none of that means a thing.

The North is a different world, an ancient one with a heartbeat of ice and snow. It is a world where the name Targaryen carries little weight, where dragons are the stuff of nightmares, not symbols of power and strength.

For thousands of years, the North stood as its own kingdom, ruled by House Stark of Winterfell—a house older than her own, as old as the First Men themselves. The North submitted to Aegon the Conqueror’s rule, but submission is not the same as surrender. She can feel the weight of that history in every flake of snow, every gust of wind that threatens to unseat her from the back of her horse. The North remembers.

And the North does not care for Targaryen princesses.

The men and women who stare at her from the edges of Winterfell’s courtyard do not see a daughter of kings. They see a southerner, a foreigner, an outsider draped in silk and furs too fine for their taste. They see someone who has never felt the bite of a northern winter, who does not understand the constant struggle for survival that defines their lives. To them, she is the very embodiment of everything they disdain—the soft courtly life, the excesses of the south, the endless games of backstabbing and ambition that mean nothing in the face of a harsh winter. Her beauty, her title, her blood—none of it matters here. She is a stranger in a strange land, and they watch her with eyes that are cold and calculating.

It is a stark contrast to the life she has known. In King’s Landing, courtiers flocked to her side, eager for a smile, a kind word, a glance that might change their fortunes. But here, no one bows or scrapes, no one offers her flattery or fawning attention. Instead, they glance at her with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity, their expressions as unreadable as the frozen ground beneath her feet. Even the cold here seems to seep into their bones, hardening their faces into masks of stone.

Her gaze shifts to the man standing at the center of it all—the Warden of the North, Cregan Stark. He is as unyielding as the walls of Winterfell, a man carved from the very ice that surrounds them. His dark hair is touched with frost, his grey eyes piercing through the flurries like a direwolf scanning the wood for prey. He regards her with a guarded expression, his features stoic, as though he is measuring the weight of her presence in his hall. There is strength in his stance, a raw, quiet power that seems to ripple beneath his skin like a river beneath ice.

She knows why she is here. Her grandsire, Otto Hightower, has sent her north with a proposal for a betrothal, hoping to secure Cregan Stark's allegiance to the Greens. A marriage alliance that would bind the North to her family, to her brother’s cause. But she also knows that such an alliance is easier proposed than accepted. The Starks are proud, stubborn as the wolves on their banners, and they are not easily swayed by promises or threats. She wonders what Cregan Stark sees when he looks at her—a pawn, a prize, a potential enemy?

Y/N squares her shoulders, forcing herself to meet his gaze with the same intensity. Her breath mists in the cold air between them, mingling with the snowflakes that drift down from the leaden sky. She is a Targaryen, born of fire and blood, and she will not be cowed by the cold.

She takes a step forward, her boots crunching in the snow, and inclines her head with a grace born of years at court. “Lord Stark,” she begins, her voice steady despite the chill that bites at her skin, “I bring greetings from my family and an offer that I hope will interest you.”

For a moment, there is silence, broken only by the distant howl of the wind. The Northmen are watching, waiting for their lord’s response. Cregan Stark’s grey eyes remain locked on hers, his expression unreadable, and she feels the weight of the North pressing down upon her.

“Princess,” Cregan replies at last, his voice a low rumble that echoes across the courtyard. “Welcome to Winterfell.”

And with those words, the game begins.

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Y/N Targaryen has always been more her grandsire’s granddaughter than her mother’s daughter—or her father’s, for that matter. Not that it has been much of a choice. King Viserys had been many things in his life—gentle, soft-hearted, more comfortable with scrolls and histories than with the complexities of ruling—but present, he was not. His love for Rhaenyra, his firstborn, was the love of a man whose affections had been spent long before Y/N was ever born. So, she learned quickly that if she wanted attention, guidance, or even a semblance of familial warmth, she would find none of it in her father.

Instead, she found herself drawn to Otto Hightower. He was a man of purpose, of ambition, of decisive action. With her mother’s soft words and frail smiles failing to shape her in any meaningful way, it was Otto who taught her the art of politics, of maneuvering through a court filled with predators. In him, she saw a mirror of her own aspirations—always looking forward, always plotting the next move. It was from him she learned that power is something you seize, not something you wait for. She knew he would never coddle her, never tell her she was beloved just for being herself; he only valued what was valuable, and that gave her a clarity she found comforting.

Her siblings, however, were a different matter entirely.

Aegon, her eldest brother, was a fool. Self-conscious, always craving their parents' love like a starving child reaching for a morsel of bread. For years, he had hoped to be the shining star in their father’s eyes, only to discover that no matter what he did, he would always be in the shadow of their half-sister, Rhaenyra—the daughter Viserys truly adored. That realization had driven Aegon to the brink. He had spiraled into self-destruction, numbing his pain with Arbor Red, drowning in the company of whores and sycophants who fed his illusions of being liked, respected even. She had watched him become a hollowed-out shell of a prince, playing at being a king among the rats and the vipers of the Red Keep. Aegon was a king now, a ruler in name, but he wore his crown like a noose.

Aemond, on the other hand, was a different creature. Where Aegon sought love, Aemond sought approval, validation—something to make the gods’ cruel joke of his birth order feel less like a curse. He set impossible standards for himself, always striving to outshine his elder brother, to rise above his station as the spare. He immersed himself in philosophy, warfare, Westerosi customs, determined to be the best in every field, the most learned, the most skilled. And yet, no matter how many strategies he mastered or how many books he consumed, he would always be the second son. Aemond may have won the favor of their grandsire, may have been admired by those who valued intellect and ruthlessness, but in the end, Aegon’s incompetence still carried the weight of the gods' favor. And that knowledge gnawed at Aemond like a wolf at a bone.

Helaena and Daeron, bless them, were different. Y/N could say nothing ill of those two. Helaena, with her strange, prophetic dreams and her love for insects, was perhaps the only light in their shadowed family. She lived in a world of her own, a world of strange riddles and hidden truths that no one else could see. Daeron, meanwhile, had been smart enough to remove himself from the poisonous atmosphere of the Red Keep, carving out a life for himself in Oldtown.

As for herself? Y/N had always considered herself a performer, a mirrorball reflecting the light of others, knowing exactly where to place her foot in every dance. She did not crave her parents’ approval or love; she never had. She knew her worth, not in how many times her father called her his precious daughter or how often her mother sighed with the weight of unspoken affection. No, her worth came from the power she had managed to accumulate on her own, the alliances she had forged, the influence she wielded like a blade. She had held her own court, commanded attention, respect, and fear. She had learned to survive, to thrive, to be more than just another pretty Targaryen face.

And now, she had none of it.

Here in this frozen wasteland, she was stripped bare of everything she had built. The North was a godforsaken, heretic country in her eyes—a land of rigid codes and old gods, where men did not bow easily, where words were weighed like precious stones, and secrets were buried beneath layers of ice and snow. She had no court, no power to wield, no influence to peddle.

And then, there was Cregan Stark.

A man whose reputation preceded him like a cold wind. Honorable, they said. A man of principle, a man who lived by his word, who believed in truth and duty as if they were his religion. There was no room for subterfuge in his life, no space for half-truths or hidden motives. His gaze was like steel, unbending and severe. It was almost appalling, really, how saintly he was. Mother above she thought more than once, he would be eaten alive in King’s Landing.

In the South, where smiles masked daggers and every word dripped with double meaning, a man like Cregan Stark would be a lamb led to slaughter. His sense of honor would be his undoing, his truthfulness a weapon turned against him. She had never met a man like him. A man who looked at her not with lust or ambition but with a quiet, steady gaze that seemed to see right through her. He seemed entirely unimpressed by her. It was infuriating and fascinating all at once.

Y/N squared her shoulders, determined not to let her irritation show. She would learn this place, learn its people, and most of all, she would learn Cregan Stark. She would find the crack in his armor, the flaw in his honor, the chink in his unyielding principles. Everyone had one; it was just a matter of knowing where to look, how to press, how to push. She was not here to be swallowed by the North—she was here to conquer it, one way or another.

She knew that the path to Lord Cregan Stark’s cold, cold heart was not a direct one. It was not a road paved with smiles or adorned with sweet words. It was a labyrinth, and the only way through it was by understanding his people.

She had watched him long enough to know this much: Cregan Stark was a man who put his people above all else. The North had a way of making even its leaders humble before it. They were not like the nobles of King’s Landing, always scheming for personal glory or clawing at each other’s throats for favor. Here, in this frozen hell, survival depended on something far simpler, far more primal—on loyalty, on unity, on trust.

So, she began to snake her way into the hearts of his people.

It started small, with gestures they would not expect from a southerner, least of all a Targaryen princess. She knew how they saw her—pampered, delicate, with hair too fair and hands too soft to have ever known true work. She could feel their eyes on her wherever she went, could hear the whispers as she passed by, wrapped in her fine furs, a dragon in the land of wolves.

The courtyard was busy that morning, the ground slick with melting snow and the air thick with the sounds of work—axes splitting wood, the clang of blacksmiths’ hammers against anvils, the shouts of men and women hauling barrels and crates. She approached the group of women gathered near the cookfires, a mixture of curiosity and skepticism in their gazes. Y/N took a deep breath, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders, and stepped into their midst.

“Is there something I can do?” she asked, her voice clear and carrying over the noise. A few heads turned, eyes narrowing in surprise. She saw a woman in her middle years, broad-shouldered and with arms like tree trunks, squinting at her as if she were a curious animal. The others paused, their hands stilling in their work, glances exchanged.

The woman, who she had come to learn was named Mildred, finally spoke, her tone rough as gravel. “Princess,” she drawled, dragging the word out like it was something distasteful in her mouth. “I don’t think there’s much here a royal lady can handle. Unless you’ve got a mind to ruin that fancy cloak of yours.”

Y/N smiled. “I’ve more cloaks, Mildred. And if it gets ruined, well, I suppose I’ll just have to make do with another one, won’t I?”

A snort came from somewhere in the back of the group, and Y/N’s eyes flicked to the source—a younger woman with a mess of red hair and a skeptical expression. Y/N kept her smile, but she let a hint of a challenge creep into her tone. “Besides, I’m not afraid of a little dirt.”

The women exchanged glances, weighing her words. Mildred shrugged at last, tossing a hunk of dough onto a wooden board. “Fine then. Let’s see how you fare kneading bread. Got to feed half the damned keep today, and we’re short on hands.”

Y/N stepped forward without hesitation, rolling up her sleeves. The cold bit at her exposed skin, but she ignored it. Her hands, unused to such labor, moved awkwardly at first, pressing into the dough with less confidence than she wanted. Mildred watched her, arms crossed. “Too gentle,” She grunted. “You’re not petting a dragon. Put your weight into it.”

Y/N did as instructed, leaning into the motion, feeling the resistance of the dough against her palms. It was a small thing, this task, but it was a start. She could feel their eyes on her, hear the whispers quieting, turning into something more like curiosity than derision.

Hours passed, and the smell of freshly baked bread filled the courtyard. The women began to loosen up around her, laughter breaking out now and then. She let herself laugh with them, leaning into their banter.

Days turned into weeks, and Y/N made it her mission to weave herself into the fabric of Winterfell. She found her way to the blacksmith's forge, where the air was thick with smoke and the clang of metal. She watched as the smiths worked, their faces streaked with soot, and asked questions—many, many questions.

“Why do you use that angle with the hammer?” she asked one of the younger smiths, a boy not much older than.

The boy, startled at first, blinked at her, then answered, “To shape the steel, Princess. To make it stronger, to give it an edge that lasts.”

She nodded, watching his hands. “Show me,” she demanded. The boy hesitated, glancing around nervously, but she stepped forward. “Don’t worry. I can hold a hammer.”

He did as she asked, and soon enough, she was holding the hammer herself, mimicking his movements. Her strokes were clumsy, awkward at first, but she learned fast, and with every thud of the hammer, she felt the eyes of the smiths soften just a little more.

In the great hall, she would sit with the lords and their wives, listening to their woes, their concerns, their petty grievances. Y/N had a mind sharpened by the best—her grandsire, Otto, had seen to that. She listened carefully, offering her thoughts, her solutions, often to the surprise of those around her.

“The river’s dammed up, and it’s ruining the fields,” one lord grumbled, a beefy man with a thick beard.

"Then undam it," she replied, her tone smooth. "Divert it, instead of letting it run its course. Build channels to guide it where you want it to go."

The man blinked at her, surprised. “Aye, well… that could work.”

“It will work,” she replied, a small smile playing at her lips.

She advised them on how to better store grain, how to rotate their crops, and how to reinforce their defenses with minimal resources. She made suggestions that saved money, improved efficiency, and most importantly, earned her a grudging respect. To her, these Northerners were like sheep, clueless and slow-witted. But she smiled, she helped, she solved their problems. She was always in the middle of things, her presence a constant in the great hall, the courtyard, the kitchens, the stables.

She even joined the hunts. The Northmen had mocked her at first for daring to ride out with them. “A princess in the snow?” they laughed. “She’ll freeze before we see a single stag.” But she proved them wrong. Her dragon’s blood kept her warm, kept her defiant in the face of the bitter cold, and she was the first to draw her bow, the first to bring down a deer.

“By the gods, she’s got a steady hand,” one of the older men muttered to Cregan as they dragged the deer back to Winterfell.

Cregan’s gaze had flicked over to her, his expression as unreadable as ever, but there had been a flicker of something there. Amusement? Respect? She couldn’t tell, but it was enough.

Bit by bit, she felt the change. The Northmen, these stubborn, superstitious heretics, began to soften, to open up to her. They began to speak to her not with suspicion but with interest, their words less guarded, their gazes less cold. They valued her now, saw her as something more than just a prim and proper southerner.

It was at a feast that she noticed it—how the lords and ladies began to speak of her in hushed, respectful tones, how they sought her out for advice, for a kind word, for counsel. She saw how Cregan watched from across the hall, his grey eyes narrowing, the faintest flicker of something akin to admiration crossing his face.

She caught his gaze, held it across the room. He didn’t look away. Instead, he raised his cup to her, a silent acknowledgment. A challenge, perhaps.

Y/N raised hers in return, a smile playing at her lips. The North had begun to bend, and soon enough, so would he.

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One afternoon, Y/N had just returned from Winter Town, cheeks flushed from the biting wind and the smell of pine and smoke still clinging to her cloak. The snow had begun to fall heavier now, thick flakes drifting down like soft feathers, blanketing the world in a quiet that felt almost sacred. She pushed back her hood as she stepped into the warmth of the great hall, her eyes scanning the room out of habit, looking for something—anything—that could further her cause.

She spotted a cluster of handmaidens seated by the hearth, their heads bent in concentration. They were mending and embroidering clothing, fingers working deftly with needle and thread. Y/N noticed the familiar shapes taking form on the fabric—the direwolves.

She glided toward them, her steps light, her expression warm and inviting. She had perfected this look over years at court—the doe-eyed charm that could disarm even the most hardened of men. “Oh,” she said with a bright smile, her voice a melodic lilt, “working on the Stark sigil, are we?”

The handmaidens looked up, a bit startled at her approach. They were used to her presence by now, but not so much to her sudden interest in their needlework. A girl named Caragh, her brown hair tied back in a braid, nodded. “Aye, milady. Lord Cregan’s cloak was torn on the last hunt, and his tunic needs a new embroidery. Wolves, of course.”

Y/N tilted her head, her eyes sparkling with interest. “How lovely,” she murmured, kneeling down beside them. “May I see?”

They hesitated for a moment but eventually passed her the cloth, the direwolf stitched in silver-grey thread standing fierce against the dark fabric. She studied it with a discerning eye, her fingers tracing the lines of the stitches. The work was good, but plain—functional, as was the way of the North.

