#killian has walls

[simgerale]

CHAPTER ONE ; 3/3

TRANSCRIPT:

killian: Mama gets so testy this time of year.

dara: Try being Empress to an entire nation. Oh, right—that will be me.

k: And you get especially testy. Really, what is it about spring?

gregor: The snow melts, and everyone wants to renew their trade deals with unreasonable demands. Nothing new.

k: The politics of it all… how exhausting. [mumbling] Every year, I am more and more grateful that I gave up my chance at the throne.

[The secret door shuts behind him, the mechanism locking into place with a soft thud]

g: I will take my leave, as well. How long are you going to be in here?

d: All day. As I am participating in the trade talks this time, I must know everything there is to know.

g: Oh well. I was going to invite you to the luncheon regarding magic reform.

d: Let me know if any good ideas float around, will you?

g: ...As always.

[hvbris]

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐎 & 𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐓 @multipleoccupancy

Violet had never seen so much blood in her life. The world had turned onto an ocean of red, and in her ears, like the ringing of a bell, she could hear Sloane’s voice. He doesn’t like blood. Yes, Theo did not like blood, and yet he was covered in it, and nothing she did seemed to stop the carmine flow. With shaky hands, she kept applying pressure against the wound with her sweater, her tears falling uselessly in the puddle of blood.

She watched as Theo reached for his gun, aiming at a distressed Sloane. In all his sorrow, all she could see was the grotesque shell of a man, empty inside. Even his tears left a bitter aftertaste in her mouth. She thought about the expression, crocodile tears, and all she could see was a big, cruel crocodile crying over his own wicked actions.

When Theo put the gun down, Violet reached for it, keeping one hand still on the sweater. She would still think about this moment, years later. The day she realised that terrible things could be done for noble reasons. She had never held a gun before. She had read about guns and how they worked, in fact she knew the mechanism quite well. But feeling it against her skin was a very different thing altogether, and it sent a shiver down her spine. It was cold against her blood-stained hand. She did not falter.

“GO AWAY!” she screamed at Sloane’s slouched silhouette, “leave us alone!!! Go away!!!” And then, aiming at best she could, she pulled the trigger.

He'd heard her scream and even as he hit the floor, Theo worried that he had failed to protect Violet. When he landed, he had tried to sit up again, feeling the horrible pain in his side and then a rigid tightness that stole his breath. His hand went instinctively to press against the pain and in an instant he felt the warm and thick consistency of blood. His hand shot away and he gasped breathlessly in pain and horror. He knew it was his own blood, he knew it was not going to stop and he knew he was not going to be able to get away from it. None of that was at all appealing to him.

Barely a moment later and Violet was at his side, putting pressure on the wound as he tried to twist himself out of the growing pool of blood on his shirt and on the floor. He caught her trying to reassure him, the words landing with some delay as he eyed her from the floor and then the flames as they engulfed the counter and beside it stood Sloane. He had a hand over his mouth, tears in his eyes as he dropped the gun he had just shot him with as if it burned him. Tossing it away from himself and staring, shocked at him on the floor. "No, no, no, no, no." Sloane complained and hit his head with his hands in some sort of punishment.

Theo went for his gun again and to aim it at Sloane, terrified and surrounded by things that only fed that very real fear, he wanted another threat 'extinguished' in that moment but he couldn't stabilise himself and he felt the pain in his chest only get worse. He put his arm back down and looked to Violet instead, not even sure what the hell to say or do. He'd been shot before but not with a lunatic in the room that happened to be on fire and a fourteen year old who needed his help. He wondered if this was it, that he would die in the shop he started life in. Was it poetic? It didn't feel that way.

[novaursa]

Hour of the Wolf

- Summary: Cregan keeps his promise to you, and delivers Northern justice to the South.

- Paring: velaryon!reader/Cregan Stark

- Note: These events happen right after The Wolf's Flame. To read all parts of this story, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top. This is the last part (conclusion) for this series.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Word count: 5 000+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @daeryna @melsunshine @21-princess

The cold wind that blows down from the North seems to follow him even here, into the heart of the South, where the air is usually filled with the warmth of the sun. Yet today, the skies over King’s Landing are heavy with a gray pallor, as if the gods themselves know that justice is at hand. You are not here to witness this, but you are the reason for it. Every step Cregan Stark takes is one of duty, but also of love—love for you, his Y/N, his beloved wife, and the mother of his children.

The streets of King’s Landing tremble under the march of Northern boots, the sight of direwolf banners casting long shadows against the red stone walls. Cregan’s expression is as hard and unyielding as the land he comes from, his gray eyes focused on the path ahead. He is the Lord of Winterfell, the Wolf in the South, and today, the Hour of the Wolf has come. 

Outside the Red Keep, the air is tense, the men around him anxious. They know what he is capable of; they know the purpose behind his presence. Justice. It is the promise he made to you, and the promise he will fulfill. Waiting at the gates, he finds two figures—one is the boy king, Aegon, the youngest of your mother’s children, and the other is Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, your grandfather. 

Aegon stands tall, but there is a shadow in his violet eyes, a weight that he has carried since he took his place as the King of the Seven Kingdoms. Corlys, too, has the look of a man who has seen too much, but still, there is a fire in him, one that refuses to die despite the years of war and loss.

As Cregan approaches, it is Aegon who speaks first, his voice steady despite the turmoil that surrounds him. “Lord Stark, we have been expecting you.”

Cregan nods, his gaze unwavering. “And I have come as promised. The South will know the meaning of Northern justice.”

Corlys steps forward, his eyes sharp as they search Cregan’s face. “The traitor Aegon II is dead, found poisoned in his chambers,” he announces, his tone devoid of satisfaction, yet also lacking in sorrow. “The throne is now secure, but the realm is not yet at peace.”

For a moment, the air is still, as if even the city itself is holding its breath. Cregan’s expression does not change, but there is a flicker in his eyes—a glimmer of something darker. “The death of Aegon II was too swift,” he says, his voice low and filled with the cold of the North. “He deserved more for what he did to your family, for what he did to my wife.”

Aegon shifts uncomfortably, but Corlys holds Cregan’s gaze, understanding the weight behind those words. “Justice has been served, in one way or another,” the Sea Snake says, his voice carrying the wisdom of his years. “But what of your children, my grandchildren? How are they?”

The question brings a softness to Cregan’s hard exterior, a flicker of warmth that only thoughts of you and your children can invoke. “They are well,” he answers, a hint of pride in his tone. “Safe in their mother’s embrace, in the heart of Winterfell. And Killian, our eldest, has had a dragon hatch from Thraxata’s clutch. A fine beast, worthy of a Stark and a Velaryon.”

Corlys’s eyes widen at the news, and even Aegon’s lips twitch in something that almost resembles a smile. The thought of a new dragon, born of your bonded dragon, Thraxata, the Midnight Fury, a creature of polished obsidian and violet fire, is enough to stir the blood of even the most hardened man. It is a symbol of your strength, your legacy, and the legacy of the children you have borne with Cregan.

The Sea Snake nods, his gaze distant as he considers the future. “A new dragon, a new beginning,” he murmurs. “Perhaps there is hope yet for this broken realm.”