A smile danced on her lips as an idea took shape. “Do you know,” she began, her voice soft and conspiratorial, “I’ve always been rather good with a needle myself. Perhaps I could try my hand at it? Just a little, of course. I wouldn’t want to overstep.”

The women exchanged glances, unsure, but intrigued. “Princess, you’d do that?” asked Caragh, her tone curious. “We’d be honored to see southern stitchings. They’re said to be… well, far more intricate than ours.”

Y/N chuckled softly, the sound like a chime in the quiet hall. “Oh, we do have a flair for the elaborate, it’s true,” she agreed. “But I promise, I won’t change it too much. Just add a bit of finesse.” She reached for the thread, selecting a shade of grey that was just a touch darker than the one they had been using. “Here,” she said, threading her needle with practiced ease, “let me show you.”

She set to work, her hands moving with ease. Her stitches were tiny and precise, the needle dancing in and out of the fabric as if it were silk and not the heavy wool of the North. The handmaidens watched her, their eyes wide with fascination as she added delicate touches to the direwolf—tiny knots that gave the illusion of fur, subtle shadows that made the beast look as if it might leap from the cloth at any moment.

“How do you make it look so… alive?” one of the younger handmaidens breathed, her cheeks flushed with awe.

Y/N smiled, enjoying their attention. “It’s all in the details,” she said with a little wink. “You have to see the wolf in your mind first, imagine the way its fur moves, the way its muscles shift beneath the skin. Then, you just… follow the thread.”

The hours passed, and the handmaidens were more than happy to let her work, their questions and chatter filling the space around them. They asked her about King’s Landing, about the fashions of the court, about the kinds of silks and velvets they had only heard of in stories. She answered them with good humor, spinning tales of the South that made their eyes shine with wonder. And all the while, her needle moved, faster and faster, until the direwolf on the fabric seemed to almost snarl, its eyes fierce and intelligent, its body coiled as if ready to pounce.

By the time Cregan Stark returned from a hunt, the hall was warm with the crackle of the fire and the murmur of soft voices. He strode in, snow still dusting his dark hair, his cloak heavy with ice. His boots left wet prints on the stone floor as he shook the cold from his shoulders and glanced around.

He stopped short when he saw her—Y/N, seated among his handmaidens, needle in hand, a small, satisfied smile on her lips as she worked on his clothing. His eyes narrowed, and he made his way over, curious despite himself.

“Princess,” he greeted her, his voice a low rumble, “I see you’ve taken to mending clothes now?”

Y/N looked up, her expression unruffled. “Lord Stark,” she replied, her tone light, teasing almost, “I thought I might be of some use. Your handmaidens were kind enough to let me practice a little of our southern needlework.” She held up the fabric for him to see, the direwolf now a striking, almost lifelike creature that seemed to leap from the fabric with a ferocity that had not been there before.

Cregan’s eyes widened, just slightly, his gaze moving over the stitching, his expression unreadable. “It’s… well done,” he said finally, and she could hear the surprise in his voice, grudging though it was.

She smiled, pleased. “You sound surprised, my lord. Did you think a Targaryen’s hands were only meant for taming dragons or holding goblets of wine?”

He let out a soft chuckle, the sound like gravel grinding together. “Not surprised,” he corrected, his gaze meeting hers, steady and unyielding. “Impressed. You’ve a fine hand.”

Y/N's smile widened. “Why, thank you, Lord Stark. I’m glad my work meets your approval.”

He nodded, his gaze still on the cloth, the direwolf that now seemed to pulse with life. “Aye, it does,” he admitted. “Though I wonder, Princess… are you looking to become a seamstress now?”

She laughed, a bright, ringing sound that filled the hall. “No, my lord. I’ve no desire to take up a needle permanently. But I do find it’s useful, from time to time, to show that a princess’s hands can be skilled in more ways than one.”

His eyes flicked up to hers, a challenge in them. “Is that so?” he asked quietly. “And tell me, Princess, what other skills do your hands possess?”

Y/N’s smile did not waver. “Oh, many things, Lord Stark,” she replied softly. “Many things indeed.”

He held her gaze for a moment longer, something unreadable flickering in the depths of his eyes, before he nodded again. “Well,” he said, “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”

And with that, he turned away, but not before she caught the slightest curve of a smile on his lips. She watched him go, feeling a thrill of satisfaction course through her veins.

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Her scheme had worked flawlessly. Piece by piece, the North was falling into place just as she’d planned. The people were warming to her, Cregan's gaze was lingering a little longer than before, and Y/N could feel the iciness of Winterfell slowly starting to melt in her favor. Everything was moving toward the outcome she desired.

Well until it wasn't.

The disruption arrived in the form of Alysanne Blackwood—Black Aly, they called her. Y/N watched her ride into Winterfell with a certain swagger, a confidence that bordered on arrogance. A member of House Blackwood, the aunt of young Lord Benjicot Blackwood, Alysanne had come north under some pretense Y/N didn't care to know about. At the time, it had seemed inconsequential. She had dismissed it, too caught up in her own plans to pay attention to this new player on the board.

A mistake. A rare, foolish mistake. Her grandsire would have scolded her for being so pliant, so hasty, so unguarded. Never underestimate a rival, he would have said. Never take your eyes off the board. And Y/N had done just that.

She should not have misconstrued this woman.

Alysanne was everything Y/N was not. Tall and lean, with thick black curls that tumbled past her waist, she had a wildness to her that seemed to embody the very spirit of the North. Her long legs and strong arms marked her as a woman who spent more time in the saddle than at a hearth, more time holding a bow than a needle. She wasn’t beautiful in the conventional sense—her features were sharp, her smile wide and often mocking—but there was something about her. Something raw and fearless, a fire that seemed to burn just beneath her skin. And that smell…woodsmoke. It clung to her like a second skin, as if she had been born in the midst of a bonfire.

Y/N had heard the whispers—how Black Aly was a legend in the North. An excellent hunter, a horse-breaker, an archer with a keen eye. She was bold and outspoken, with a tongue sharp enough to cut through steel and a wit that could match the sharpest of minds. The Northerners adored her. They loved her for her wildness, for her lack of pretense, for the way she embodied everything they valued: strength, courage, a disregard for the fripperies of southern court life.

She could see it in their faces as Alysanne moved among them, laughing and jesting with the men, sharing bread and soup with the women. Y/N could almost feel the tides shifting, the winds changing, as this woman—this picture-perfect embodiment of Northern virtues—threatened to ruin everything she had worked for.

Cregan Stark took to Alysanne immediately. Of course, he did. Why wouldn’t he? He took her hunting, riding out into the forest with her at dawn while Y/N was left behind to smile and make small talk with his bannermen. He brought her to his war councils, included her in his patrols, took her to meet the northern lords. Wherever he went, Black Aly was at his side, her sharp, barking laughter echoing off the walls of Winterfell.

Y/N could see it in the way he looked at Alysanne—a gleam of admiration, of respect, of something deeper, something raw. He valued her opinions, sought her counsel. And that stung more than Y/N cared to admit. Did it truly come down to this? Y/N Targaryen, a princess of the realm, having to compete with some backwater nobody?

She could feel her temper simmering beneath her skin like a slow-burning fire, the frustration building with each passing day. She thought of confronting Cregan directly, her hands curling into fists as she imagined the scene. She would demand to know why he spent so much time with that woman, why he found her so intriguing, so worthy of his attention. But no—she knew better than that. She couldn’t afford to appear desperate, to show him how much this rankled her. Instead, she kept her face a mask of calm, her smiles as practiced and serene as ever, even as she felt herself cracking.

One evening, as Cregan returned from yet another outing with Alysanne, Y/N was waiting for him in the hall, her posture regal, her eyes gleaming in the dim firelight. “Lord Stark,” she called out, her tone light but firm. “You’ve been busy.”

Cregan paused, glancing at her, his expression unreadable. “There is much to do, Princess,” he replied evenly. “The North doesn’t rest.”

She offered him a smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “So I see. And it seems you have found quite the companion to help you with your duties.”

Cregan’s brow furrowed slightly, but he didn’t rise to the bait. “Alysanne is a trusted friend,” he said. “She knows these lands as well as I do.”

Y/N felt a flicker of irritation but kept her voice smooth. “Of course. She is a fine… huntress. But surely, you don’t need her for every task, my lord. I’m certain there are others who could serve just as well. Perhaps even better.”

He regarded her for a long moment, his grey eyes searching her face. “Are you offering to join me on my next patrol, Princess?” he asked, his tone challenging, with the faintest hint of amusement.

Y/N’s smile didn’t falter, but inside, she felt a surge of frustration. “If you think my skills would be of use,” she replied, matching his tone. “I am, after all, more than just a… court ornament.”

He chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that made her skin prickle. “I’ve never doubted that,” he said softly. “But the North is not a place for games or tricks. It demands strength and a willingness to face the unknown without fear.”

Her smile wavered, just a little. “I am not afraid of the unknown,” she replied, her voice edged with steel. “Nor am I afraid to prove myself.”

Cregan’s eyes softened, just for a moment. “I don’t doubt that,” he said, his voice lowering, more intimate. “But Alysanne… she knows this land, these people. She knows how to speak to them, how to move among them. That is not something you can learn in a few weeks.”

Y/N felt the sting of his words, but she masked it with another smile, her eyes flashing. “Perhaps,” she conceded, “but I have learned much in a short time. And I am still learning, Lord Stark. Every day.”

Cregan nodded, as if considering her words. “Then learn, Princess,” he said quietly. “But do not think you must compete with Alysanne. She is… unique, yes. But so are you.”

The words were meant to placate, to soothe, but they only made her feel more cornered.

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The doors to the great hall swung open with a loud creak, and a chill wind swept in, carrying with it the scent of snow and iron. Y/N turned, her eyes narrowing as she saw the commotion. Cregan Stark had returned, his presence commanding attention even as he limped slightly, his dark hair damp with sweat, his face streaked with mud and blood. His men flanked him, some of them leaning on one another, their expressions grim, their clothes stained with the same mixture of dirt and crimson.

Her heart lurched at the sight, but she quickly schooled her features into a mask of cool indifference. The skirmishes with the wildlings had been growing more frequent, their raids bolder, and it seemed today had been no different. The maesters were already scrambling, rushing forward with their apprentices and assistants, trying to assess the most grievous injuries, their faces set in strained concentration.

Y/N took in the scene with a practiced eye, her mind already calculating. There were too many injured, too much blood soaking into the stone floor of the hall. She could see that the maesters were stretched thin, their resources and patience fraying at the edges. Cregan, of course, was insisting on helping his men, despite the fact that he was clearly favoring his left leg, a nasty gash visible on his right thigh, and his arm hung a little too limply at his side.

Typical. The man was as stubborn as a mule.

She moved closer, catching sight of the way he clenched his jaw against the pain, his brow furrowed in a way that made him look older, wearier. He was trying to wave off a young apprentice who was attempting to guide him toward a bench.

“I’m fine,” he growled, his voice low and rough. “See to the others first.”

The apprentice looked helplessly at Cregan, clearly torn between obeying the Warden of the North and following the orders of the maesters. Y/N, sensing an opportunity, pushed through the crowd, her chin tilted upward, her eyes sharp.

“Really, Lord Stark?” she called out, her voice loud enough to carry over the clamor. “You look about as fine as a roast pig on a spit.”

Cregan’s head snapped around, his eyes narrowing at her. “Princess,” he said, his voice edged with irritation, “this is no place for jesting.”

She smiled, a sharp, knowing smile. “No, but it is a place for common sense. Something you seem to be sorely lacking at the moment.” She turned to the apprentice and gestured toward the other men. “Go. Help the others. I’ll take care of your lord.”

The apprentice hesitated for a moment, glancing between them, but then scurried off, clearly relieved to be free of Cregan’s stubbornness. Y/N stepped closer, folding her arms over her chest, her gaze fixed on the injured lord.

Cregan grunted, his expression darkening. “I don’t need your help, Princess. I’ve had worse than this.”

“Oh, I’m sure you have,” she replied. “But forgive me if I don’t trust your judgment on your own health, seeing as you’re bleeding all over the floor and insisting you’re perfectly fine. Very lordly of you, I’m sure, but also incredibly stupid.”

He scowled at her, a deep line forming between his brows. “I can take care of myself.”

“And yet,” she countered, stepping even closer, “you’re not doing a very good job of it, are you? Sit down, Cregan, before you fall down and make an even bigger fool of yourself.”

For a moment, he looked like he might argue further, but then he winced, a flash of pain crossing his face, and Y/N seized the moment. She reached out, gripping his uninjured arm with a strength that belied her slender frame, and guided him toward a nearby bench. “Sit,” she ordered, her voice firm, and to her surprise, he obeyed, albeit reluctantly.

He dropped onto the bench with a huff, glaring up at her. “I don’t need a nursemaid, least of all a princess from the South who’s never seen a real fight.”

She laughed, a sharp, sarcastic sound. “You’re right, I’ve never fought wildlings or raiders. But I have spent plenty of time in the Red Keep watching men bleed out because they were too stubborn to accept help. So, unless you want to be one of those men, shut up and let me work.”

His gaze flickered with something between annoyance and grudging respect. “Fine,” he muttered, “but make it quick. I have men to see to.”

“Quick?” She snorted. “You don’t give orders here, Stark. Not while you’re under my care.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Your care? And what makes you think you’re qualified?”

She didn’t answer with words. Instead, she grabbed a nearby cloth, soaked it in a basin of water, and began to clean the wound on his thigh with swift, precise movements. Cregan hissed through his teeth, his muscles tensing beneath her hands, but he didn’t pull away.

“I’ve shadowed Grand Maester Orwyle countless times,” she said as she worked, her voice steady. “I know what I’m doing. And more importantly, I’m not about to let you bleed out just because you’re too pigheaded to admit you need help.”

He grunted again but said nothing, his jaw clenched tight. She could see the pain in his eyes, the way his shoulders stiffened with each touch, but he stayed still, letting her do her work. She carefully cleaned the wound, her hands moving with a skill that surprised even herself, then reached for a needle and thread.

“This will hurt,” she warned, threading the needle with practiced ease.

“I’ve had worse,” he replied through gritted teeth.

“Of course you have,” she said, rolling her eyes. “And I’m sure you’ll tell me all about it after I’ve saved your life.”

His lips twitched, almost as if he were fighting a smile. “You’ve a sharp tongue, Princess.”

“And you’ve a thick skull, Lord Stark,” she shot back. “Now hold still.”

She began to stitch the wound, her needle moving with swift, precise strokes. Cregan watched her, his eyes dark and intense, but she didn’t falter. For once, she was not the southern courtier, the diplomatic princess with honeyed words and gentle smiles. She was herself, sharp and unyielding, meeting his stubbornness with her own.

When she finished, she tied off the thread with a quick, efficient knot and sat back, wiping her hands on the cloth. “There,” she said, satisfaction in her voice. “You’ll live to fight another day.”

He stared at her, a mix of surprise and grudging admiration in his eyes. “You did well,” he said finally, his voice softer than before.

She arched an eyebrow, a playful smirk dancing on her lips. “Was there ever any doubt?”

He chuckled, the sound rough but genuine. “Plenty,” he admitted.

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Winter is coming.

No, not the Stark words, spoken like a prayer or a warning. Winter is truly coming, and Y/N can feel it deep in her bones, creeping through the stone walls of Winterfell like a living thing.

The air has grown sharper, biting at her cheeks with every gust of wind, and the snow falls thicker now, each flake heavy and deliberate. The trees are bare, their branches skeletal against the grey sky, and the cold seems to press down on her, seeping into her skin with a relentless chill. It is a different kind of cold than she has ever known, a cold that seeps into her lungs and settles there, making each breath feel like an effort.