Cregan does not reply immediately. Instead, he turns his gaze toward the towering walls of the Red Keep, a place that has seen too much bloodshed, too many betrayals. He thinks of you, of the letters you exchanged before he rode South, the promises made between you. He is here to fulfill those promises, to ensure that your family, your children, will inherit a world where they can grow without the shadow of war looming over them.

Finally, he speaks, his voice as unyielding as the North. “Hope is something that must be earned,” he says. “And I will see to it that this realm is worthy of the children it will one day belong to.”

With that, Cregan Stark, the Wolf in the South, turns his back on the Red Keep, his mind already turning to the tasks ahead. There is still much to be done, and he will not rest until justice, true justice, has been delivered. For you, Y/N, for your children, and for the memory of your family.

As he walks away, the wind picks up, carrying with it the chill of the North—a reminder that Winterfell, and all that it holds dear, is never far from his thoughts.

The throne room of the Red Keep is a place of power, but also of shadows—of secrets whispered in the dark and blood spilled on the cold stone floor. Today, however, it is a place of judgment. Cregan Stark, the Wolf of the North, stands before the Iron Throne, his presence imposing, his expression as cold as the winter winds that sweep across his homeland. The crown has been secured, the usurper dead by poison, but the realm still bleeds, and it falls to him to stitch its wounds.

He takes his position as Hand of the King with a heavy heart, but with unshakable resolve. Justice must be done, and he is here to see it through, not for his own glory, but for you, his beloved Y/N, and for the future you share. He remembers the words he once whispered to you in the quiet of your chambers, promises made in the stillness of Winterfell: to protect, to avenge, to make the world safer for your children. Today, he begins to fulfill those promises.

Before him stand nineteen men, the accused, each bearing the weight of their sins. Traitors, conspirators, men who played their parts in the bloodshed that tore the realm apart. They are the remnants of a conflict that has claimed too many lives, the final vestiges of a regime that crumbled beneath the weight of its own ambition.

Cregan’s voice rings out in the hall, deep and unwavering, as he addresses them. “You stand accused of treason, of betrayal to the crown, and of crimes that have brought the realm to the brink of ruin. Justice is what I seek, and justice is what you will receive.”

The room is silent, the tension thick as his words hang in the air. There is no mercy in his tone, no room for doubt or leniency. The eyes of those before him are filled with a mixture of fear and resignation. They know what is coming, and they know there is no escape.

Cregan’s gaze moves across them, his expression unreadable as he delivers the sentence. “Those of you who have been found guilty, you will take the black. You will live out the remainder of your days on the Wall, defending the realm you have betrayed. Your lives are forfeit, but the Watch will have your service.”

There is a murmur among the accused, some relief, some despair. The Wall is a harsh fate, but it is life, of a sort. But not all will receive such a sentence, and they know it.

Cregan turns his gaze to the two men who stand apart from the others, Lord Larys Strong and Ser Gyles. They do not flinch under his scrutiny, though they know what fate awaits them. They are men who have accepted their end, men who understand that the blood they have spilled cannot be washed away by mere words.

“For you,” Cregan continues, his voice colder now, “there will be no such mercy. Lord Larys Strong, Ser Gyles Belgrave, you have been judged, and your sentence is death.”

The room is silent again, the weight of his words settling over all who are present. Cregan steps forward, the greatsword Ice in his hand, the Valyrian steel gleaming in the dim light of the throne room. It is a blade that has seen many executions, a blade that carries the history of House Stark in every inch of its steel.

Without hesitation, Cregan raises Ice, his muscles rippling beneath his furs as he prepares to deliver the final justice. The men before him kneel, heads bowed, accepting their fate. It is a grim task, but one that must be done. For you, for your children, for the future of the realm.

The blade comes down, swift and sure, and in a single stroke, both men fall. Their heads roll across the cold stone floor, the blood pooling at Cregan’s feet. The sound echoes in the chamber, a final, resounding note of justice delivered.

Cregan stands over the fallen men, Ice still in his hand, his breath steady. He feels the weight of his duty, the coldness of the act, but also the warmth of satisfaction. It is done. The traitors have paid for their crimes, and the realm can begin to heal. 

As he steps back, wiping the blood from Ice with a cloth handed to him by one of his bannermen, a raven arrives. The black bird flutters through the open windows of the throne room, a small scroll tied to its leg, the wax seal of Winterfell visible even from a distance.

Cregan’s heart skips a beat as he takes the scroll, recognizing the seal immediately. It is from Maester Kennet, and he knows what news it carries. He breaks the seal with a steady hand, though inside, his emotions swirl. The paper crinkles as he unrolls it, and he reads the words written in the familiar script.

"Lord Cregan,

It is with great joy that I inform you that Lady Y/N has given birth to a healthy son. Both mother and child are well. The boy has been named Rickon, after your noble father. Winterfell rejoices at the birth of its heir, and we await your return.

Maester Kennet"

Cregan’s heart swells with a warmth that almost overcomes him. Rickon. Another son, another piece of the future you will build together. He closes his eyes for a moment, allowing himself to picture you in the great hall of Winterfell, holding your newborn son in your arms, surrounded by Killian and Alysane. He can see their smiles, hear the laughter that will fill the halls once more.

He tucks the letter away, the coldness of the throne room fading as he turns to leave. His duty here is nearly done, and soon, he will return to you, to your children, to Winterfell. He will hold his son, he will see your face, and he will feel the warmth of home once more.

But for now, he is still the Wolf in the South, the Hand of the King, and there are still tasks that must be completed before he can return to you. He steels himself, knowing that with every step he takes, he is one step closer to home, one step closer to you and the life you have built together.

The fire crackles softly in the hearth, its warmth chasing away the chill of the Northern winds that rattle the ancient stones of Winterfell. The room is quiet, filled with a peaceful stillness that you savor, holding your newborn son close to your chest. Little Rickon, barely a few days old, sleeps soundly in your arms, his tiny breaths warm against your skin. His dark lashes rest against his pale cheeks, so much like his father’s, and you can already see the strength in his small features, a promise of the man he will one day become.

You sit in a chair by the fire, wrapped in furs that keep you warm and comfortable. The weight of your son is a soothing comfort, grounding you in this moment, despite the swirling thoughts that sometimes pull your mind southward, toward King’s Landing, where your husband, Cregan, now walks paths that you wished you could have shared with him.

It was a hard decision, staying behind. You wanted to be there at Cregan’s side, to see justice served for what was done to your family. But the weight of your pregnancy had kept you here, in the North, far from the seat of power and the vengeance that now unfolds. You had argued, begged even, but Cregan, in his stern but loving way, had insisted. His duty was there, and yours, he said with a gentle hand on your belly, was here, with the child you were carrying and the children who needed their mother.

You sigh softly, glancing across the room where your other children play. Killian, your eldest, is sprawled on the floor, his dark hair a wild tangle as he wrestles with a small dragon, a hatchling from Thraxata’s clutch. Vexion, as Killian named him, is a striking creature, barely larger than a hunting hound, with scales of deep midnight blue that shimmer like sapphires in the firelight. His wings, though small, are strong and powerful, the membranes tinted in the same shades of violet as Thraxata’s, and his eyes, bright and alert, match the deep purple of her own.

Killian laughs as Vexion snaps playfully at his fingers, his little teeth harmless for now, though you know that one day, they will grow sharp enough to rend flesh and bone. But for now, the dragon is just a playful companion, a symbol of your legacy and the bond your family shares with these magnificent beasts.

Alysane, your daughter, sits beside her brother, her pale hair cascading over her shoulders as she carefully arranges a set of wooden figures. She’s creating a scene, you realize, a miniature version of Winterfell with figures of wolves and dragons placed carefully around the perimeter. Her little brow is furrowed in concentration, but she smiles when she hears Killian’s laughter, her violet eyes sparkling with the same mischievous light that often shines in Cregan’s when he is teasing you.

Watching them, your heart swells with love and pride. These are your children, your future. They are the reason you stayed behind, the reason you now feel a deep sense of contentment despite the ache of being apart from your husband. Here, in this room, surrounded by the warmth of the fire and the presence of your children, you find peace.

Rickon stirs in your arms, making a soft, contented noise, and you gently rock him, brushing a kiss against his tiny forehead. “Hush now, little one,” you murmur softly, your voice filled with a tenderness that surprises even you. “Your father will be home soon, and then we’ll all be together again.”

The thought of Cregan’s return brings a soft smile to your lips. You imagine him walking through the doors of the great hall, his face breaking into a rare, warm smile as he sees you and the children waiting for him. You imagine the feel of his arms around you, the strength and warmth that have always been your greatest comfort. You imagine introducing him to Rickon, watching as he takes his newborn son in his arms for the first time, the pride and love shining in his gray eyes.

But for now, you are content. Content to be here, with your children, safe in the heart of Winterfell. You have known loss, grief, and the cold touch of betrayal, but you have also known love, fierce and unyielding, and that love has given you these three beautiful children, each one a piece of your heart walking around outside your body.

“Look, Mother!” Killian’s excited voice pulls you from your thoughts, and you look up to see him holding Vexion aloft, the little dragon’s wings flapping furiously as he tries to stay airborne. “Vexion’s learning to fly!”

You laugh softly, a sound full of warmth and joy. “He’s doing wonderfully, my love. Just like you.”

Killian beams at your praise, setting Vexion down gently on the floor. The dragon immediately scampers over to Alysane’s miniature Winterfell, sniffing curiously at the wooden figures. Alysane giggles, gently guiding him away from her carefully arranged scene.

You watch them with a full heart, feeling the warmth of the fire, the weight of your newborn son, and the love that fills this room. Yes, you wish you could be with Cregan, standing beside him as he delivers justice, but you also know that this—being here, with your children, holding Rickon close—is where you are meant to be. 

You lean back in your chair, closing your eyes for just a moment, allowing the peacefulness of the moment to wash over you. Soon, Cregan will return, and your family will be whole again. Until then, you have this—this quiet, this warmth, this love. And that is more than enough.

The air in Winterfell is crisp with the first touch of spring as you stand at the gates, your heart pounding with anticipation. The sun is low in the sky, casting long shadows across the courtyard where you wait with your children. The news of Cregan’s return reached you only this morning, and ever since, you’ve been unable to keep the smile from your face. You’ve missed him with a deep, aching intensity, and the thought of having him home again fills you with a joy that’s almost overwhelming.

Killian and Alysane stand beside you, both of them practically bouncing with excitement. Killian’s hand is clutching Vexion’s leash, the little dragon sitting obediently at his feet, though his violet eyes are alert, as if he too can sense the importance of this moment. Alysane’s hand is in yours, her small fingers squeezing tightly as she peers down the road, searching for the first sign of her father.

The minutes feel like hours, but then, finally, you see them: the first of the riders cresting the hill, the Stark banners flapping in the wind, and your heart skips a beat. Cregan is home. 

As the riders draw closer, you spot him at the front of the group, his dark hair falling loose around his shoulders, his broad frame unmistakable even from a distance. The sight of him stirs something deep inside you, a rush of warmth and love that makes your eyes burn with unshed tears.

“Father!” Killian’s voice breaks through your reverie, and before you can stop him, he’s running across the courtyard, Vexion darting after him with a playful roar. Alysane releases your hand and follows suit, her laughter ringing out as she races to meet her father.

Cregan dismounts with ease, dropping to one knee just in time to catch Killian in his arms. Alysane is close behind, and he sweeps her up as well, holding both of them tightly against his chest. His deep laugh rumbles through the air, the sound of it filling your heart with a warmth that melts away the last remnants of the cold that had settled there in his absence.

You watch them, your vision blurring slightly with tears. This is what you’ve been waiting for, what you’ve dreamed of during the long nights alone—this moment, when your family is together again. 

Finally, Cregan looks up, his gray eyes meeting yours across the distance. For a moment, the world seems to stop, and it’s just the two of you, connected by the unspoken love that has always been the foundation of your bond. He rises to his feet, one arm still wrapped around each of your children, and as he walks toward you, you feel your breath catch in your throat.

When he’s close enough, you close the distance between you, your hands reaching up to cup his face. His skin is cool from the journey, but beneath it, you can feel the warmth that has always drawn you to him, the steady, reassuring presence that you’ve missed so much.

“Cregan,” you whisper, your voice trembling with emotion.

He smiles, that rare, genuine smile that’s reserved only for you and your children. “Y/N,” he murmurs, his voice deep and rough with emotion. “I’ve missed you.”

And then his lips are on yours, gentle at first, but quickly deepening as the months of longing and separation melt away. His kiss is everything you’ve needed, everything you’ve craved—warmth, love, passion, and the undeniable connection that has always bound you together. You lose yourself in him, in the taste of him, the feel of him, the way his arms wrap around you, pulling you closer as if he can’t bear to let you go.

For a moment, the world fades away, and it’s just the two of you, lost in each other. You can feel the beat of his heart against your chest, strong and steady, a reminder that he’s here, he’s home, and you’re safe in his arms.

When you finally pull back, your forehead rests against his, and you take a moment to just breathe him in, to savor the feel of him against you. “I’m so glad you’re home,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion.

Cregan’s hand comes up to brush a strand of silver hair away from your face, his touch tender and filled with love. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” he replies, his eyes soft as they gaze into yours.

Killian and Alysane, sensing that they’re witnessing something special, are unusually quiet as they cling to their father’s legs. But you can see the joy in their eyes, the way they look up at him with adoration and love. 

Cregan glances down at them, and then back at you, his smile widening as he takes in the sight of his family. “I’ve missed so much,” he says, his voice tinged with regret.

You shake your head, squeezing his hand. “You did what you had to do. And now, you’re home. That’s all that matters.”

He nods, his eyes shining with the same love and pride that you feel swelling in your chest. “I’m home,” he repeats, as if savoring the words. Then, he looks at you, his expression turning more serious. “How is Rickon?”

Your heart swells at the mention of your youngest, and you can’t help but smile. “He’s perfect, Cregan. Just like his father.”