The North has always been harsh, but now it feels like it is preparing for something more—something darker, more unforgiving. Even the men and women of Winterfell, who have spent their entire lives in the shadow of winter, seem more guarded, more wary. There are murmurs in the great hall, anxious whispers in the corridors. Wildlings have been sighted more frequently, their numbers growing bolder and more desperate as the long night approaches. The skirmishes along the Wall have increased, and the night fires are lit earlier and burn longer.

Y/N pulls her cloak tighter around her shoulders as she crosses the courtyard, the snow crunching beneath her boots. She knows what is coming. She can feel it in the very marrow of her bones. Winter is coming, and with it, something more—a tension that hangs in the air like a drawn bowstring, taut and ready to snap.

That night, as she sits by the fire in her chambers, a raven arrives. The black bird flutters through the window, its wings dusted with snow, a rolled parchment tied to its leg. Y/N takes it with a frown, untying the message with cold fingers, her eyes narrowing as she recognizes the seal. Hightower.

She unfurls the parchment and reads the message, her eyes scanning the words with a growing sense of unease.

Return to King’s Landing at once.

The words are simple, direct, and she can almost hear Otto’s voice behind them, calm but commanding. He has received reports of the incoming long winter, of the increasing sightings of wildlings, and he deems it no longer safe for her to remain in the North. He urges her to leave before the roads become impassable, before the snows deepen and the wildlings grow more desperate.

Y/N exhales slowly, a plume of breath escaping her lips in the cold air of her chamber. She should feel relieved. Glad, even. No longer required to linger in this frozen wasteland, where the people are as hard as the ground they walk on, and her plans have slowly unraveled like thread from a worn tapestry. She should be glad to return to the South, to the warmth and intrigue of King’s Landing, where the games are played on her terms.

But instead, she feels a sharp sting of frustration. She berates herself for failing to secure the North for her family, for not weaving a strong enough web to catch the loyalty of these proud, stubborn people. A true Targaryen, she should have bent them to her will, but the North is as unyielding as its lord, and she has not succeeded in making it hers. It is a bitter pill to swallow.

“Failure,” she murmurs, her voice a low hiss in the dim light of her chamber. “And what would you say to that, Lord Hand? That your granddaughter, for all her cleverness, could not win the North?”

She lets out a soft, mirthless laugh, crumpling the parchment in her hand. “It’s a matter for another day,” she tells herself. She will return to King's Landing, regroup, plot anew. There are always other pieces to play, other moves to make.

Yet, her thoughts drift back to Cregan Stark. The brooding wolf of the North, with his grim expression and unyielding sense of honor. She won’t admit, even to herself, that she is fond of him. Or likes him. Or anything of the sort. No, certainly not. But… there is something about him that lingers in her mind like a half-remembered dream, something she can’t quite shake off.

After being surrounded by the snakes of King’s Landing, the liars and flatterers, the power-hungry and the depraved, she finds something strangely compelling in Cregan Stark’s righteousness. It comes to him as naturally as breathing, as naturally as wielding that massive Valyrian steel sword of his, the one he calls Ice.

She has seen him wield it with ease, watched him cleave through the air with a power that seems almost otherworldly. She has watched him ride out with his men, fearless and unyielding, his face set in determination. There is a strength in him that is not just physical, but something deeper, something that runs to his very core. A strength that does not waver, that does not bend, even under the weight of the North’s endless cold.

And she hates it. She hates how it seems to make everything about him… uncomplicated. How he carries his honor like a shield, how he speaks his truth without hesitation, without guile, as if the very concept of deception is foreign to him. It is infuriating. It is intriguing. And it has left a mark on her, whether she likes it or not.

Y/N folds the letter and tucks it into the folds of her gown, her fingers lingering on the soft fabric for a moment longer than necessary. She knows what she must do; her place is back in the South. But as she rises to her feet, her eyes drift around her room, taking in the rough-hewn walls, the cold stone floor, and the fur pelts draped across her bed. There is a part of her—small, quiet, but undeniably present—that resents leaving this place. Resents leaving him behind.

She sighs, pushing the thought away, and begins to gather what little she had brought with her. No handmaiden to help her, not that she would ask. She has always preferred to do things herself when it comes down to it. She moves about the room with a swift efficiency, her hands quick and sure as she folds her scarves, places them neatly in her travel bag.

She is in the midst of folding a deep green scarf, the color of pine needles, when a knock sounds at her door. She freezes, her fingers still gripping the fabric, and for a moment, she considers ignoring it. But then she rolls her eyes at her own hesitation and strides to the door, swinging it open.

Cregan Stark stands on the other side, looking as rugged and battered as ever. There is a bandage wrapped around his arm, another at his side, but he stands tall, his posture straight, his face unreadable. He looks better than he had when she had tended to him earlier, but not by much. His grey eyes flick to her, and she can’t quite read the expression in them.

“Lord Stark,” she greets, her voice carefully neutral. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

He inclines his head slightly. “I came to thank you,” he says, his voice low and gruff. “For earlier. For tending to my wounds.”

She raises an eyebrow, surprised. “Oh? Didn’t think you’d bother with gratitude.”

He snorts softly. “I’m not so stubborn as to ignore a kindness when it’s given.”

“A kindness?” She smirks, leaning against the doorframe. “I think you’ll find I had very little kindness in mind when I forced you to sit down.”

His lips twitch, just slightly. “Perhaps not,” he concedes. “But you did help. I owe you that much.”

Her gaze softens, just for a moment, but before she can reply, his eyes shift past her, taking in the half-packed bags and scattered belongings strewn across the room. His brows knit together in a frown.

“What is this?” he asks, his tone sharper than before.

Y/N shrugs, affecting a nonchalant air. “I’m going home,” she replies, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “A happy bit of news for you, I’d wager.”

He is silent for a moment, his frown deepening, his eyes fixed on hers. “No,” he says finally, his voice low and steady. “I take no joy in this news.”

She blinks, momentarily caught off guard. “No? I thought you’d be delighted to see the back of me.”

His expression softens, and he steps further into the room, his gaze never leaving hers. “Believe it or not, Princess, I’ve grown accustomed to your… presence.”

Her eyes narrow. “What are you on about?” she demands, her voice sharper now, a hint of frustration creeping in. “Don’t tell me you’ve developed a fondness for me, Cregan Stark.”

He hesitates, then, with a sigh, says, “Perhaps. Or maybe I’ve simply developed a soft spot for your relentless stubbornness.”

She scoffs, folding her arms over her chest. “Oh, do spare me,” she says, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “The Wolf of the North with a soft spot for a Targaryen? Is that supposed to flatter me?”

He gives a half-smile, his eyes holding hers. “It’s not meant to flatter, just the truth.”

She rolls her eyes, exasperated. “Right. And I suppose this has nothing to do with your other northern… interests?” She tilts her head, her voice laced with mock sweetness. “Surely, Black Aly is more up your alley?”

His face hardens slightly, but there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Alysanne is a friend,” he replies, his voice calm. “A trusted one. But you—”

“But me?” she interrupts, stepping closer, her eyes blazing. “But what, Cregan? Do you think I’m going to stay here in this frozen wasteland to be your latest curiosity?”

He shakes his head, his voice rising just a fraction. “No, that’s not what I meant—”

“Then what did you mean?” she snaps. “Because I have no desire to dance around whatever it is you’re trying to say.”

He exhales, frustration lining his features, but there’s something softer there, too. “I meant,” he says slowly, deliberately, “that I have come to respect you, Y/N. To… care for you, in ways I did not expect.”

She laughs, sharp and incredulous. “Care for me? Truly? You’ve a strange way of showing it, taking Black Aly on all your little adventures while I’m stuck here playing house with your bannermen.”

Cregan’s eyes darken, his expression turning serious. “It wasn’t meant to slight you.”

“But it did,” she fires back, her voice lower, more intense. “It did. And now, you stand here, acting like you don’t want me to leave, when all you’ve done is—”

“I don’t want you to leave,” he cuts her off, his voice firm, his gaze unyielding. “Not now. Not like this.”

There is a beat of silence, the air between them taut and electric. Y/N feels something twist inside her, something she doesn’t want to name.

“Why?” she finally asks, her voice almost a whisper. “Why, Cregan?”

He takes a step closer, so close she can feel the warmth of his breath against her skin. “Because,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper, “for all your southern games and sharp words… you’ve gotten under my skin, Y/N Targaryen.”

She meets his gaze, searching his face for any hint of a lie, any trace of deception, but finds none. She swallows, her throat tight. “And what do you suggest I do about that?” she asks, her tone still edged, but softer now.

He glances around the room at her half-packed bags, and then, with a determined expression, begins to pick up her things, placing them back where they were. “For a start,” he says, his voice gruff but not unkind, “you can stop packing.”

She watches, incredulous, as he calmly folds one of her scarves and places it back on the table. “What do you think you’re doing?” she demands, even as a smile tugs at the corners of her mouth.

He looks up at her, his eyes twinkling with a challenge. “Undoing a mistake,” he replies simply.

She shakes her head, half-laughing, half-exasperated. “You’re very difficult, you know that?”

He grins, the lines around his eyes crinkling. “So I’ve been told.”

They stand there, close enough to touch, the tension between them crackling like a fire waiting to ignite. For a moment, neither of them speaks. The air between them is thick, charged with something that neither of them can quite name. She lets out a sigh, breaking the silence that has settled over them.

“My grandsire has called for me,” she says finally, her voice softer than before. “It’s more of a command, really, than a request.”

Cregan’s brow furrows, his grey eyes narrowing slightly. “Is Otto Hightower the King of the Seven Kingdoms now?” he asks, his tone dry, laced with a hint of disdain.

Y/N chuckles, a low, throaty sound that sends a shiver through him. “He might as well be,” she replies, a faint smile playing on her lips. “He certainly acts like it.”

“Seems he’s got a hold on you too,” Cregan mutters, his gaze never leaving hers.

She shrugs, a half-smirk curving her lips. “I wouldn’t survive a winter here, would I? You said so yourself, Lord Stark. Even Vermithor and Silverwing refused to fly beyond the Wall of their own accord. Those ancient, powerful creatures wouldn’t dare. So whatever lies out there…” Her voice drops to a whisper. “It must be damning.”

Cregan’s expression is unreadable, his jaw tightening for a moment. “I can keep you safe,” he says quietly, but there’s a firmness to his voice, an unyielding resolve that makes her chest tighten.

Y/N raises an eyebrow, her lips curving into a teasing smile. “Oh, how kind of you, my big, bad wolf,” she drawls, her tone mocking but playful, her fingers reaching out to brush lightly against his arm. “But how about you start with something simple?”

His eyes narrow, a flicker of curiosity crossing his face. “Simple?” he repeats.

She steps closer, so close that her breath mingles with his, the warmth of her skin brushing against him. “How about, for starters, you try keeping me warm?” she murmurs, her voice barely more than a whisper, yet it carries between them like a challenge. “It is awfully freezing here… Can you do that for me, Lord Stark?”

For a moment, Cregan says nothing. His eyes search hers, as if trying to discern whether she’s serious, or just toying with him as she so often does. Y/N isn’t expecting much—she knows the Northerners, with their prudish notions of honor and virtue, probably see this as a surefire way to eternal damnation. She expects him to laugh it off, to turn away with a huff, to remind her, once again, that he is not some Southern lord to be trifled with.

But he doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t turn away. Instead, his gaze darkens, his eyes tracing the curve of her lips, the line of her throat. He takes a step closer, his body towering over hers, and she feels the heat radiating from him, the intensity in his stare. Her breath catches in her throat, her heart thundering in her chest as he reaches out, his hand cupping her chin, tilting her face up toward him.

“Is that what you want?” he murmurs, his voice a low, rumbling growl that sends a thrill down her spine. “For me to keep you warm?”

Y/N swallows, her mouth suddenly dry. She hadn’t expected this, hadn’t expected the Wolf of the North to respond to her challenge with anything but stern disapproval. “I—” she starts, but the words catch in her throat as his thumb brushes over her lower lip, his touch sending a jolt of electricity through her.

He leans in, his breath warm against her skin, and she feels the heat of his body pressing against hers, the rough fabric of his tunic brushing against the softness of her gown. “Say it,” he murmurs, his voice rough, almost desperate. “Say what you want, Y/N.”

Her heart pounds, and she feels a rush of something she can’t quite name—fear, desire, defiance—all mingling together in her chest. “I want…” she begins, her voice wavering, but then she catches herself, lifts her chin, her eyes flashing. “I want you to keep me warm, Cregan Stark.”

His lips curve into a slow, dangerous smile, and before she can draw another breath, his mouth is on her throat, hot and insistent. She gasps, her hands instinctively flying to his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his tunic as he kisses her skin, his mouth trailing down to the hollow of her collarbone, his teeth grazing against her pulse.

“Gods,” she breathes, a mixture of surprise and pleasure washing over her. She hadn’t expected this—not from him. But he is relentless, his mouth moving against her skin, his teeth nipping at the sensitive flesh, his tongue tracing patterns that make her shiver. He smells of the woods and leather, of smoke and something wilder, something purely him, and it makes her head spin.

She feels a hot rush of sensation flood her body, a fire igniting deep within her belly as he kisses and nibbles at her neck, her collarbones, his hands sliding up her back to pull her closer. “I didn’t think you had it in you,” she gasps, her fingers threading through his hair, tugging just a bit.

He chuckles against her skin, the sound vibrating through her, and she can feel his grin. “I am good at playing my part too, Princess,” he mutters, his voice rough, raw with hunger.

She arches against him, feeling the warmth of his breath, the roughness of his beard against her skin, and something inside her snaps. She doesn’t care about the cold, or the North, or even the damned wildlings anymore. She only cares about the way his mouth feels on her, the way his hands move against her, the way he’s suddenly, inexplicably, decided to abandon his precious restraint.

“Oh, so you’re not a prude after all?” she teases, her voice a breathless whisper, but there’s a tremor in it she can’t quite control.

He bites down gently on her shoulder, making her gasp, and she feels him smile against her skin. “Careful now,” he growls softly, his lips trailing up to her ear. “You might just find out how much I’m not.”

She laughs, a low, sultry sound that makes his grip tighten. “Well then, Lord Stark,” she murmurs, her voice daring. “Show me.”

And he does. All night long.

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The next morning, chaos erupted in Winterfell. The dawn broke over the snow-covered battlements, but there was no sign of the Lord of Winterfell. Cregan’s chamber was found empty, his bed undisturbed, and his bannermen immediately feared the worst. The cold winds carried whispers of possible attacks, of kidnappings, of wildlings breaching the walls in the dead of night.

“Where is he?” one of the lords muttered, his voice tight with worry. “I saw him head to his chamber last night. He should be there!”

“But he’s not,” another snapped, his face pale. “And there’s no sign of a struggle. Nothing.”

Maids and guards exchanged nervous glances, and the tension in the great hall thickened like smoke. Servants hurried through the corridors, peering into every nook and cranny, while a group of bannermen began to search the grounds, checking the stables, the armory, anywhere he might have gone.

The panic spread quickly, growing like wildfire. Hushed voices turned into frantic shouts, and soon enough, a full search was underway. Every room, every corridor, every shadowed corner was combed through with increasing urgency.

“Maybe he’s gone to the Godswood?” one bannerman suggested, and a group ran in that direction, boots crunching against the snow.

“What if he’s been taken?” another whispered fearfully. “The wildlings—”

“No, he’d never be taken without a fight!” a grizzled old warrior barked, his hand tightening on his sword hilt. “Keep looking!”

And so they did, their desperation growing as each minute passed without a trace of their lord.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, one of the servants hesitantly approached the door to Y/N’s chamber. He hesitated, his hand hovering over the handle as if unsure whether he should dare to disturb a Targaryen princess. But with his heart pounding and knowing that all of Winterfell was searching, he pushed the door open.

There, in the soft light of dawn that filtered through the small window, they found him.