Cregan’s smile softens, and there’s a tenderness in his eyes that makes your heart flutter. “I can’t wait to meet him,” he says, his voice thick with emotion.

You nod, taking his hand and leading him toward the keep. “He’s waiting for you,” you say softly. “We all were.”

The walk to the great hall is short, but it feels like a journey, each step bringing you closer to the home you’ve longed for, the completeness you’ve missed. When you enter the hall, the warmth of the fire greets you, along with the familiar scents of Winterfell. But it’s the sight of the small cradle by the hearth that draws your eyes.

Cregan steps forward, his movements careful and reverent as he approaches the cradle. Rickon is awake, his tiny fists waving in the air, and when Cregan leans down to look at him, you see the wonder and awe in his eyes.

“He’s beautiful,” Cregan whispers, reaching out to gently touch his son’s cheek. Rickon’s eyes, a soft gray like his father’s, blink up at him, and a small, contented smile spreads across his tiny face.

“He looks just like you,” you say softly, stepping beside Cregan and slipping your hand into his.

Cregan shakes his head, his eyes never leaving Rickon’s. “No,” he says quietly, “he looks like us.”

The words bring a lump to your throat, and you lean into Cregan’s side, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. This is your family—whole, safe, and together. 

You stay like that for a long moment, just watching Cregan with Rickon, feeling the love and contentment that fills the room. Then, slowly, Cregan straightens, his eyes still filled with that soft, tender light as he looks at you.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, his voice full of meaning.

You smile up at him, your heart full to bursting. “For what?”

“For giving me this,” he replies, his hand gently squeezing yours. “For our children, our home… for everything.”

You reach up to cup his cheek, your thumb brushing against the rough stubble that you’ve missed so much. “We built this together,” you say softly. “And now, we’ll enjoy it together.”

Cregan’s eyes darken with emotion, and he leans down to capture your lips in another kiss, this one slow and full of promise. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, and you can feel his breath mingling with yours.

“I love you, Y/N,” he whispers, the words a vow, a promise, and a declaration all at once.

“I love you too, Cregan,” you reply, your voice filled with all the love and devotion you feel for him.

The world outside may be cold and harsh, but here, in this moment, in this place, you are warm, safe, and complete. Cregan is home, your children are safe, and your family is whole. And that is all you need.

Excerpt from Fire and Blood by Archmaester Glyndwyr, Chapter: "The Hour of the Wolf and the Dawn of the Dragon"

The Dragon That Followed the Wolf

In the aftermath of the Dance of the Dragons, the realm lay in ruin, its people exhausted from years of bloodshed and treachery. The Iron Throne, once a symbol of absolute power, had become a seat of sorrow and conflict. Aegon III, the Dragonbane, who had ascended to the throne at a young age after the fall of his mother, Rhaenyra, found himself ill-suited to the demands of kingship. His reign, though marked by attempts at restoration, was overshadowed by the lingering shadow of the civil war and his own deep-seated melancholy.

It was in this time of uncertainty and discontent that voices began to rise among the lords of Westeros, calling for a new ruler—one who could unite the fractured realm and bring about a new era of prosperity. These voices soon coalesced around a single name: Killian Stark, son of Cregan Stark and Y/N Velaryon, a boy of strong bloodlines and even stronger will, who had already shown promise as a dragonrider, bonded to Vexion, a dragon of Thraxata’s clutch.

Killian's lineage was beyond question. As the great-grandson of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and Laenor Velaryon, his claim combined the noble blood of House Targaryen and House Velaryon with the unyielding strength of House Stark. With his mother Y/N, the only daughter of Rhaenyra, and his father, Cregan Stark, the Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell, Killian embodied the unity of the North and the Targaryen bloodline.

It was Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, who first championed Killian’s cause. The aged and wise Lord of the Tides, having outlived nearly all of his contemporaries, saw in his great-grandson the potential to restore what had been lost. The Sea Snake's influence and respect among the lords of Westeros were unmatched, and his advocacy for Killian as the rightful heir to the throne was taken with the utmost seriousness.

Corlys's argument was simple yet compelling: the realm needed a king who was not only of noble blood but also one who could command the loyalty of the dragonlords and the great houses alike. Killian, with his Stark resolve and Targaryen fire, was that king. He was a boy with the blood of the dragon in his veins, and unlike his predecessors, he had a dragon at his side—a symbol of the power that once ruled the skies of Westeros. Vexion, though young, was already growing into a fearsome beast, his deep midnight blue scales and violet eyes a reminder of the might of House Targaryen.

The Great Council of 138 AC was convened at Harrenhal, a place chosen for its neutrality, to decide the fate of the realm. The lords of Westeros, weary of war and eager for stability, gathered to debate the future. Among those who spoke for Killian was not only Corlys Velaryon but also his father, Cregan Stark, who had already proven his dedication to justice during the Hour of the Wolf when he served as Hand of the King and dispensed justice to those who had betrayed the realm.

Cregan Stark was a man of honor and few words, but his presence at the council carried weight. It was said that when Cregan rose to speak, the hall fell silent, and every lord in attendance felt the weight of his words. He did not advocate for his son out of ambition but out of duty—to his family, to the realm, and to the memory of those who had suffered and died during the Dance of the Dragons. He spoke of the need for a ruler who could command both respect and fear, a king who could rebuild what had been broken, and a dragonlord who could ensure that the skies of Westeros would never again be darkened by treachery and betrayal.

The lords of Westeros, many of whom had fought in the Dance or had seen their lands ravaged by it, were moved by the arguments presented. They saw in Killian Stark the hope of a new beginning, a ruler who could bridge the divides that had torn the realm apart. The fact that he was a dragonrider only strengthened his claim, for the memory of dragonfire was still fresh in the minds of many, and the power of the dragon was seen as essential to maintaining order in a realm as vast and diverse as the Seven Kingdoms.

Thus, it was decided by the Great Council that Aegon III, whose reign had been marred by personal tragedy and political strife, would abdicate the throne in favor of Killian Stark. Aegon, who had always been more comfortable away from the throne than upon it, accepted the decision with grace, retiring to Dragonstone, where he would live out the remainder of his days in relative peace.

On the first day of the new year, in 139 AC, Killian Stark was crowned as King Killian I of House Stark and Targaryen, the Dragon-Wolf, first of his name. His coronation was a grand affair, attended by lords and ladies from across the realm, each of whom pledged their loyalty to the new king. As the crown of Aegon the Conqueror was placed upon his brow, Vexion let out a mighty roar, his wings unfurling as he took to the skies above the Red Keep, a symbol of the new age that had dawned in Westeros.

The reign of King Killian I was marked by a period of reconstruction and renewal. With his parents by his side—Cregan Stark as his most trusted advisor, and Y/N Velaryon as the queen mother—he worked to restore the realm to its former glory. The North and South were united as never before, and under his rule, the great houses of Westeros found a new sense of purpose and loyalty to the crown.

During their marriage, Cregan and Y/N had more children, each of whom played a role in the continued stability of the realm. Their eldest daughter, Alysane Stark, was married to the heir of the Vale, further strengthening the bonds between the North and the South. Their younger sons, Rickon and Jory, were given lordships and served as key figures in the court, ensuring that the realm remained united and strong.