Cregan Stark lay sprawled across the bed, still deep in sleep, his dark hair tousled, a faint smile playing on his lips. His arm was wrapped tightly around Y/N Targaryen, holding her close against him as if she were the most precious thing in the world. They were entangled in the furs, his body curved protectively around hers, their legs entwined, her head resting on his chest.

For a moment, the servant could only gape, eyes wide, mouth hanging open. Then, finding his voice, he croaked out, “Lord Stark!”

Cregan stirred, groaning softly, his eyes blinking open in the dim light. He looked down to see Y/N still nestled against him, her silver hair a soft halo on his chest. For a brief, confused moment, he forgot where he was, why there were voices at the door.

Then he heard the shocked gasp of the servant, and it all came rushing back.

“What’s the meaning of this?” a bannerman’s voice boomed from behind the servant, and within seconds, the doorway filled with faces, wide-eyed and bewildered.

Cregan rubbed his eyes, sitting up slowly, his hand still cradling Y/N. He glanced over at the doorway and saw the crowd of his bannermen and servants, their expressions ranging from horrified to amused to utterly scandalized.

“Well, it seems I’ve been found,” he muttered, a grin spreading across his face as he looked down at her, still half-asleep beside him. “So much for a quiet morning.”

Y/N stirred, blinking up at him, and then she saw the small crowd gathered in the doorway. Her cheeks flushed, but her lips curled into a mischievous smile. “Good morrow, gentlemen,” she purred, propping herself up on her elbow. “Is there something you’re looking for?”

The bannermen stood frozen for a moment, then the old warrior who’d been leading the search cleared his throat, his cheeks flushed red. “Lord Stark, we thought… well, we feared the worst.”

Cregan’s smile widened, his hand brushing a strand of silver hair from Y/N’s face. “No need for fear, Wylis,” he replied, his tone far too amused. “As you can see, I’m very much alive. Just… occupied.”

The servant who had found them couldn’t suppress a grin, though he quickly ducked his head to hide it. The bannermen, on the other hand, exchanged awkward glances, shifting their weight, unsure of what to say.

Y/N looked up at Cregan, her eyes glinting with amusement. “Seems you’ve caused quite the stir, my lord,” she murmured, teasingly. “Should I be worried that your men are so eager to find you?”

Cregan chuckled, pulling her closer, ignoring the gaping faces in the doorway. “Let them talk,” he murmured, his voice low and affectionate. “I have everything I want right here.”

And as the bannermen mumbled and fidgeted, trying to find a way to excuse themselves from the room without causing further embarrassment, Cregan leaned down to kiss her forehead, his smile never fading. “Let them see,” he whispered. “Let them know.”

Y/N laughed softly, rolling her eyes. “As you wish, wolf.”

And with that, he pulled her back into the warm cocoon of furs, ignoring the murmurs from the doorway, perfectly content to remain exactly where he was.

[anemptypuddingcup]

My Good Boy~

Beast!Zoro x Female Reader.

Smut Short.

I depicted Zoro as a weretiger w green fur, how would you imagine him with beasty features?

Contains: Writing’s a bit messy. Might contain errors. Beast!Zoro. Reader comforting Zoro. Pussy eating. Somewhat soft sex. Doggy style. Mating press. Multiple rounds. Big dick Zoro. Zoro has a praise kink! There’s a lot of neck nuzzles from Zoro. Breeding kink in the end.

“Why’re you looking at me like that?”

“I-I just…u-um..”

“What? What is it!?”

“Y-You…You’re…”

“Ugly? Is that it? Am I ugly to you?”

“Sweetie I didn’t say that. You’re adorable to me Zoro.”

Your hands cups his face, his whiskers twitching as his brows furrowed from your words. Your hands play with his small little tufts of fur against cheeks and he sighs out from the sweet gesture, surprised at your kindness.

You press a smooch to his nose and he huffs heavily as he places his hands against your shoulders, his claws sharp as they pricked the softness of your shoulders. “N-No I’m not….” He sighs, hesitating before backing away from you. You grab his hands and pull him back over to you. “Yes you are, don’t be like that Zoro.” You pout, wrapping your arms around his waist. He groans out and hugs you, pulling you close to him while you rested your head against his soft and fluffy chest.

“Do you…mean that..?” He asks you, his hands pressing up against your waist. You smile and nodded, crawling up onto his lap. “Cross my heart baby…I absolutely mean it~” You smile, pressing a smooch to his semi-chapped lips. He huffs and grips yours hips tight, pulling you closer against his crotch. You hum out and press your hands against his shoulders, a mewl leaving your lips as you felt him growing hard against your clothed cunt.

“Do you want some relief Zoro? I didn’t think a compliment would get you excited so quickly~” You giggle, grinding up against his hard clothed cock. Zoro snarls and huffs as he buries his face deep into your neck, his fangs pressing into your skin. You mewl out and giggle, your hand rubbing and scratching in his mossy strands. His claws scratch at your hips and you feel his hands lift your dress up past your ass, making it poke out.

His hands knead the doughy flesh, his fingers playing with the hem of your pretty lacy panties while he growls into your neck once again. You notice his brows slowly unfurling, his forearm around your lower back and pulling you closer to him. Your breasts smoosh up against his face and you hear a little purr leaving him as he buries his face into your soft mounds. You gasp out as you feel him grind up into you, his thick erection sliding along your clothed and soaking slit.

You press a smooch to his temple and he slowly pulls you off of him, a little giggle leaving you as he lies you down against the soft bedding below. You hum out as he nuzzles up against your skin, sliding down your tummy to your lower tummy…and down to your cute little cunt. He practically tears off your lacy panties and slides his thick tongue along your clit. You mewl out sweetly and press your hands against his strands, moaning out and he sloppily slid his tongue along your sweet and juicy pussy.

“M-Mmh~ Z-Zoro baby~” You moan out his name and he pulls your hips onto his shoulders, groaning out hungrily as he lapped up the juices from your cunt. Feeling his tongue slide through your folds and along your clit made you shudder beneath him and moan out. Your angelic moans made his little furry green ears twitch and his tail wiggle with excitement. He softly claws at your hips and he slides his tongue past your entrance, purring out once again before letting out a little groan.

“Ooh~ Mmh! Z-Zoro~ K-Keep going like that~ I-It feels so good~” You moan, your brows furrowing from the pleasure while he obeyed. His tail begins to wiggle more, and at this point he was practically eating your pussy up. The sloppy noises leaving him as he slurped and lapped at your warm and sticky entrance. “Ahh~ Good boy baby~ L-Like that!~” You moan out loudly, your back arching as he continues to lap at your cunt.

His ears perk up and he snarls as he heard those words, he adored it when you called him your good boy…oh god did he fucking love it when you called him your good boy. His tail wags with excitement and he moans out suddenly as he dove deeper into your pussy, his nose rubbing up against your clit and making you mewl out even more. He feels your legs beginning to tremble and he removes his tongue from your sopping hole before catering up to your clit.

You hiss and moan out before hitting your lower lip, your eyes shutting tightly as you felt yourself wanting to cum. “Oh! Oh Zoro~ I-I’m so close~” You whimper out to him, making him him out in response. You hum out as you felt his hands slide up and along your tummy before reaching out to grope your breasts, his fingertips circling and massaging your softened buds. You gasp out before softly grabbing his wrists, moaning out as you felt yourself ready ready to burst out onto his tongue.

“Mmh! Mmm!~ Z-Zoro I-I’m going to!-“ You moan out and grab his head, pulling him into pussy as you squirt out onto his tongue. He groans out as he slurps up your juices, pressing a smooch against you clit before pulling back. A string of your cum and slick disconnecting from his lips and your soaking pussy. He watched as you breathed in heavily, gasping out as you slowly began recovering from your pretty little orgasm.

He pounces up onto you, his hand grasping the waistband of his joggers before pulling his cock out. You mewl out in delight as you stared down at his thick length, the tip practically dripping with pre as it presses it up against your lower tummy. “I want….I want to fuck…Can I fuck you?” Zoro hesitates, his claws pressing up against your hips. You giggle as you roll over onto your tummy with Zoro reaching over to grab one of your pillows to slide underneath you.

“You don’t have to ask me that baby~” You mewl, lifting your hips so Zoro could slide the pillow beneath your tummy. You arch your back and gasp out as you felt him slide his cock along your sticky slit. He growls out before pressing his chest up against your back. “Well…get ready.” He growls out, his head slowly sliding past your entrance. You moan out as you felt his cock slide inside of you, stretching you out with his girth before gasping out.

His tip kisses your cervix deeply and he begins to fuck you, not bothering to wait for you to get adjusted. You moan out painfully yet pleasureful as he fuck your cunt with snarls leaving past his lips. You grip the bedding below you both as he pounds into your pussy, his hips slapping hard against your ass as he fucked you hard yet deep into your pussy. “Mmgh~ Z-Zoro~” You gasp out, your pussy clenching tight around his cock as your walls clung tight and pulled him in.

He groans out, clenching his teeth tight as he huffs heavily into your ear. “That feels good huh? Is my dick making your pussy feel good?” Zoro asks you, pressing a smooch against your neck while breathing heavily. You moan out and nodded your head, your pussy practically melting around his cock. “Feels so fucking good Zoro~ J-Just like that please~” You mewl out shakily, your slick already drenching the pillowcase beneath your hips.

You moan out suddenly as he gropes your breasts, your hands gripping the quilt tightly as your toes begin to curl. You feel his tail curl around your calve while he continued to rut into you, his nails scratching your chest a bit. “F-Fuck Zoro~” You huff out, laying your head down on the bed as your walls began to twitch and spasm around his length. You feel Zoro lick your ear and you moan out suddenly as you begin to hear him whisper to you.

“Call me a good boy…please? I wanna hear you say it.” He purrs to you, making you giggle a little throughout your moan. “You want me to call you my good boy? You want praise baby?” You asked teasingly, moaning out before biting your lip a bit tight. Zoro nodded against your neck, a little gasp leaving him before he presses his hands down on either side of you. “You’re always fucking me so good Zoro, you’re such a good baby~ My good baby boy~” You hum out, praising Zoro for pounding your pussy so good.

“Fuck fuck again, say it again~ Please say it again baby~” Zoro moans out, his body shuddering against yours as his thrusts grew more ferocious and harsh. “O-Oh! Zoro~ You’re my good baby boy~ My baby knows how to fuck me so good doesn’t he?~” You gasp out, your eyes looking back at him as you sigh out lovingly. A sudden harsh thrust into your pussy knocks the wind out of your lungs and you gasp out suddenly while biting your lip. His tail twitches around your leg and he huffs out against your skin.

“Yes! Y-Yes Zoro right there!~” You gasp out, your walls tightening even more around his cock. He growls and fucks you at such a fast pace, the sound of his hips sloppily slapping against your ass, pounding into you while he gasps and purrs out. “F-Fuck~ I-I’m- I’m fucking close~” Zoro snarls into your ear, his hands grinning the quilt tight while he fucked your pussy into a sloppy mess. A white creamy ring began to form around at the base of his cock and also coated his length.

“I-I’m close too Zoro~ I-I want you to cum inside~ Fill me up please baby~” You begged, gasping out between your words. Zoro nods and moans out as he finally began to grow closer to his orgasm. You feel his cock twitch deep inside of your pussy and you mewl out as you felt yourself ready to cum on his length. “Fuck Zoro! Fuck I’m gonna cum!~” You gasp out, your feet nearly cramping from how long your toes were curling.

Zoro groans out, his hand gripping your hips tight and pulling you back onto his cock. You moan out and gasp before finally squirting out into his cock and on the pillow beneath your tummy. “Oh god~ Y-Yes Zoro!~” You moan out loudly, wiggling and grinding your hips on his cock. Zoro snarls and keeps your hips still against his, his cock spurting cum deep inside of your pussy and coating your walls in his thick white spunk.

You mewl out softly as he filled you up, nearly causing your pussy of be overfilled as his own seed coats his length in your own sticky mess. He huffs out and presses a smooch to your neck before sliding his tongue along your skin. “Hah~ Mmh fuck~” Zoro sighs out, grinding his cock against your cervix. He slowly pulls out of you, spilling his own seed out into the quilt and a bit on your own pillow.

“Turn around, turn over baby.” He demanded, his lips pressing smooches along your back. You smile and giggle to him before rolling over off of the pillow and onto your back.

“Anything for my baby boy~” You hum out, spreading your legs and spreading your pussy to him. He hums out hungrily and rubs his sticky cum-coated tip along your slit, making you moan out softly. He swiftly thrusts inside of you, making you gasp out and throw your head back.

His hands grip your thighs tightly and shoves your legs up high in the air as he begins to pound sloppily into your cum-filled pussy. “Mmgh~ Zorooo~” You moan out shakily to Zoro, moaning while he kept your legs up high. “Fuck your pussy feels good~ Can you squeeze my dick a bit tighter?~” Zoro hums out, his hand squeezing your thighs a bit more. You obey after he thrusts hard into your pussy once again, a mewl leaving you as you watching him slide his cock in and out of your sloppy pussy.

You stared down into his eye, his green eye staring deep at your fucked-out expression. You couldn’t help but moan out heavily while his cock massaged your walls wonderfully. “Oh god Zoro~ I-I wanna c-cum again~” You gasp out to him, your walls suffocating his cock. Zoro chuckle and presses his lips against yours, giving you a deep and sloppy smooch while he fucked your pussy.

“You wanna cum baby?” Zoro asked you as he pulled his lips away from yours, a string of saliva connecting your lips. “Y-Yes~ I-I wanna cum Zoro~” You moan out shakily, struggling to hold your orgasm back a bit longer. “Call me your good boy again and I’ll let you cum on my dick~” He whispers to you, sliding his tongue along your skin once again. “Mmm~ You love it when I praise you don’t you baby?” You hum out to him, a whine leaving you as Zoro slowly began to overstimulate you.

“Please…?” He begged, his fangs sliding along your skin. You mewl out and sigh heavily. “Will my good baby boy let me cum?~ Please let me cum baby~” You begged, your orgasm so close to the point where you were gonna cum without Zoro having to do much effort. Zoro huffs out and purrs as he begins to fuck you a bit faster, making you whine and mewl out against him.

“Fuck fuck! Fuck Zoro! I’m cumming!~” You gasp out and threw your head back as you squirt on his cock again, a heavy moan leaving your lips before your gasp out in unbearable pleasure.

Zoro groans out heavily as he cums deep into your pussy again, this time filling you up full with his seed. His cum slowly begins to seep out of your pussy, a satisfied moan leaving your lips as he releases your thighs.

He wraps his arms lovingly around your body and pulls you close, purring and groaning out as he kept his cock embedded deep inside of your pussy. “Ahh~ Good boy Zoro~ My baby~” You giggle, pressing a smooch to his cheek. He huffs out before burying his face into your neck once again, sighing out lovingly as he held on to you tightly.

You press a smooch to his lips and hum out sweetly yet softly to him. You feel Zoro rub his hand up against your lower tummy, mewling out before snuggling up against you. He pats your slightly inflated tummy a bit, humming in delight as he bears about the thought of having children.

The thought of seeing you swollen with his kittens, he couldn’t help but to grow feral at the thought. Hovering himself over you once again, you quirk a brow to him before smiling sweetly to him. “What’re you thinking about baby?” You asked him, tilting your head as you let out a heavy little sigh.

“I…wanna breed you. I want to see you full of my children deep inside of you~” He whispers to you, running his length along your sticky creamy slit once again. You giggle and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer to you while he stared into your eyes.

“Well? What’re you waiting for baby? Be my good baby and fill me up with your kittens~” You whisper out to him.

[rs-hawk]

For the 25 days of Kinkmas, how about a short fix-it for the Beauty and the Beast Christmas movie? Belle falls through the ice, Beast rescues her, but then he just throws her in the dungeon of the castle without even changing her out of her soaking wet, ice cold clothes! What if he instead took her to his bed to get her out of those clothes and warm her up against his big furry body?