King Killian I’s reign saw the rebuilding of many of the great castles and cities that had been destroyed during the Dance. The Targaryen bloodline was secured through alliances with the other dragonlord houses, and the power of the Iron Throne was restored. The scars of the past were not forgotten, but they were healed, and the realm once again prospered under the rule of a strong, just, and wise king.

In the end, the Dragon-Wolf proved to be the ruler that Westeros needed—a king who could command both the loyalty of his subjects and the respect of his enemies. His reign ushered in a new era of peace and prosperity, and his legacy would be remembered for generations to come as the king who brought the broken realm back to life.

Thus ends the account of King Killian I, the Dragon-Wolf, and the legacy of House Stark and Targaryen.

[theodoresgirl]

hey I have a request for a Killian jones x female reader where the female reader is Emma’s twin sister (looks more like snow) and has a 3 year old daughter from a past toxic relationship, if you can’t do it that’s fine either way thank you :)

Killian jones x Emma’s twin sister

Killian jones x Fem!Reader

A/n: I did not forget about this request, Sorry it took me a few days to do! Hope you enjoy<3

—————————————————————————

Y/n was the daughter of David Nolan and Mary Margaret. She also is the twin sister of the savior Emma Swan. She grew up being bounced between foster homes in New Orleans. When she was 23 she had gotten into a really toxic relationship, at 25 she got pregnant and had a daughter.

She had been stuck in the toxic relationship until she was 28, She had packed up her and some of her daughters things and left in the middle of the night.

She had silky long black hair that was curly, brown eyes and a round face with dimples. She almost looked like a clone of Mary Margaret. Her daughter Edith had long dark brunette hair with emerald eyes.

Killian had met y/n and her daughter Edith one day when she had went to visit her sister and parents for one of the first times.

⭐️

Thursday June 25th, 12:51pm.

Y/n was sitting on the top deck of the jolly roger with Edith, They were eating some sandwiches from granny’s. They were waiting on Killian to finish cleaning his ship.

Edith was sitting on the edge of the ship walls looking out on the water, Y/n kept her view on her daughter and occasionally if he was in view, glancing at killian. Y/n finishes her sandwich and crumbles up the wrapper putting it into a bag.

Y/n looks around trying to see killian but doesn’t, “can i have your trash princess?” She holds the bag out so Edith can put her trash in it, “and I need you to be on the deck instead of railing so I can go run this up to the dumpster” Edith shakes her head as she puts her trash into the bag.

“I can’t leave you on the railing of the boat- ship? You could fall in the water” “Mermaid” edith looks over the edge. “It doesn’t work that way” She holds Edith back so she doesn’t fall. “I’ll watch her, Don’t worry about it love” Killian came up behind her, startling her. “Oh!- it’s fine- you- You don’t gotta worry about it, Weren’t you cleaning?” she nervously smiled, still not used to someone offering to help her.

“I’m done cleaning, Honestly love we could just head back to your loft if you wanted-“ “i wanna stay” the little one interrupted. Y/n sighed before nodding “i’ll be right back then” she said as she walked down and off the jolly roger.

“Alright then love” Killian smirks and she walks away. He turns towards Edith and leans against the railing of the ship and holds himself up with his elbows. “So what do you like kiddo?” He asked curiously. Edith answered back “Princess, Cartoons, Barbie-“ “I'm gonna have to cut you off there my lady, I have no idea what this ‘barbie’ is, Cartoons too?” Killian admitted. Edith looks at Killian with a confused look, “you don’t know barbie?”. Killian shook his head “what is it?”

“Barbie is movies, some of my favorites” She smiles. “You’ll have to show me one next time I’m over then” Killian pats her head with his hand.

Edith nods and giggles “we can watch a mermaid one” “oh? There’s mermaids?” Killian raises an eyebrow. “yes!! Yes!!” she nods and smiles.

⭐️

Saturday June 27th, 8:00pm

Y/n was laying in the living room with Killian and Edith. Edith was sitting in front of her mother and the pirate watching Barbie: In a Mermaid Tale 2. Killian was laying on the couch with y/n laying on his chest.

Killian had his focus on the tv, only sometimes asking questions about ‘Barbie’, and either getting an answer from the little brunette in front of him or the pale skinned woman in his arms.

After the movie was over both Y/n and Edith were asleep, Killian carefully slips himself out from under Y/n and picks her up. He carries her to her bedroom and lays her down before going out to the living room again and turning everything off. He picks up little Edith and carries her to her room and lays her down, tucking her in, “Goodnight Kiddo.” He muttered as he walked out of the room going into Y/n.

[dracolichen]

I've spent most of artfight working on this 100 character BG3 mass attack!

I'll zoom in, break it down, and list everyone below the cut!

In the foreground we have half-illithid buddies Favour from @rennybu and Ohta from @sori4partyrock greeting each other, with Saelihn Oriandyr on the left from aaazulisms and Kera from neutropara on the right. On the bench against the right edge is @thatglassofwater's Hallow talking to @swordmaid's Shri'iia. Behind her head is glampiirez's Axl.

Around the fireplace (that is behind the beam on the left edge) we have Imill from @cvnnbl leaning on the beam and facing @smuffeycat's Xaphan. Not quite to the circle but walking towards it is Amarlene, who belongs to dark.rabs. On the stool is @rosaart's Cobwynn Varmillier, next to Glimmer, from aspensarts. Dhenvod Suruc from @tboy-vampire talking with Chiaki Kobayashi from mimiqt. Spore-to-spore communication is happening between @ritelli-main's Rue and Faoryn Oru from _spiderwiz_. Last around the circle is the couple, Absalom and Alius, from gravesyard and birdlion respectively.

Let's start zooming in.

On the left end we have Misryn Goldsinger from @gatchayam, Soleil from riloops, and Vivern from ObsceneLemon. Walking by in front is jynxiejinx's Wynnie. Heisenberg-Chan's Dianthus is talking to @almightyjanitor's Aetias Larkspur and CormorantColors's Caurus. Siobhan from @wopwops is facing Eve from @lilyveins.

Next table!

From left to right we have; Astral_Queer's Tif Starlight, @asterroses's Hellefer, @riteofthorns's Alistair Fee, @noumios's Yatim Ravenheart, @dellabeat's Azar, @husvetten's Drashok, and supurrnovae's Rynri Ashtale.

Let's continue moving to the right and look at the entry area.

In the left foreground we have Quina from Drawbabycrybaby and @sound-nin's Nowhere. Behind them is @not-so-dreary-november's Kiya by the window and @digitalduckie's couple Royce Martin and Rusel. In the doorway is RDR's Aura. Continuing along that wall we have Skully_'s Eduin with Elzebubz's Amenadiel. In the upper right corner is Pauli_Tau_'s Pine sitting with @diroxide's Forza. In front of them is nermadethis's illithid Zephyr, with Antipione Misrali from AtlasHyperion sitting on the railing around the corner. Behind her on the bench is Quillarya and her familiar, Ink, from @loopyhoopywrites. At the little round table is Ruby Stoneheart from @fishyjpg having a scholarly discussion with Sterling from Echo_Dutchie.