I haven’t watched this since I had it on VHS as a kid so forgive me if I get any details wrong.

Kinkmas: Day Seven

The Beast

When the Beast rescued Belle from the freezing water, he couldn’t help the anger that burned his chest. She was cold to the touch, her breathing shallow and her face pale. He held her close to him as he patted her back, barely cringing as she coughed water up onto his fur.

She blinked and looked up at him, the frosty air making her lashes nearly freeze together. He looked… concerned? Frightened? She didn’t say anything as he carried her back to the castle, Philippe and Chip in tow. He hesitated by the tower stairs, considering tossing her there for her insolence, but then she sneezed, and his heart completely melted.

“I’ll get you warmed up,” he mummered, carrying her towards the West Wing.

“Is the Master taking her to his room?” Coggsworth asked as he saw the Beast walking away.

Chip nodded as he looked up at his mother, who has appeared as soon as she heard the door opening. “It appears so,” Mrs. Potts agreed, confused but curious.

The Beast didn’t say anything as he carried Belle through the ruined hallways, not even when she asked, in a weak and shaking voice, what had happened here. He covered her head so she wouldn’t see his ruined portrait. As he finally got to his room, he set her on his bed.

“Fire,” he growled at the fireplace, where it instantly lit up and danced with flames.

“Thank you,” she whispered as he rummaged through his wardrobe to gather thicker blankets and a coat for her.

“Why did you do that? Do you hate it here so much?” he gruffed as he tossed the thick blanket at her.

“No!” she exclaimed, taking off her soaking wet coat and cape to wrap herself up in the blanket. She wanted to take off the rest of her clothes, but was too embarrassed in front of him. “No,” she repeated when he turned to look at her. “I just… wanted to make you happy. I thought maybe if I brought the joy of Christmas back, maybe it would make you smile.”

“Make me smile?” he barked as he closed the distance between them grabbing her by her shoulders. “What if something happened to you? How would that make me smile? You’re the only thing that’s made me feel anything since-,” he cut himself off, his grip on her loosening.

“Beast,” she says in that gentle tone, picking up one of his big paws and putting it to her face. It was nearly as big as her entire head. “Why don’t you come with me to pick out a Christmas tree?”

He didn’t say anything, but she started shivering again, and coughed softly. “Let’s get you out of those clothes.”

He started to slide down her sleeves, but her delicate hands stopped him. “Maybe I should go back to my room and change?”

“You don’t have to,” he said quietly as he let one of his claws trail down her chest and stomach, pushing the frigid fabric more against her skin. “You see me in a near state of undress all the time.”

She considered this, because it was true. He essentially only wore shorts around her at all times. Would it be so bad? Before she could make up her mind, worrying her lower lip between her lips. Just as she was about to still say no, she would go change, he propped himself up on one arm, sliding off his shorts.

“There, now you have nothing to feel nervous about,” he said in a gruff voice.

Her face flushed as she looked up at him, consciously not looking down.

“W-well, I suppose,” she said as she slipped out of her dress, letting him pull her close to him.

His fur was warm and made him feel cuddly. She buried her face in the fur of his neck and she let out a soft sigh of content. Maybe she could stay here. Maybe, she could be happy here.

[bbyseok]

pairing: bakugou katsuki x reader

cw: fantasy au with dragon king bakugou n soft cuddles all around

analysis: bakugou katsuki—he’s the fearsome king of dragons.. but away from prying eyes and behind closed doors, he’s also the king of cuddles.

—-—

the soft furs of the oversized bed are something you can happily drown in, you decide. thick and heavy that chase away any cold, soft as clouds.

pops and crackles from the flames of the fireplace from the side of the bedroom bring a nice ambience. an idle noise that you associate with warmth.

but the beast that lays between the space of your legs with his head nestled on your tummy is what completes the epitome of your comfort.

you absentmindedly play with bakugou’s hair, and with a hum, you decide it’s even softer than the bed furs.

little purrs escape from him every now and then with your attention, but he’s made you swear not to speak a word on it a while ago. (how cute.)

even though you’re somewhat propped up with the mass amount of pillows and blankets, you crane your neck to see your king’s face.

“katsuki? are you awake?” you pry softly, pushing some of his hair back gently to expose his forehead, and more importantly, the sleepy (and pouty!) look he offers.

he blinks owlishly at you once, then twice. “no.”

you can’t help but breathe an airy laugh at that, fingers still in his hair as you take in his features. “no?”

“shut up.” it’s spoken gruffly as he buries his face back into your stomach with a tired groan.

“aww, katsu,” you coo, ignoring his grumbles, “that’s no way to speak to your mate.”

“right now, i think my mate should be quiet.”

well, if he was gonna be like that then..

silently, you retract your hands from his hair and rest your arms above you with a small huff.

he only lasts three seconds before he’s glancing up at you again with his brows furrowed. he glares.

you simply raise a brow down at him.

he growls grumpily and reaches up for your arm, dragging it back down so you can resume petting him. “oi, dumbass. didn’t say stop.”

even with your hand back in the nest of blonde hair, you don’t make any moves. you keep staring down at him, biting back a giggle.

he growls again. “what? what’s up with you?”

you merely tilt your head, lips pouting ever so slightly. he had told you to be quiet after all!

katsuki brings your other arm down, his own lips prominent in showing his usual scowl. except this one is terribly sleepy.

still, you don’t return his advances, squinting down at him. he can figure it out himself. silly dragon king.

so you have an intense staring contest that carries over for five seconds before he lets loose another one of those growling grumbles.

“fine, fine,” he relents, now subtly pouting himself. he huffs. “..‘m sorry. don’t.. be quiet.”

you huff and smirk in victory, and yet your hands still remain still. “that’s what i thought, katsu.”

he rolls his eyes. “yeah, yeah. you gonna give me what i want now?”

you’re still smirking, and you can tell he wants to wipe it off your face. (actually kiss it off, but he’s not gonna tell you that.) “well, what do you want?”

“don’t play dumb with me,” he threatens lazily, lifting his head a bit. “you know what i want.”

and then you laugh. “alright, alright.” finally, you ruffle your hand through his hair, your other sliding down to cradle his cheek.

katsuki’s eyes close with bliss and he sighs quietly. “mm..”

“get some rest, my king,” you murmur, guiding his head back down to rest on your tummy. “i’ll be here in the morning.”

a purr rumbles from katsuki then, and his arms pull you in closer. “good night,” he mumbles.

who would’ve thought—the great barbaric dragon king.. so calm ‘n peaceful. reduced to nothing but a purring mess with his human mate.

[hogwartslegacyreactions2]

Can I have a reaction to Hogwarts Legacy students and professors to a female hufflepuff MC who owns a chinchilla

They have the softest fur on the planet

Only eat hay and special pellets ( no fruit or veggies in their diet) they can have certain dried herds and flowers though

Sorry about all the chin facts I own one

My little girl is all white with dark grey ears and some grey on her face and base of her tail with the pinkest noise

Please and thank you

A/N: I've had the honor of petting one once, they are the softest creature in the world ❤️ Thank you for the reference photo ❤️❤️

HLC REACT TO F!MC HAVING A CHINCHILLA

SEBASTIAN SALLOW: "What in Merlin's name- no, forget Merlin, what in the world is that??" He squints and looks real close at it. Gets right up in the floofy rodent's face. So close that the chinchilla sniffs his nose back. He huffs and gives a little smirk. "Adorable...just like its owner." He throws a cheeky wink at MC.

OMINIS GAUNT: He trusts MC wouldn't put anything terrible in his hand when he was asked to hold it out. He feels the light weight of a small soft creature on his palm. He brings his free hand up to lightly pet it and he smiles. "It's quite soft, MC. Is this another one of your beasts?" He doesn't give the chinchilla back for quite some time, they even take a nap together.

ANNE SALLOW: "I've never seen anything like it!" She gazes in amazement and holds out a treat MC gave her to give to it. She's very curious about the chinchilla; where it came from, how long has MC had it, etc. She hopes MC brings it with her every time she visits.

IMELDA REYES: "Is that a rat in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?" MC's chinchilla was indeed hanging out in her pocket. She tells the same joke every time MC is around in the hope she'll get to see the baby. She doesn't lose her mind over its cuteness but she wants to pet it every time it's around.

NATSAI ONAI: She sneaks extra snacks for the chinchilla all the time. She also lets it sleep in her robe if MC is busy. She loves pet sitting. She's also fascinated by the chinchillas tiny hands, they can grab things??? Like a people??? Weird.

GARRETH WEASLEY: He's never seen fur like what the chinchilla has. He's very curious if it has any unique properties. Don't worry, he would dare take a pair of scissors to such a precious creature, but when MC is cleaning its cage, will she spare a few furballs?

LEANDER PREWETT: He struggles to maintain his composer when MC is carrying around the little fluff ball all curled up in her arm. It's. Too. Cute. It's unfair how cute it is! When MC lets him hold it for the first time, he cries. He's not allergic, his eyes are sweating. Stop pointing it out.

AMIT THAKKAR: His only hang up with the chinchilla is that it chews on everything. All of his books have teeth marks on them from the chinchilla sneaking a nibble when no one was looking. Nevermind his quills, parchment, shoes, and even his wand. Is nothing sacred?? He's gained the habit of watching it like a hawk when MC brings it around.

EVERETT CLOPTON: "Hehehehe, Levioso." Whoosh the chinchilla is in the air and very confused. Any retaliation from MC is worth it. It's funny watching the little chinchilla get so confused by suddenly leaving the ground.