Let's get the round table in the middle next.

Leaning on the railing behind the table is Auric with his crow Handsome from DeservedlyFluffy. @labotor's Thora Stormgrave distracts the table to get them facing her while her pal Griz M Rhazgut looks for a pick pocketing opportunity from below the railing. The dragonborn is @barrel-of-fantrolls's Jasper, the half orc is @eggsaladed's Cyriak, the drow Zelya and the tiefling Cobalt are both from @cobaltspace. In front of them at the bottom is @new-austin's Funkledunk already going for a refill on the pitcher. Leaving the bar area with a full pitcher is @shoestrum's Zylas, with SpoinkleyDoingle's Braham next to him. Coming up the stairs is Remora d'Amaronis from @labotor as well.

We'll zoom in again for the folks behind them.

At the window in the upper left is Makepeace from @starofthelabyrinth. Heading into the lower bar area is @skyberia's Néphos Huan, and applauding from behind the railing is Emerald Berylis from AceTrainerWes. The furthest back table has two characters each from vaporwaved8666 and @mollycoddlings, the siblings in the middle Tango and Aurora, with Killian and Burke on the ends.In front of them is our band, with Dagny from MDoebling standing on a barrel, surrounded by @azvhaalk's Sólstafir, @princefleabitten's Faeryl, and @dellabeat's Apostrophe on the hurdy-gurdy. In front of the band is Fish from @p0rcelain-b0yy. Panic from katiesimrell is coming down the back stairs, with @phantasmaghosti's Ahlysaaria leaning on the beam at the top and @milkfreaker's Apollon peering over the railing. Jhansra from @void-star and Jibril from Mothley_Cruee are conversing at the other background table.

Sliding over to the bar next!

On the bottom left @milkfreaker's Midra and TheKrakenSovereign's Nyhmmendra are facing the band. Behind them is @hoivess's dragonborn trio, Lucille Abdiel, Des Delos, and Saoirse Hymsong. In the back is @staggbones Pelaios Dretche with @shheep's Acorn, facing the card table. On the right side of the table is @corpsetype's Ciaran and snobsi's Yvon. Sitting at the car in front of them is @sysunknown's Riza D'aerthe, @noumios's Thyris "Euphoria" Dharvir, and @voltaical-art's Bishop. (Featuring the back of my own Vigor's head to fill in as bartender.)

Looking up real quick we have our acrobats!

Estrella the Radiant from @getetteroo and Smiles from @ahauntedcafe!

Last section!!

In the bottom left @hildamistwater's Yevgeniy Kuznetsov is passing a drink up to Ashara from canzadrine. Cansu from semageon is at the keg behind them. Ezra Deschain from @unkledeath is walking towards the back where bottles are being retrieved from, as iluvhisoka's Kaz departs with one on the left and @mollfie's Zinadove approaches with one. Parashy's Pebble sits on the step and looks on as argonlights's Loren celebrates and @lhtiriekko chills a bottle in the back.

Unless I mismarked my spreadsheet, that should be everyone!! Happy Artfight everyone, I hope you enjoyed our post-game party here in the Elfsong, even if you got where's waldo'd!

[potato-on-your-head]

listen Emma Swan is morosexual and exclusively attracted to men who are cringefail in one way or another, the most functional person she sort-of dated was probably Graham and even then their first makeout happened after she'd spent the whole day with him while he was having a nervous breakdown. her other flames include a pretend furniture salesman who fake pined after her until she noticed him, a 200-year-old twentysomething conman who taught her how to commit felonies at age 18, and a pirate who flipped from Kitten Thinks Of Nothing But Murder All Day to puppy-eyed pining for one (1) Emma Swan in the course of like a week. she was a goner the moment Killian Jones sauntered onto the scene. she's kicked his ass. she's seen others kick his ass. she watched him get hit by a fucking car. he said the dumbest flirty shit to her until she mashed her face into his from the sheer sexual tension.

it was always just a contest between which brand of moron she was going to pick in the end. she chose to be ride or die for Hot Eyeliner Pirate and we love her for it

you know who else in funny? Neal. I cannot get over how much of a loser he is. And the fact that he thought he ever stood a chance when it came between him and Hook??? Guy Liner McPuppy Eyes? Emma walks into his his line of sight and his world is instantly rocked. Killian Jones would NEVER get engaged to a random woman on the street because he was too scared to face Emma. Also Neal has zero drip. Man is wearing a dirty t-shirt and sweatpants 100% of the time. Hook is in dashing black pirate attire. He’s got a detachable hook for a hand and has alluded to having ~other~ attachments for it as well. Baelfire calls his dad “papa” despite being a grown man. “When I win your heart, Emma, and I will win it. It will not be because of any trickery. It will be because you want me.” Neal baby i’m so sorry but you could nevvvverrrrrrr

[g-on-ef]

Goddess of Loneliness ideas

Not sure yet if I will write GoL I'm tempted so imma just dump some ideas I have and see where it goes ^^

After coming back from the states Maya is isolated from everyone

Annika becomes a little mean spirited towards her and reminds everyone she always knew Maya was an awful person and she wasn't even surprised that Maya betrayed her family

Maya doesn't say anything but is hurt that her brother and Killian don't defend her and if anything Killian adds fuel to the fire

Gareth does however by reminding Annika she betrayed her family by dating the fucker that stabbed her brother almost got Nikolai killed and almost drove her to suicide

That did not end well with Jeremy as he defensed his sister

Gareth deciding they're being unfair to Maya remins everyone that their own partners have done some shitty things to them and they were quick to forgive them but can't do the same for Maya

It ends in a huge fight between him and Killian which had Jeremy and Niko separating them before it can escalate to something worst

Mia throws a comment how Maya is still ruining their family by pitting them against each other as she Niko and Kill leave

Gareth tries to sooth her but she decides to leave to go somewhere else

What no one knows is Maya has her own little cottage where she goes to escape

Maya writes in her diary and cries of being alone

She tries to talk to her mom who ignores her her dad who claims he's busy but she knows he's not

She tries to talk to Illya but all he does is yells at her calls her selfish and throws a traumatic event that happened to her back to her face making her feel worse than she already did

Trigger warning mention of eating disorder and self harm

Three weeks have passed and Maya has been a mess

Her eating disorder is back as she overhears Annika and the rest of the Elite girls talking badly of her Mia included

She gorges down on food till her stomach is full and vomits it out

She's done this before as her punishing herself so she does it again

She use to burn herself

She goes back to that habbit

Brandon catches her doing it

He approaches her but Maya dismisses him and tries to leave

Bran doesn't leave and threatens to tell Nikolai what she is doing

Maya says she doesn't care if he knows since she's not important to him and never was

No one knows this but Maya has a beautiful voice and sings beautifully she's also a huge anime nerd bigger than Cecily

She's also a talented anime artist

She's done commissions and has made a shit tone of money from it

Hell one of her drawings is hanging proudly on Cecilys walls but Cecily doesn't know it was Maya that drew it

Maya is a swifty and an army and part of the beyhive

In order she loves Jimin Yoongi Jin Hobi Namjoon Taehyung and Jungkook

Okay her list is always changing but Yoongi and Jimin are always on top

She owns rare merch and keeps in her little cottage

Annika, Ava, Glyn, and a reluctant Cecily and Mia think she deserved to be punished so they along with Killian tore up her posters she had at the mansion along with her Taylor Swift Viynal and Beyonce shirt that was a limited run and merch she had

When she went to her room she saw the state it was and felt like crying

The merch didn't mean a lot since she had bought it in double but it still hurt that someone ruined things she bought with her own money

She quietly packed everything and threw it away

Bran saw her room destroyed and helped her clean it

Maya didn't say anything she just picked up her things and threw them out

She was grateful she kept her sign merch, the rare photocards, and everything important to her in her cottage

Bran tried to talk to her but she ignored him

Bran was getting worried and didn't want her to hurt herself

He never told Niko but he was worried for her

He asked her if she wanted to hang out with him

Maya didn't say yes or no so Bran dragged her with him to go for some coffee

Maya didn't understand why Bran was being nice to her

Bran told her it's because no one should feel so low

Maya reminded him what she did to mia

Bran reminds her what his family did to hers

Maya smiles a little and it's the first time she actually did

She and Bran start hanging out more

The two bond and Maya can safely say she made a friend

Bran can say the same

Mia isn't happy and neither is Lan

Niko is conflicted

Maya brings him to her cottage and shows him her drawings

Bran is honored to be the first on here as well as the one she trusted with her drawings

Maya is happy

Well not for long

Maya is reminded once again of the pain she caused and how she'll ruin Brandon

She's tired of the constant harassment

The constant pain

Lan especially threatens her along with Eli Killian and Creighton

Having enough Maya runs away

She leaves a drawing for Bran and only Bran and leaves

She heads to California to start a new life

She doubts anyone will notice she's missing

She destroys her phone and anything that can trace her and leaves

[hollyethecurious]

CS AU: Pan Says... (13/13)

Summary: After waking up in a strange room with a naked stranger, Emma and Killian must endure the twisted game their kidnapper insists they play in order to gain provisions and avoid punishments.

A/N: We've made it! The final chapter is here. Thank you all for going on this journey with me! I hope is does not disappoint!

Much love to my @kmomof4 and @ultraluckycatnd for being amazing cheerleaders and betas! A shout out to all of you who sent me prompts. This fic would not exist without y'all!

Rated E / Also available on ao3 and ff.net / buy me a coffee / add to tag list / Curious? Come Ask Me!  

Part One / Part Two / Part Three / Part Four / Part Five / Part Six  / Part Seven / Part Eight / Part Nine / Part Ten / Part Eleven / Part Twelve

Part Thirteen

“There has to be a way out of here,” Killian grumbled as they hit yet another dead end.

Never had he been more eager to get his Swan to safety. Sure, the man who’d been tasked to eliminate her may well be dead, but that didn’t mean she was out of danger. Cassidy was still lurking somewhere within the maze and Killian didn’t want to take any chances of him getting his hands on Emma.

“Killian?” Emma whispered softly next to him, both of them trying to draw as little attention to themselves and their position as possible. “What do we do if Neal finds us before we make it out of here? Assuming there is a way out.”

“There has to be,” Killian replied, bypassing her initial question and leading them down a new corridor. Or had they already been down this way? “Pan can’t trap us in here forever.”

“Sure he can.”

Killian and Emma spun around, stunned to find Neal Cassidy making his way around the corner they’d just turned. Where had he come from? That way had been a dead end. Hadn’t it?

A baseball bat was firmly gripped in one hand as he menacingly tapped the cap of it in the other. No need to guess the weapon he was meant to use in order to complete the grizzly task Pan had assigned him.

“Looks like Emma already took care of your dear old dad,” Neal commented, his eyes taking in the blood soaked into Killian’s sweatpants and smeared across his bare torso and chest. Shifting his attention to Emma he added, “I knew Pan would give you Brennan, leaving Killian and I to duke it out to the death.”

Killian let the man keep his wrong assumptions and tightened his grip on Emma’s hand, hoping she would do the same. Having his focus on Killian as both his target and would-be assassin allowed them the upper hand, even if they were both loath for Emma to be in a position to have to take the man’s life. Neither of them wanted it to come to that, but Neal seemed not the least bit concerned with the idea of cold-blooded murder.

“I’m gonna enjoy this,” Neal murmured darkly, continuing his advance as Killian and Emma both crept backward down the corridor, unwilling to take their eyes off the danger in front of them. “Do you know how often I’ve dreamt of killing you? How many times I begged Pan to let me be the one to punish you?”

Arriving at a T junction, Killian signaled for Emma to go to her right, hanging behind for a moment to ensure Neal did not lunge at them unexpectedly. She’d only just rounded the corner when a panel slid out from the wall, cutting him off from her completely. Forgetting about Neal, Killian spun around and yelled Emma’s name, desperately feeling his way along the panel for a way to remove it.

“Swan!” he hollered, but was unable to determine whether or not she could hear him. Her name had only just left his lips when a whooshing sound gave him a mere moments warning of Neal’s attack. Ducking out of the way, Killian nearly had his head taken clean off by the swing of Neal’s bat, which instead collided with the solid panel separating them from Emma.

“Quick bastard, aren’t you?” Neal muttered, taking aim once more.

His next swing was stalled when Killian demanded to know, “Where’s Emma? How did you manage to separate us?”

“Don’t look at me, pal,” Neal scoffed. “Haven't you noticed the walls moving before now? Hallways seal themselves all the time, creating new dead ends. It’s all part of Pan’s genius.”

“Awfully enamored with Pan, aren’t you?” Killian stated derisively.

“Pan is my family,” Neal shot back. “He’s always looked out for me.” Cocking his head to one side, a sneer crept over his lip as he taunted, “Unlike your own father who left you and your brother to rot in foster care. Left you to the mercy of someone like John Silver.”

Killian tamped down the anxiety and panic the mention of his abusive foster father’s name brought up. He could not afford to let Neal rile him up or make him lose focus. In fact, perhaps it was time to turn the tables.

“Always looked out for you?” Killian countered. “Was he looking out for you when he brought Emma here? When he let me have her instead of you?” Neal’s knuckles turned white as he clenched the grip of the bat tighter in his hands, his teeth grinding together in anger and rage Killian hoped he could work to his advantage. “Tell me, Neal,” Killian continued to taunt, “How was Pan looking out for you when he let me pleasure Emma? Let me caress her body and taste her cunt before fucking her to heights of ecstacy you were incapable of giving her?”

A guttural roar of rage preceded the wild swing of Neal’s bat, but Killian managed to side-step it before it made contact.

“Or was he looking out for you when he forced Emma to her knees to suck me off?” Killian said, throwing another barb at the man who was growing more and more unhinged by the second. “Or when she washed me, or kissed me, or fondled me, or rode me like a bloody goddess?”

Another savage swing broke the air, but when this one also missed its target, Neal, in a rage, rushed at Killian, nearly knocking the breath out of him as they both landed on the ground.