POPPY SWEETING: She has to cover her mouth to muffle the squee that escapes her as to not draw attention, but she is losing her mind. The chinchilla is the absolute cutest thing she has ever seen and that is saying a lot. She steals the chinchilly away every chance she gets, straight up runs off. Her chinchilla now, bish.

~~~

ELEAZAR FIG: He doesn't mind pet sitting when MC is out and about for extended periods of time. He and the chinchilla get along quite well. However, when he himself gets buried in work sometimes he loses track and has to go digging through his office to find where the chinchilla scampered off to.

MATILDA WEASLEY: "As long as you follow the pet guidelines set by the school, your unique pet is welcome. That said, this is quite the curious creature. How did you acquire this?" She studies the chinchilla and gets it a little pat.

CHIYO KOGAWA: "Cute." Is all she says about it. She's not a big pet person. Nothing personal.

AESOP SHARP: His initial reaction is just a dismissive "hmm" when MC shows it off, but later on, if the chinchilla escapes, it finds its way to the dungeons and into his classroom where it sits in his lap and he mindlessly strokes its soft fur. It's very therapeutic. Would want to pet again.

ABRAHAM RONEN: "A chinchilla! Holy guacamole those are rare in these parts. Where did you get it?" He examines the chinchilla closely and rubs its ear.

MIRABEL GARLICK: "Oh my, aren't you just the most darling thing I've seen!" She excitably comes over the chinchilla and bounces in place when she gets to pet it. "Oh! It's so impossibly soft!" She orders seeds of plants native to Western South America and grows a few just for MC's pet.

MUDIWA ONAI: "Well, this is one unique creature. I see you two have a very special bond." She delights seeing the chinchilla.

BAI HOWIN: She reminds MC to keep plenty of fine dust available for their pet to roll in. "Scotland gets a lot of precipitation and moisture isn't good for their coats. Keep them dry and healthy." She hands the little chinchilla a pellet.

DINAH HECAT: She smiles as she pets it. "I had a chinchilla when I was little. Stole it from a merchant who wasn't too good at taking care of his merchandise. Nursed him back to health. Had him for twelve long years. Good years..." She tears up a little, but makes no fuss of it.

CUTHBERT BINNS: He doesn't really notice. Thinks the chinchilla is an extra small puffskien or something.

SATYAVATI SHAH: "No thank you, I do not wish to pet your chinchilla. Please finish your star charts." Doesn't even look up from her work.

PHINEAS NIGELLUS BLACK: "Ew, take your fat squirrel and get out of my way. I have important business to attend." He walks away with his nose in the air.

[that-foul-legacy-lover]

Your bird adeptus reader posts have me gnawing at the bars of my enclosure theyre so good

Okay okey I see your Bird Adeptus Reader and I raise you one Dragon Adeptus Reader, bonus points for that “not quite mastered shapeshifting yet” human disguise that has reader running around with dragon features.

This doesnt have to be considered a request but I feel compelled to share my thoughts with you in gratitude for the absolutely fantastic works you put out okey brainrot time lets go

Bumping foreheads with Foul Legacy like cats (lets be real here dragons are just lizard hardware running cat software) and having to be extra careful because of y’all’s horns so that makes it even more special. Or reader kneeling to like meditate or something, their tail is swishing behind them, and Legacy goes “!” before swatting at reader’s tail because he’s just Abyssal Moth Beast hardware running cat software.

A Dragon Adeptus would likely be very durable as well, so Legacy doesn’t have to worry about squeezing reader while cuddling or knocking into them by accident; they’re still soft and squishy and cute, but very very sturdy and able to handle all that Moth Affection.

Mutual purring, also another good thought. Legacy likes shiny objects, reader is compelled to hoard shiny objects: you really cannot lose in this situation.

It’s cat-like creatures solidarity babey!!

*unlocks your enclosure* i like the way you think anon

amongst dragons and dragon-type creatures you're considered a bit of an oddity. dragons are grand, powerful beasts that command attention or at least respect, like your secondary caretaker Zhongli (Cloud Retainer is still your adoptive mother- just because you're not the same type of adeptus doesn't mean you're not her child!) but you're smaller with softer scales and a long tail with a tuft on the end of it, still plenty durable and armed with sharp claws and adeptal powers, but you don't really have the same intimidating presence as most dragons. that's just fine with you, though- you're far more content keeping to yourself and spending time with Foul Legacy, who, in contrast, looks strong and vicious but has the softest, sweetest personality you've ever encountered, and that includes the few humans you've met and your fellow adepti

you both share several of the same habits, being essentially cats covered in either scales or armor with you being slightly more put together so you can listen to people's wishes and prayers, meditating for a couple of hours each day. whenever you sit down and close your eyes Foul Legacy always sneaks up behind you, not to spook you or anything, just to playfully bat at your tail as you work- you've taken to handing him a brush whenever he does, feeling him happily comb through the tuft of fur on the end. once he tied a little bell around it and broke into chitters of delight when you stood and instantly started jingling. you got your revenge by adoring his horns with some of the ribbons and ornaments you have for yourself- although, he seems to rather like it, so now you take a few minutes each day to pick out accessories for each other's horns, and you have plenty of shiny items to choose from

napping together is essential, particularly in sunny patches of grass. the warmth makes both of you drowsy and lethargic, Legacy nuzzling his head against your cheek and your tail wrapping around his leg. if you're particularly tired you'll change into your draconic form and completely curl around your very happy Abyssal beast, your purrs synchronizing with his. you also nap together in the most smushed clingy positions, since you want to be as close as possible- someone's face is always buried in someone's neck or chest, at all times. Legacy does make a point to be more alert in sleep than you are- you seem to fall into the deepest sleep whenever you doze, maybe it's something to do with you being a reptilian adeptus- just in case someone comes walking by, so he can wake you and help you cover your horns and tail

[peppermintquartz]

Beauty & the Beast AU, where Tommy really is a beast, and things get a little steamy between them. But Tommy is not proud of what he currently is.

idea from here

---

It's the touch of Evan's hands over his muzzle that undoes Tommy. Fearless, gentle. Evan's fingers drop to Tommy's mouth and slide in to feel sharp, deadly teeth.

Tommy's mouth drops opens slightly, terrified yet aroused, as Evan touches every single fang. They both know that Tommy can snap his jaw shut and take Evan's fingers with ease. But Evan doesn't even tremble. His long fingers touch the tip of Tommy's tongue, and almost involuntarily Tommy opens his mouth wider, lets his tongue loll out. Just like the beast he is.

Except Evan only strokes the length of it, his own breathing growing heavier. The blended scents of their arousal becomes more intense, mingling with the woody ashy smell of the fire. Tommy knows he is drooling, and the way Evan is caressing his tongue is not helping, and he doesn't even dare to imagine what a horribly bestial image he is presenting. A real monster.

Evan soon takes his hand away, and Tommy can close his mouth now, try to swallow, try to regain some dignity. His heart is pounding so hard in his chest, he wonders why Evan isn't commenting on it. This is the first time since he was cursed that anyone has gotten this close.

Then he feels Evan's hand stroking down his furred torso, reaching down to the heated length between Tommy's legs.

Tommy whimpers. "Evan, stop."

Evan stops. He buries his fingers into the soft, dense fur of Tommy's belly and starts giving Tommy the scratches he adores, the belly scratches that calm him down. "Sorry. Was I going too fast for you?"

"You shouldn't..." Tommy gulps, and finally he opens his eyes, the first time since Evan kissed him that night. Evan is aglow, his clothes discarded in a pile by their feet, the firelight burnishing him in copper and gold. Tommy wants to weep at the beautiful man in his arms. He does not deserve him. "Evan, you shouldn't have to touch me when... when I'm just... just this. You don't have to... to desecrate yourself."

Evan exhales slowly and brushes back the thick mane on Tommy's head and over his shoulders. Then he reaches up to grab one of the heavy, coiled horns and tugs, making sure that Tommy is looking directly at him. Evan's blue eyes are blown dark, wells of deep night.

"Lord Thomas Kinard," says Evan calmly, "this is not desecration. This is me, deciding to be yours. I don't care that you're not human. i got myself here knowing that. I care about making both of us feel good, together." He skates his free hand over Tommy's face again, his fingers digging into the thick mane. "When you told me to stop, is it because you didn't want me to touch you, or because you think I should not touch you?"

Tommy trembles and doesn't speak. Evan tightens his grip on Tommy's mane, pulls himself closer. "Tell me the truth, please. Do you like me touching you?"

"...yes."

"Do you want me to touch you more intimately? Not - not whether it is right to do so or not. But do you want it?"

Swallowing his shame, Tommy mumbles, "...yes."

Buck sighs and nuzzles as closely as he can, releasing Tommy's horn and the mane. "Then I will continue. And after that, if you feel that it's been just me mauling you, you can lick me all over. Taste every inch of my skin."

The blood in Tommy's veins rush to his thick erection, the one he has tried his best to ignore whenever it wanted his attention the past few years. But Evan only makes a sound of appreciation when he feels it between their bodies.

"I think you like that idea," Evan coos. He skims his hands down. "Alright then. Let me help you feel good, and then you can make me feel good. I know you can make me feel so, so good."

And as Evan touches him, Tommy thinks that there's a different kind of magic, and finally, finally allows himself to be loved.

[thecreaturecodex]

Dream Lord, Manus

"Artorias vs Manus" © twitter user Max58Art, accessed at The Art of Video Games here

[Sponsored by Soluman Blevins. Manus is the Bonus Boss of Dark Souls, whose lore is deeply woven into the game but can only be fought in an expansion. In universe, his title is Father of the Abyss, but the Abyss in Dark Souls and the Abyss in D&D/Pathfinder are two very different things. So I struggled for a while of where to put him. As a nascent demon lord? As a Great Old One? I finally decided on Dream Lord, a category of my own invention, which at this point is made up of demigods from video games whose lore and magic systems do not intersect nicely with any form of Pathfinder canon. The Plateau of Leng seems like a reasonable place for the litany of nightmares From Software creates.]

Dream Lord, Manus CR 25 CE Outsider (extraplanar) This creature is vaguely humanoid, but its form has clearly been warped and distorted past the point of caricature. His head is small, with a leering demonic face and a set of antlers. His shoulders are enormous, and multiple sets of rib-like appendages grow from his shoulders and along his upper back, studded with luminous red eyes. His right arm is proportional and carries a staff with a scythe-like blade. His left arm is as thick as his torso, ending in a massive hairy paw with spikes on the underside of the fingers. Shaggy fur, or perhaps simply ribbons of gray-black skin, coat his thighs and a long, lashing tail.

Father of the Chasm, God of Primal Darkness, the Dark Soul CE male Dream Lord of loss, negative energy and obsession Domains Chaos, Darkness, Evil, Madness Subdomains Entropy, Insanity, Loss, Shadow Worshipers denizens of Leng, hoarders, stalkers, vampires Minions mutants, nightshades, shadows, sorrowsworn Unholy Symbol An oversized hand Favored Weapon ogre hook Obedience in complete darkness, spend one hour cutting, whipping or otherwise tearing your skin while meditating on an object or a person you once had in your life but have lost. Gain a +4 profane bonus on saving throws versus positive or negative energy. Once this choice is made, it cannot be reversed Boons 1: darkness 2/day; 2: enervation 2/day; 3: harm 2/day

Manus is a nightmarish beast of darkness, an infection that seeks to cause the horrors of Leng to overrun the Waking World. He was also once a man. The original Manus was a powerful magic user, according to his cult the first mortal to manipulate negative energy. Although his methods were cruel and his goals covetous, he was considered a great hero by his people and was buried with high honors. When his grave was robbed, however, his pendant was stolen from it. The pendant was broken, and whatever magic it contained had long seeped out of it, but Manus’ obsessive desire to reclaim his property caused his soul and memory to go wild, transforming into a creature of pure nightmare. Manus’ mausoleum is now the heart of the Chasm of the Abyss, a demiplane coterminous between Leng and the Material Plane, and it is here where the Father of the Chasm resides.

Manus wants things. His broken pendant most of all. His cultists sweep the planes searching for this relic, and whatever they find instead, they offer as tribute. Manus’ lair contains piles and piles of valuables, the riches of a dozen realities and a thousand kingdoms, and he cares for none of it except his amulet. Of course, it is the nature of his madness that if Manus ever retrieved his broken pendant, he would certainly find a new indignity to focus on and object or person to obsess over. He also collects hostages, although he rarely exchanges them and more often warps them into mutants or madmen through his very presence. Manus’ worshipers are as obsessive as he is, and his faith is attractive to stalkers, hoarders, social climbers and other people with warped and envious desires.

Combat is one of the few things that allows Manus to forget his pain and obsessions, and tends to attack first and ask questions of the corpses of his victims later. Although he is a powerful spellcaster, he usually leads with his physical attacks. He uses his channel negative energy ability to empower the Manus Catalyst, his signature hooked staff. Against multiple opponents, he tries to spread his attacks out, enjoying the suffering he causes before finishing them off with a mighty swat of his grotesquely hypertrophied hand. He usually doesn’t use his signature supernatural attack, in which he fires globes of cold and negative energy at his enemies, until reduced to below half hit points. Manus has not needed to flee a combat for thousands of years, and his arrogance and obsession is likely to lead him to fight to the death.

Manus Catalyst (minor artifact) Slot none; Aura strong necromancy; CL 21st; Weight 20 lbs. The Manus Catalyst is Manus’ signature weapon. It is a Large +1 unholy brilliant energy ogre hook that acts as a void scythe for the purposes of channeling negative energy and consuming the bodies of those it kills. The wielder can activate its brilliant energy property or dismiss it on command. A creature that holds the Manus Catalyst gains a +2 to the save DC of all spells and spell-like abilities that it uses of the necromancy school.

Manus CR 25 XP 1,640,000 CE Huge outsider (chaos, evil, extraplanar) Init +10; Senses blindsense 120 ft., darkvision 60 ft., Perception +42, see in darkness Aura lost humanity (240 ft.)

Defense AC 43, touch 23, flat-footed 37(-2 size, +6 Dex, +9 deflection, +20 natural) hp 585 (30d10+420); regeneration 20 (lawful) Fort +24, Ref +23, Will +26 DR 20/lawful and epic; Immune bleed, charm, compulsion, cold, death effects, disease, poison, sleep; Resist electricity 20; SR 36 Defensive Abilities fortification (50%), freedom of movement, negative energy affinity, shield of dreams

Offense Speed 50 ft. Melee Manus Catalyst +45/+40/+35/+30 (2d8+19/19-20 x3 plus 2d6 unholy), slam +46 (4d8+36), gore +41 (2d8+9), tail slap +41 (1d12+9) or slam +46 (4d8+36), gore +46 (2d8+18), tail slap +41 (1d12+9) Space 15 ft.; Reach 15 ft. Special Attacks awesome strike, channel negative energy (10d6, DC 34, 14/day), dark orb barrage, frenzy (30 rounds/day), oversized arm, profane channeling Spell-like Abilities CL 25th, concentration +34 Constant—freedom of movement, tongues At will—arcane sight, call spirit (DC 24), confusion (DC 23), deeper darkness, enervation, inflict critical wounds (DC 25), psychic reading, unhallow 3/day—blasphemy (DC 26), finger of death (DC 28), greater dispel magic, quickened harm (DC 27), hungry darkness, insanity (DC 26) 1/day—curse of night, divide mind, energy drain (DC 30), gate (to Plateau of Leng, Chasm of the Abyss or Material Plane only), summon (1 advanced nightcrawler, 100%, 9th level), wail of the banshee (DC 30)

Statistics Str 46, Dex 23, Con 39, Int 24, Wis 29, Cha 28 Base Atk +30; CMB +52 (+54 bull rush, overrun); CMD 77 (79 vs. bull rush, overrun) Feats Awesome Blow, Blind Fight, Charge Through, Combat Reflexes, Extra Channel, Greater Vital Strike, Improved Bull Rush, Improved Critical (ogre hook), Improved Initiative, Improved Overrun, Improved Vital Strike, Lucid Dreamer (B), Power Attack, Quicken SLA (harm), Stand Still, Vital Strike Skills Appraise +40, Climb +48, Intimidate +39, Knowledge (arcana, planes, religion) +40, Knowledge (dungeoneering, history) +37, Perception +50, Sense Motive +42, Spellcraft +40, Stealth +39, Survival +39; Racial Modifiers +8 Perception,+8 Stealth Languages Aklo, Common, Necril, Shadowtongue, tongues

Ecology Environment underground (Chasm of the Abyss) Organization unique Treasure triple standard

Special Abilities Aura of Lost Humanity (Su) Any humanoid that spends 24 hours within 240 feet of Manus must make a Fortitude save or gain the mutant template. The save DC starts at 10, then increases by +2 every day until it reaches its maximum DC, 34. If a creature is transformed in this fashion, it must make a Will save at the same DC or become chaotic evil in alignment. The save DC is Charisma based. Awesome Strike (Ex) When Manus uses makes a single attack using his Vital Strike chain of feats, he may make a combat maneuver as if using Awesome Blow if it hits with this attack. Channel Energy (Su) Manus can channel negative energy as if he were a 20th level cleric. He does not gain other cleric class abilities, such as spells or domains. Dark Orb Barrage (Su) As a standard action, Manus can fire a barrage of orbs of destructive darkness. Manus makes a single ranged touch attack against all creatures in a 60 foot cone. A creature struck takes 25d6 points of damage, half of which is cold and half is negative energy. A creature struck by a dark orb must succeed a DC 34 Fortitude save or be blinded for 1d4+1 rounds. This save DC is Charisma based. Manus can use this ability at will, but must wait 1d4 rounds between uses. Dream Lord Traits (Ex/Su) Manus is a dream lord, a powerful outsider native to the Dimension of Dreams. Dream lords gain the following abilities:

Immune to charm, compulsion, disease, poison and sleep effects

Immune to one energy type and resistance to another two energy types. Instead of being one of his resistances, Manus is immune to bleed and death effects.

A dream lord’s natural weapons, and any weapon it wields, count as chaotic and magical for the purpose of overcoming damage reduction

Occult (Ex) A dream lord gains Lucid Dreamer as a bonus feat, and can use  occult skill unlocks even if it lacks other psychic magic

Shield of Dreams (Su) A dream lord adds its Charisma modifier as a deflection bonus to its AC and CMD

Summon (Sp) Once per day, a dream lord can summon a CR 19 or lower encounter of thematically appropriate monsters.

Dream lords can grant spells to worshipers as detailed in their divine information. A worshiper can gain boons from performing an obedience to a dream lord, as per the Deific Obedience feat, but the boons granted are simple, appearing as a 2nd, 4th and 6th level spell usable as a spell-like ability twice per day.

Frenzy (Su) Manus can act as if under a haste spell for a number of rounds a day equal to his Hit Dice. Activating or ending this ability is a free action. Oversized Arm (Ex) Manus’ left arm always makes slam attacks as a primary natural weapon, even when Manus is wielding manufactured weapons. He deals twice his Strength modifier to damage with his slam attack. Manus’ slam deals bludgeoning and piercing damage. Profane Channeling (Su) Whenever Manus uses his channel negative energy, he can choose to do so as a swift action, to maximize the damage dealt (or healed), or double the area of the effect. Manus can choose only one of these enhancements at a time.

[pricegouge]

I'm really struggling with the next (last?) chapter of fatted rabbit so I wrote a stupid little non-canonical drabble instead. Takes place before John would've told bunny about him being a shifter.

This was written on my phone when I was supposed to be mingling at a brewery, whoops. Have a pic of the view to make up for how rushed this is lmao

Just fluff beneath the cut but still, MDNI please!

John frowns at the Ikea box on his stoop for a moment, wondering what the odds are that the one time the UPS driver manages to find his actual personal door - round the back of the building as it is - is for a misdelivery. A quick inspection of the box, however, reveals it is addressed correctly - care of a certain bunny who's probably upstairs right now cooking them dinner, still insisting she's not slowly moving herself into his place because she's a stubborn thing.

Well, it's not often you use a friend's mailing address. Less often you buy them cheap furniture.

He can't help a sly smirk as he ducks to pick up the package, frowns again when he nearly launches it through the awning after finding the box is much lighter than flat pack furniture should ever be. Curious, John gives it a shake, but the soft thump is just as mysterious as unexpectedly light weight. He's still puzzling when he finds bunny in the kitchen shucking fresh corn as the smell of chicken rushes to greet him. John hums appreciatively and the rabbit smiles, leans up to accept the kiss he plants on her cheek.

"Smells good honey," he tells her, nose very much buried in her hair.

"Mm, so do you." She abandons her task to turn and sink her nose in his chest as she's grown wont to do when he first gets home, but she's distracted mid turn by the oversized box he's got perched on his hip. "Oh!" she peeps and John shakes it at her.

"What's this, rabbit?" He teases. "You nesting?"

She ignores the jab, grins in embarrassment instead, "Now, don't be mad."

John places the box on the counter, careful of her piles of corn. He places a kiss on her forehead and keeps his lips pressed close as he assures her he's not. "You can fill my place with as much cheap furniture as you want, bunny."

She wrinkles her nose at him, pulls a clean knife from the block. "I'd never presume that much," she assures.

"Lot of curtains, then," John scoffs as he eyes the size of the box. Would explain the weight.

"Mm, might take you up on that yet." She pulls the box open to reveal a big mass of soft brown fabric and her smile nearly cracks her face in half. But when John tries to get a better look, she snaps the flaps of the boxes down quick as can be. "Don't be mad, and don't laugh at me, either," she demands.

John squints at her, takes a subtle sniff of the air which she somehow manages to catch, her own sly smirk growing. He ignores it in favor of shifting past the hearty smells of dinner to find the fresh packaging scent and beneath it, the cotton and polyester twinge of the actual product she's ordered. A blanket?

"I promise," he chuckles and bunny's cheeks dimple with her returning smile.

"Well, I spend most nights here at this point, and I found myself missing my friend the bear," she explains as she re-opens the box. John takes in the mass of brown fur again, mouth twitching in amused understanding even before she removes the squished beast from its nest and gives it a good fluff. The plush bear's head flops limply a few times before she squeals and kisses it, shakes it at him in demonstration. "I was missing my bear, so I went and ordered myself one! And look, I can cuddle this one!"

The stuffie is frankly huge. Slightly saggy, but in an endearing sort of way. Fluffy enough, if the way the rabbit clings to it is any indication, anyway. "You can," John agrees blandly. He reaches out to give the thing a squeeze on its frumpy butt. Not as densely padded as him, he notes with a small chuff of pride.

"Innit cute?" Bunny sing-songs as she uses one of its paws to stroke John's cheek. It's fur is lacking, but he doesn't tell her that.

"Very," he asserts, tries to convince himself. The stuffie stares apathetically back at him from oversized doll's eyes. He can't help but huff at it.

"Oh don't worry, I'll still cuddle you too," the rabbit promises before unceremoniously chucking the giant teddy into the living room where it lands precisely in John's spot on the couch with a dull fwump.

John frowns at it a moment before turning back to bunny with a forced smile. "Not jealous of a stuffed bear, honey." He's not, damnit. Just a little miffed that she apparently thinks he's not a good enough snuggler, is all.

A suspicious hum. "Think my bear would be?"

She sounds far too sly, eyes him from under her lashes with much too perceptive eyes. John busies himself with checking on the chicken, hackles raised. "Depends… you trading up?"

"Hm. Mister man's yet to offer a cuddle party so apples to oranges, I guess."

John huffs, turns to properly see her. "Well, did you ever bother to ask him?"

"The bear? No..." She straightens up, meets John's eyes unflinchingly. "Would the bear like to snuggle?"

There's a crease forming between his brows, he can feel it. "Not if you go 'round smelling like other bears, I don't think." He forces a chuckle, nods at the big stuffie in the living room illustratively.

The rabbit grins, far too many teeth for such a fluffy little creature. "But if I go around smelling like you, that's fine?"

"Evidently?"

She nods once. "Apples to oranges?"

"Erm. Precisely, yeah."

The rabbit stares him down a moment longer. Another. John twitches and all at once the spell lifts. Bunny smiles wide and shrugs, returns to her corn. "Makes sense," she comments and John nearly sags in relief, although he's not sure what for.

Later, as they're climbing into bed for the night, John notes he's not being pushed off the bed by some overgrown teddy with some relief. "Where's your new friend, bunny?"

She hums in contentment as he scoops her to his chest, snuffles into the hair there. "He can stay on the couch, I guess. Don't wanna make my bear jealous."

next>>

[dross-the-fish]

The Creature stood, towering over him at a greater height than any man, living or undead, Watson had previously encountered. He was a fearsome looking brute, hulking and draped in furs with a tangled curtain of ink-black hair obscuring his face. The great head perched on top of his broad shoulders was angled in a watchful tilt, like a bird of prey glowering down at a mouse. It did not help that his yellow eyes were unblinking and so piercing they seemed almost to glow. A gap in his ratty furs exposed a translucent patch of skin on the Creature’s chest that showed the occasional twitch of his red-brown muscles and pulsing veins beneath, the only visible proof of life from a body that was otherwise inhumanly still. The monstrosity spoke: “Why do you entice me to abandon my solitude? If you have come to hunt me trickery is ill-advised. I’ll wager I am more cunning than you have anticipated and ten-fold as strong. Begone or I will bury you among those other enemies that have tried their hand at my destruction and failed!” His voice boomed across the quiet tundra like thunder and Watson, though not a cowardly man by any means, could not help himself but to take a retreating step back from the force of it. Seeing the older man falter Quincey tensed and raised his rifle but before he could take aim Watson caught his eye and shook his head, gesturing for him to hold his fire. He squared his shoulders and moved closer to the Frankenstein monster.

“We don’t mean any harm!” He held up his hands to the creature in a pacifying gesture, “We were hoping that you could help us,” he came to a halt only a few paces away. Close enough to the Creature that the party could not safely shoot without the risk of hitting Watson in the crossfire. The gesture was not lost on the monster and his black lips lifted in a bemused and half-mad smile, “What is this tactic then? Be wary! If you come closer you will be within arm’s reach and your fellows shan’t save you if I wish to set my hand upon your throat.” Rather than frighten him the creature’s warnings emboldened Watson to step closer. He came to rest a foot away and gazed cooly into the being’s eyes, “I suspect, that if you truly wanted to kill me you would have already tried to do so. You’ve been watching us for days, you could have picked us off any time you wanted but you didn’t. You must have realized from the start that we were following you but you haven’t tried to confront us until now,” he may not have had Holmes’s powers of deduction but Watson had learned how to observe the mannerisms people over the years and, undead or not, the pattern of the Creature’s behavior was not that of a beast or monster. It was the cautious and measured reaction of a man. Watson had seen it many times over the years, in criminals who were fearful of the punishment of the law yet weary of hiding. He recognized well the ravages of isolation and guilt on the Creature’s face and he was wagering that if he could just show the Creature that there was no threat, the party could gain their ally. The monster hesitated; his face contorted, on the cusp of violence or tears, Watson was uncertain which, but caution had already been discarded and he was unwilling to waste his opening, “I think, and if I am mistaken, we will leave you in peace, but perhaps you're tired of living in exile here in this frozen wasteland. Would you at least be willing to sit and hear out our proposal?” he asked, “Surely you cannot decline a polite invitation to a warm fire and a cup of hot tea!”

The Creature threw back his terrible head and let out a harsh, barking, laugh that rattled in hideous peals from his sewn throat, “Shall we be civil then? Do you invite me to break bread with you at your merry campfire and you’ll speak to me as though I am human? As though I am not a damned and miserable wretch? I know you have my maker’s journal and no doubt you want me to decipher the secrets within. Let me dash your hopes. If you wish to replicate the process of my animation it is lost. Victor burnt those pages to ash and his secrets died with him,” at the name of his creator the laughter cut off with an anguished sob, matted locks of hair clinging to cheeks wet with more than melted snow, “Do not offer me comforts, there is no greater cruelty you can do me now than to instill in me false hopes and give empty kindness. Leave this barren rock and leave me to my purgatory where I can no longer harm mankind, nor it harm me.” As the monster began to turn away Watson reached forward and laid a firm hand on his arm, “I will not!” he insisted, “Even if you cannot help us, I see no reason you should stay here. You may not be doing any harm but you’re not atoning either. You’ve been here for 100 years and you’ve done nothing with that time except haunt this blasted rock like a ghost and scare away ships! I insist that you sit with us, hear us out, and if you still feel like you want to spend the rest of your days rotting away here at the north pole then so be it. We won’t force you to come with us!” The Creature growled in warning but Watson was resolute and he pushed on “I want you to think on it, you may not be doing evil here but what good are you bringing into the world?”

the Creature froze, shocked at his boldness, “Do you believe it? After reading the journal, do you believe goodness is still in my capacity?” his voice had taken a desperate edge and Watson knew his instincts had been correct. “Yes,” he said insistently, holding the Creature’s gaze, “I have seen the most unrepentant monsters pull themselves from the brink and lead good, honest lives. I’ve seen men do the right thing even as the world was against them and we’re offering you a chance to do the same. You likely won’t get another, so I’ll ask you again,” he tightened his grip on the creature’s arm, “Will you sit and hear us out?”

[scholastic-dragon]

F or GN Reader x Rocket. 24, 14, 3. Or one of these please. Whichever you prefer or want to write about, totally up to your ideas / passions

oh, i'm doing all three

3. taking a photo of your lover when they're beaming

14. "i think i might be in love with you"

24. roasting each other for their embarrassing moments late at night

Rocket x Fem!reader

Picture Perfect

Warnings: talking of drinking, alcohol consumption (no ones actually drunk), talk about undies (a thong), spelling mistakes, established relationship, soft!rocket, Rockets a cutie patootie.

Rocket stared down at the tablet in his hands, fighting the tears that threatened to spill out with his laughter.

"I can't believe you got a picture of this!" He laughed, wiping at his eyes, his body shaking and moving the tablet with each inhale.

You bit your lip to keep from laughing, glad he wouldn't see how red your face was.

"You can thank my friend for that one," You mumble, taking another sip from your cup, leaning forward on the bed to place it on your nightstand.

"We have to put this on the fridge," Rocket sighed, putting his hand on his chest, taking deep slow breaths to calm himself down.

"We are not."

Your tone made him laugh harder.

"Oh, come on, princess, it's a picture of you in a bar with your panties halfway down your legs!" He erupted into laughter again, leaning forward, body heaving.

Yes, it was true. In your "younger" days, you loved to go out dancing. One time, you were so drunk you didn't even notice that you ripped the side of your underwear while dancing. Thankfully your friend had told you and helped you fix it in the bathroom, but not before getting a picture of you.

The top half wasn't even a bad picture. You were smiling, or maybe singing along to a song, drink in one hand the other messing up your hair. But then you look down and see a little thong slipping down past your knee.

You and Rocket had had a late night, staying up, having a drink, and sharing some life stories. And you figured it was finally time to show him....and he reacted exactly how you thought he would.

A thought came to you as you watched your boyfriend laugh at your expense. Moving slowly, you open the camera on the watch he'd made for your birthday, pointing it at him.

Snapping the picture, you peered down at the small screen. He had sat up, a wide grin on his face, showing off some of his teeth, his fur ruffled and uneven, wearing a large comfy shirt and tucked into your shared bed.

Rocket looked over when he heard you softly giggle. "Whatchu lookin' at?" He leaned back, trying to see the screen.

"It's you," You put your arm around him, showing the screen. He's silent for a moment, unsure of how to feel. No one had ever taken his photo taken before - well, anyone who wasn't the police before.

"Huh," He hummed at the photo, for the first time, he didn't look like a beast or monster. Just a guy in his pajamas laughing with his girl.

You snuggled in closer to him, burying your nose into the fur on the back of his head, giving him kisses.

"Princess," He murmured, trying (but not really) to move away from the affection.

"You're handsome,"

"And what makes you say that?" He closes the tablet and tosses it onto the nightstand, leaning back into your arms.

You kiss the spot beside his ear, whispering softly. "Well....maybe because I think I might be in love you,"

He tenses, and you're worried you overstepped, but one of Rockets hands comes up and wraps your arm tighter around him.

"I think I feel that way too," He whispers, curling his legs up, allowing you to pull him into your lap.

You don't pry, you know that was probably a lot for him to admit, so you simply slip under the blankets and turn off the lights. Holding him close to your chest, rubbing your hand through his fur, hearing him purr softly.

[rashoumon-homo]

“In my defense, I was left unsupervised.” - SKK Valentine’s Week Day 6

Prompts used: Cuddling | Memories | “In my defence, I was left unsupervised.”

-> TW for (animal) vomit

As he did most mornings, Chuuya woke up to an uncomfortable weight on his chest and the sound of purring. Without even opening his eyes, he knew the familiar weight was that of Fishstick, his cat, standing directly on top of him. Fishstick sniffed Chuuya’s face intently while continuing to purr, tickling him with his whiskers. Chuuya squirmed away and finally squinted up at the cat. A pair of intense yellow eyes stared into his; boldly contrasted from his pitch black fur.

No matter how tempting it was to just push the cat off of him and go back to sleep, Chuuya knew the inevitable consequences of that all too well. Fishstick wasn’t a very vocal cat, so when he wanted to be heard, he’d rely on the voice of his adopted brother, Cheese Beast. What Cheese Beast lacked in brain cells, he made up for in enthusiasm. He was the epitome of “orange cat” and unfortunately, he could scream pretty fucking loud.

“Dazai,” Chuuya grumbled, flopping his arm over to the other side of the bed to shake his boyfriend awake. “The gremlins want food.”

Dazai grunted and buried his face deeper into his pillow. Fishstick looked back and forth between them, surveying the situation, then hopped off the bed to go look for his brother. Chuuya was just drifting off again when he heard a piercing meow from the doorway. He cursed under his breath. Maybe Cheese Beast would let him sleep for once.

Nope. The orange cat parked himself by the edge of the bed and meowed continuously at an almost impressive volume for how small he was. Since he wasn’t getting the attention he wanted, he moved on to his next tactic: misbehaving. He batted a pen off the nightstand and pounced on it, attacking it with all four paws before zooming around the room. The meows began again, but this time sounding much more pitiful. Chuuya finally gave in and sat up, only to find Cheese Beast halfway up the curtains, hanging on with his claws.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Chuuya grumbled. He got up and untangled the cat from the fabric, setting him safely on the ground to scold him. “We don’t climb curtains,” he said sternly. “That was very bad. Bad cat.”

Cheese Beast eyed his pajama pants like he was considering climbing those instead.

Chuuya sighed and headed to the kitchen, the cats following eagerly behind him. He opened a can of wet food (removing Cheese Beast from the counter twice) and divided it into two separate dishes.

On his way over to the placemat, both cats weaved in and out of his legs as if trying to trip him. He activated his ability, hovering just out of reach so they wouldn’t get underfoot.

When he set the dishes down, the cats immediately dug in. Fishstick was a bit more careful with how he ate, making sure not to spill any. Although, anything would be considered careful compared to how Cheese Beast quite literally faceplanted into his food, getting it all over his face and the placemat.

Chuuya just shook his head and headed back into the kitchen. It was a weekend, and he was hoping to sleep a little longer, so he opted to pour himself a glass of orange juice instead of making coffee. He carefully carried it back to his room.

When he entered the bedroom, he saw Dazai fast asleep, Cheese Beast curled up in his arms. The cat still had wet food stuck to his nose and whiskers and even his forehead, but he too was sleeping happily. The image reminded Chuuya of the day Dazai had brought Cheese Beast home.

It was a busy time in the Port Mafia, so Chuuya often had to work long hours and occasionally got called into work unexpectedly. This was one of those days, and Chuuya felt especially bad about it since he and Dazai had planned to spend the day together. He’d bid Dazai a guilty farewell, promising to make it up to him.

When he arrived home nearly 12 hours later, he walked in on Dazai laying on the couch cuddling an orange kitten. He hadn’t spotted Chuuya yet, so Chuuya was able to watch for a minute as he gently stroked the kitten’s fur with a soft smile on his face.

“A kitten?” he asked, breaking the silence.

Dazai jumped, looking guilty. “In my defense, I was left unsupervised.”

“Where did you find it?”

“He was left in a box outside Lupin bar. He seemed so lonely and I was lonely too so I thought I’d bring him home, just for a little while at least,” Dazai explained. More quietly, he added, “He reminds me of you.”

Chuuya thought things over. They weren’t exactly in professions that made it easy to keep a pet, but cats are relatively low-maintenance. Plus, Chuuya had been feeling like their little family needed expanding. No way in hell was he going to want a child, so a pet was the next best thing. Ideally, it would have been a dog, but he knew that was off the table to begin with since Dazai didn’t like dogs. And the way he looked when he was playing with that cat… Chuuya would give anything to see him truly happy like that more often.

“What’s his name?” Chuuya finally asked.

Dazai lit up. “I’ve been calling him Cheese Beast.”

“Cheese Beast?”

“Yeah! He was really hungry but I wasn’t sure what to feed him so I tried giving him some shredded cheese. He loved it, ate a whole handful in seconds.”

“Dazai,” Chuuya groaned. “You can’t just feed cats cheese. Dairy isn’t good for them, it makes their stomach upset.”

Right on cue, Cheese Beast barfed up said dairy onto Dazai’s vest. Dazai wrinkled his nose and reached for the box of tissues. Chuuya popped his head in the kitchen to grab some paper towels.

“We should take him to the vet for a checkup too,” Chuuya said as he helped wipe down Dazai’s chest. “Just to make sure he doesn’t have any diseases or anything.”

Dazai nodded. “So it’s okay if we keep him?”

Chuuya drew his mouth into a line. “If you promise to put in the work to take care of him… fine.”

Chuuya’s thoughts were brought back to the present day as he saw Dazai softly smile in his sleep. He looked so cozy like that, with Cheese Beast asleep in his arms and the blanket pulled half over them.

He’d discovered pretty quickly in the first few weeks of caring for the cat that the “orange cat” stereotypes were more than true. In hopes a friend would calm him down, he and Dazai stopped by the shelter and picked up Fishstick. The shelter workers said he was a quiet, mellow cat, so they’d thought he’d be perfect. Instead they ended up giving Cheese Beast a partner in crime.

Fishstick rubbed against Chuuya’s leg.

“Done with your breakfast?” Chuuya murmured, reaching down to scratch between his ears. “C’mon, let’s go back to sleep.”

He climbed back into bed, Fishstick close behind him. They settled into bed next to Dazai and Cheese Beast and, all curled up together, drifted off to sleep.

@bsdfanweek

Read this work on AO3

Sorry for missing a couple prompt days! Life has been super hectic lately. I really wanted to write this one though so I wrote it mid migraine (somehow) and here it is just a couple hours late! This is gonna be the last work I do for this prompt week so I wanted to say thank you to the mods for setting this up. It was super fun!

Back to Masterlist

[sigloverofwords]

let me wrap my teeth around the world

An Astarion x spawn!Tav fanfic

Series warnings: violence, injury, abuse, self injury, suicidal ideation, animal death, rape (past), ptsd, emotional abuse, physical abuse, mental abuse, scars, panic attacks, manipulation, transformations

Summary: You awake at the nautiloid crash, wounded and starving but free of your Master for the first time in your life. You’re determined to get as far away from Him as possible, and finally get some answers about your existence. Fortunately for you, you stumble upon another spawn. Unfortunately he doesn’t seem to want anything to do with you.

Your ability to transform into a monster quickly changes his mind, though.

Posted to AO3 first!

Author’s Note: this is a y/n-free second person slow burn hurt eventual comfort fic. Lots of heavy stuff addressed, please take care of yourself and don’t read if any of the warning subjects are triggering to you.

2k+ word chapters

Chapter 2 (prev)

Your dreams are scattered and frightening, flashes of memory become nightmare. Even deep in unconsciousness your body aches, protesting the abuse it's been put through. You dream of transforming into the monster He made you, of your true self curled up in a ball, encased by a beast worthy only of execution. It makes you sick to your stomach, and you wake suddenly, choking back bile.

Disorientation overwhelms you when you jerk awake, coughing hard. Blankets pool in your lap as you shoot up into a sitting position and hunch over until the hacking subsides. The unfamiliarity of your surroundings makes your heart rate leap, your eyes immediately darting to your wrist.

Although it's banded in deep, rough scars it's free of any restraint. The scars are familiar to you, but they sting with a distant memory of pain, and you hug your wrist to your chest with your other hand as you take stock of your situation, letting out the occasional cough.

"Well, that didn't sound comfortable," a familiar voice drawls from beside you. Startled, you whirl on the elf. He’s lounging in a woven wooden chair, turning the simple piece of furniture into a throne with the way he drapes his lithe body over it. You blink

“You’re here,” you croak, throat stinging from the abuse of smoke and acid, hand still clutched close to your body. The elf raises a white eyebrow.

“Well, you did insist I take you with me to Baldur’s Gate. Leaving you unconscious on a beach wouldn’t exactly be an auspicious start to our partnership.”

Shame flushes up your neck and over your cheeks, and you bury your face in your hands.

“I can’t believe I did that,” you mumble through your fingers. “I’m so sorry.”

The elf seems to be holding back a scoff.

“Darling, it was stunning. Let’s just keep all that…” he gestures vaguely to all of you, “fabulous rage pointed away from me, yes?”

You can’t help flinching away from his flippant gesture. For a moment you think you managed to disguise the movement with a nod, but his red eyes narrow at you, while your own widen slightly.

This is not a conversation you’re looking to have right now.

Or ever.

Nervously flicking your tongue over your dry, cracked lips, you turn to survey the room you’re in, hoping that indicates the subject is closed. 

You're sitting on a raised stone slab, made more comfortable by the furs and blankets laid out across it. It's carved directly from the ground, the same as a wide table across the room and shelves lining the walls. Aside from the seat that your elf companion is currently using, there’s a few other pieces of wooden furniture, and stacks of closely woven baskets and chests stacked against one wall. 

All around you is bare stone, but the room doesn't feel suffocating. It's large enough to hold several other, empty beds, and a few carefully constructed holes in the ceiling let in fresh air and sunlight. It's all quite peaceful and utterly unfamiliar.

“It’s not exactly the Rosewood Retreat,” the elf says with the tone of someone looking down their nose at their current establishment, “but the druid was a semi-capable healer. She managed to get you patched up.”

You realize that your various body aches and pains have indeed subsided, leaving you with the normal weighty exhaustion you always experience after transformation.

“Thank you,” you say, turning back to face him, and realize that you don’t even know his name. 

A corner of his mouth lifts in a smirk and he stands, bowing with a small flourish.

“Astarion, at your service.”

You gather your strength to answer.

“Tav,” you reply finally, reluctantly. This immediately piques his interest.

“Really?”

Pursing your lips, you nod.

“Fascinating.”

He seems to murmur this to himself. You drop your eyes, finding the raised skin of your shackle-scarred wrist once more, tracing the all-too-familiar contours with a light finger.

Another gift your master had given you: an outcast’s name, shared by criminals and despised people everywhere. Anywhere you went in the Sword Coast, you were branded as someone who was dangerous or reviled enough to be ejected from your home and family.

He had ensured that, even if you managed to escape, you wouldn’t even have a name of your own. Astarion, with his bright eyes studying you like a snake watches a mouse, appears to be familiar with this.

“Well, that’s a story for another time, it seems,” he says with finality, verbally closing the book on your name situation, at least for the moment.

You look up at him, eyebrows drawn together in confusion. He’s pointedly inspecting a fingernail, flicking a tiny speck of dirt off it.

He doesn’t…he doesn’t care?

The very idea baffles you, but you decide not to push. Gods know he’s already done enough for you, something that you need to acknowledge.

“You didn’t have to bring me here, especially not after…”

You trail off, unwilling to put into words what you can do.

“Nonsense,” Astarion waves away your apology, looking up from his hands. “If I rejected out of hand everyone who threatened me a little then I’d never get anywhere with anyone. Water under the bridge, my friend.”

There’s a glint in his eye that makes you uneasy, but a quick assessment of your situation leaves you little choice.

“In that case, I’ll ask properly, like a civilized person,” you say. “Astarion, would you allow me to accompany you to Baldur’s Gate?”

He smiles, a grin that’s all fang and no mirth.

“Tav, it would be my absolute pleasure.”

Astarion points you towards a set of clean clothes set out on the end of one of the other beds, and you spend the next few minutes changing behind a folding wooden screen while he catches you up on your current situation. 

From what Astarion can tell, the reason you two can walk in the sun is thanks to an illithid worm inserted before the nautiloid crashed. While it holds the promise of almost certain death (and soon), he plans to take every advantage given to him, and you silently agree. If a mind-flayer worm was what allows you freedom from your master, however brief, you’ll take it. You just won’t allow yourself to come under another’s control again, but that is a problem that you’ll deal with when it presents itself.

For now, you are currently in a druid’s grove not too far from the crash site, but there’s trouble brewing. Goblins camped nearby have been launching raids on the grove, so in response the druids are ejecting all outsiders and conducting something called the rite of thorns.

“It sounds about as pleasant as the druids act,” Astarion says acerbically. “The sooner we leave them to it, the better.”

You emerge from behind the screen, tugging at the robes. They’re supple leather and some sort of hardy fabric, clearly used but clean and in good repair. Although they hang off your bony frame a little, they’re leagues better than anything you’ve had for years.

While you’re overwhelmed with the feeling of wearing real clothes that actually offer comfort and protection, Astarion eyes you critically.

“Not the most flattering outfit I’ve ever seen,” he says, then shrugs one shoulder. “No matter, we can always stop by Facemaker’s when we get to the city, it’ll do for now.”

You stare at him out of the corner of your eye, baffled.

What sort of life does he live as a spawn that he can worry about clothes? You wonder.

Before you can ask, Astarion heads for a door carved directly into the wall that you had missed earlier.

“Come on,” he says. “We’d best get going before these druids trap us under a briar.”

You have to trot a few steps to catch up with him, still processing everything. Going from under your master’s thumb to freedom is dizzying and overwhelming, and part of you is grateful to have someone to follow.

He’s not in charge of me.

You remind the skittish, fearful part of you, the part that calls the monster more often than not, that you’re still free. Allowing yourself to follow in the wake of someone more experienced and well-adjusted until you can get a handle on yourself doesn’t mean you’re trading one master for another.

That frightened part of you protests, but you’re able to keep it calm for now, like a ranger calming a spooked horse.

The door opens with the grind of stone on stone, and suddenly your senses are flooded with input. Fresh air, warm with sunlight (sunlight!) and carrying birdsong, breezes in to surround you. A few strands of your hair wave around your face, tickling your skin, and you can’t stop the way your jaw drops a little and you stop where you are, soaking it all in.

Astarion turns, annoyed at the holdup, but pauses when he sees you. He looks away, crossing his arms and clearing his throat while you step into the grove’s clearing.

The druidic chants weave around you, the magic practically tangible, an electric taste on your tongue. Flowers burst from thick grass everywhere you look, animals roaming freely around you.

Everywhere is flooded with warmth and light.

It’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

When you turn back to Astarion he looks distinctly annoyed, and he rolls his eyes when he sees the tears threatening to spill from yours.

“Come on,” he says, beckoning you to get a move on. “Try to keep it together, I managed to keep our little secret from the druids so far, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

Chastened, you nod, arranging your hair around your neck to cover the scars there.

“How’d you manage that?” you ask in a whisper, following his weaving path up out of the grove.

He shrugs.

“A little luck and keeping the blanket tucked up under your chin. It wasn’t hard to tell them you caught a chill.”

“Oh, right.”

You sometimes forget that you run much cooler than a mortal. Following Astarion through a crowd of distraught tieflings (tieflings in a druid grove?) you’ve almost made it to the gate when an accented voice calls out.

“Astarion!”

You both turn to see a dwarven druid jogging towards you. She has black hair cropped just above her shoulder and faded tattoos across her face. She gives you a small smile and nod.

“You two heading out, then?”

To your surprise, Astarion steps closer to you and takes your hand. You stiffen immediately, trying to subtly pull away. His grip is tight, bruising if you were human, and you feel panic creeping up.

“We are,” he says smoothly, smiling as if he isn’t white-knuckling your hand despite your minute attempts to free yourself. “Thank you so much for your hospitality, we wouldn’t want to impose any longer. You’re all so busy.”

“That we are,” the dwarf replies, “still, I’m glad I was able to help your wife.”

She looks at you and your mind short-circuits.

You hate yourself for your immediate, gut reaction.

He wouldn’t like that.

Despite physical freedom from your master, you are quickly coming to realize that he has a mental hold over you that wasn’t broken by the tadpole in your head. It makes you a sickening combination of angry, terrified, and despondent, but you push past it and force yourself back to the present.

Astarion bids goodbye to the healer who had helped you, and you manage to give her a weak smile. You and Astarion walk out the gate, hand in unwilling hand.

You manage to make it a hundred yards into the wilderness before your skin is crawling and your empty stomach is about to try to expel whatever acid it holds. With a jerk, you rip your hand from Astarions. The sudden, vicious movement takes him by surprise, and he turns with an offended expression.

“Are you quite alright?”

You know you must look a sight, every muscle tense and lip curled in a feral snarl, fingers running roughly over your hand as if to scrub his touch from it.

“What was that?” you demand. The beast inside stirs, scenting the air.

Astarion blows out a breath, spreading his arms.

“Isn’t it obvious? A man shows up with an unconscious, severely injured woman in his arms. That will raise a few eyebrows no matter where you go. I simply headed off some prying questions by saying you were my wife and you were hurt when a giant mind flayer ship fell out of the sky.”

You can follow his logic but it still turns your stomach. You don’t know if it’s because of the conditioning you’d been put through or just the small thread of steel you have left rebelling at the idea of belonging to a man, either way, you aren’t willing to let your travels with Astarion start out like this.

“No,” you say firmly. Just using the word feels unfamiliar and wrong, so you force yourself to practice and say it again.

“No, you can’t do that.”

Astarion rolls his eyes dismissively.

“It’s really not a big deal—”

“No.”

It’s getting easier now, and you draw yourself up from the crouched, hunted creature position you had been in.

“If something like that ever happens again, figure it out. Tell them I’m your sister or something.”

Matter closed, you stalk past him. If your heart beat then it would be pounding. You’re flooded with adrenaline, mind whirling. You did it, you stood up to someone. A small smile flickers across your lips, and a tiny, infinitesimal spark of hope starts to burn in your chest.

Behind you are quick steps, then suddenly Astarion is at your side, speaking into your ear.

“But that wouldn’t be nearly as much fun,” he says lowly. You whirl on him, teeth bared, ready to show him how important your new boundaries are, but he backs off immediately, a dark grin on his face.

“Just teasing,” he says, holding up his hands placatingly. “Come on now, surely becoming a spawn didn’t suck your sense of humor away too.”

You hesitate, trying to remember.

“I…don’t know,” you say finally. “I’m not sure if I had one.”

The shadow of familiarity crosses Astarion’s face. His hands lower, and he nods slowly. Then, like a dog shaking off water, he straightens and shrugs his shoulders.

“Well, we have a journey ahead of us,” he says. “We’re a good week out of Baldur’s Gate, and that’s if the roads are clear, which I hear they are not. Maybe we can find out on the way.”

You also straighten, tilting your head a little. Maybe he just sees you as a pet project to pass time on the road but maybe,  just for now, you could let him think that.

For the first time you consider what freedom might actually mean, aside from getting away from your master’s sick control. 

I can figure out who I am, you think. I can figure out who I want to be.

The spark of hope grows, just a little.

[breannasfluff]

Hi!I love the stuff you come up with and I was wondering if you could make a fic that goes like this: (in my own fantasy) I think that wolf link left wild halfway through his journey, could you make a fic about how wild feels after his mentor leaves, and how guilty twilight feels for leaving him? (Sorry this is a very long ask, if you want to skip some of it you can) : D

I’m glad you enjoy it! I don’t take full fic requests and drabble requests are closed, but I can give you this.

~~

Link falls asleep, one hand buried in the fur of his wolf companion. Dusk’s ears are pricked, eyes opened. He’ll keep watch for the night.

Two Divine Beasts down and two to go. Halfway to his goal of freeing Zelda. Halfway to redeeming the failure of the past. Tomorrow, maybe they’ll set off for the Gerudo desert.

Tomorrow, the next, the day after that; it’s an endless slog made easier for the companion at his side.

That night, he dreams of a Hyrule free of the Calamity. He dreams of a wolf bounding beside him, untamed, yet faithful.

When he wakes up, Dusk is gone.

Twilight wakes not to dirt and the silly pup he’s protecting, but the rafters of his roof. The covers of his bed are unfamiliar after so long.

At first, there’s confusion. Was the connection broken somehow? Will the pup find him here? Yet minutes turn to hours, which drag into days. Finally, he’s forced to face the truth: he’s not going back.

For whatever reason, the goddesses considered half the journey enough guidance. The pup would be on his own. Who would watch his back? Keep watch so he could sleep? Who would cuddle close when the tears came?

No matter how much he curses, begs, or prays; he remains in his time. The pup could live or die and he’d never know.

Twilight has to hope the guidance he gave was enough.