“You think any of that meant something? You think it means she’s yours?” Neal bellowed, striking Killian in the jaw with his fist when he attempted to get up, landing him flat on his back once more. “She’ll never be yours!” Neal roared. “She’s mine!”

Crushing the bat against Kiliian’s windpipe, Neal continued to rail at him. Perhaps he’d done too good of a job riling the man up in the hopes he’d make a mistake. It was clear, however, that Killian had been the one who’d made the fatal error. Frantically, he clawed at Neal’s hands as the man continued to spit vitriol at him, not that he heard a word of it, the sound of his blood thundering in his ears as a ringing began to swell from the lack of oxygen effectively drowned the murderous man out.

No! He couldn’t let the man win. He couldn’t leave his Emma at the mercy of Pan and Neal. He couldn’t… he had to… he must…

Killian’s vision began to tunnel, the black edges of oblivion quickly creeping in as the pressure in his face and head continued to build and his lungs screamed from want of air. With the last of his strength he tried anything and everything he could to dislodge the man from his chest and bat from his throat, but it was no use. Neal would not be moved.

The last vestiges of consciousness began to leave him, his final coherent thoughts of his Swan and the grief he felt as he mourned the life they could have had together. He wished he could see her one last time. Hold her. Kiss her. Tell her he--

Killian jolted from the blast of gunshots that rang out and his lungs suddenly opened, allowing him to draw in a much needed breath. His eyes, which he hadn’t even realized had shut, flew open in time to see Neal Cassidy being propelled backward by the force of the bullets hitting his chest, blood splatter from his wounds erupting in the air and hitting Killian in the face as he continued to choke and gasp for breath.

“Killian!” Emma screamed, her footfalls rushing towards him as he rolled over onto all fours in an attempt to get up. She practically knocked him on his back again, throwing herself at him and wrapping her arms tightly around his neck.

“Careful, love,” he choked out, settling back onto his heels as he knelt before her, threading his fingers through her hair and holding her as close to him as he possibly could. Once he was able to breathe again without a choking fit, he pulled back and looked over at Neal’s prone body.

“Is he… dead?”

“I unloaded the clip on him,” Emma told him, her tone giving away none of what she might be feeling over the matter. “So, yeah. He’s dead.”

“Good.”

She released a heavy breath in response, tears pooling in her eyes as relief seemed to engulf her. Cupping her cheek, Killian nuzzled his nose against hers and affirmed, “You did what you had to do, Swan. You saved me.”

“I tried to hurry,” she told him in a slightly hysterical tone. “I knew there had to be a way back around to you. I’m sorry it took me so long to find it.”

“Shhh, love,” Killian soothed, pulling her back into his arms and cradling her head against his chest. “It’s all right now.”

Emma’s eyes fell shut and a tear slipped past her lashes. Before Killian could wipe it away they were both startled by the sound of more panels closing in around them. Getting to their feet they frantically looked about for a means of escape, but there was none. All access points had been closed off to them.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Killian hollered, grabbing on to Emma’s hand for fear they might get separated again. “It’s over! We completed your tasks and survived! We won! Why have you trapped us in here?”

“Yes, yes,” Pan said in an unenthusiatic tone with a half-hearted slow clap accompanying his words. “You’ve won. Congratulations.”

“That's right!” Emma chimed in. “We won, so let us out! You said we’d earn our freedom if--”

“And I am a man of my word,” Pan replied, though there was clear reluctance in his tone. “Even if letting you go will end up costing me dearly. Think of the revenue I’ll lose from my guests when they discover their favorite playthings are no longer available to them?”

“Forgive me if I don’t lose any sleep over it,” Killian grit out through clenched teeth. “Something tells me you’ll manage just fine without us.”

“I suppose,” Pan sighed. “Part of the fun was watching your father and Neal suffer and stew while I played with you. Now that they’re gone…” Another heavy exhale filled the corridor as a panel slid open. “Well, I suppose a deal’s a deal. Pan says, follow the corridor.”

“Wait!” Emma called out, clearly unconvinced that he meant to make good. “This is really it, right? You’re letting us go? We’re free? Forever?”

“Of course,” Pan replied. “Unless you would wish to stay and remain a part of my--”

“Fuck that,” Killian said, pulling Emma along the corridor with haste, ready to be done with this god forsaken place once and for all.

The path led them back to one of the rooms they’d started in and a cold stone of dread dropped in Killian’s stomach when the door shut behind them.

“I knew it!” Emma exclaimed. “I knew it was a trick! I knew he never meant to--”

Her words were cut off by the hissing sound of the fog filling the room. Terror filled green eyes caught his own as they stared at one another in fear.

“K-Killian?” Emma stammered. “Do you… do you think he means to--”

“Relax,” Pan’s voice exasperated from the speaker. “It’s only going to knock you both out. I can’t have you remembering any details that might lead the authorities back here, now can I?”

A shuddering exhale of relief left Killian’s lungs, but it was replaced with a fresh breath of panic. Where did he mean to take them? Would they remain together or would he dump them back where he’d had them grabbed that fateful night?

“Swan,” Killian said desperately. The air around them was already filling with the noxious choking gas and he knew they didn’t have much time. “I’ll find you,” he promised. “If when we wake we aren’t… I swear I’ll find you.”

“I know you will,” she said, clinging to him as she nodded furiously. “Or I’ll find you. We’ll find each other.”

“Aye.” Pressing his forehead to hers, he lowered them to their knees, not wishing for either of them to become injured when they eventually lost consciousness and fell to the floor.

“Killian, I…” Emma gazed up at him, a sentiment he’d longed to hear swirling in her jade depths as the words began to form on her lips. “ I lo--”

“Don’t,” Killian said, cutting her off. “Not here. Not like this.” Taking her face in both hands he pleaded with her, “Tell me when we’re free. Tell me after… after you’ve found me or I’ve found you. Please, love.”

“As you wish,” she slurred out, her body becoming too heavy for his weakened arms to hold. Together, they collapsed to the ground, their bodies entwined with one another as darkness pulled them under.

~/~

A horn blared from the street outside the window jarring Emma awake. Bolting upright, she was stunned to find herself in her apartment, the air thick with two months worth of dust collecting on the surfaces. Glancing down to assess her physical state, she was again taken aback. Someone had dressed her in the very clothes she’d been wearing when she’d disappeared. The same tight jeans, the same gray tank top, the same red leather jacket, the same tall boots, even the same ponytail, she realized, reaching back to run a hand over her hair.

Out of instinct she called out for Killian, hoping against hope he might be somewhere in her apartment as well. After a very short, quick search - her place was tiny with only an open concept living and kitchen area, a bathroom, and a bedroom - she was devastated to discover she was alone.

Patting at her pockets, she found her phone tucked away in one of the interior ones of her jacket. A curse fell from her lips when she tried to unlock it. The thing was completely dead. Rushing to her bedroom, she started tearing it apart in search of her phone charger, all the while trying to decide who she should attempt to contact first.

Obviously, she needed to find Killian, but there was also David and Mary Margaret to consider. They’d been through hell and she didn’t want them to suffer a moment longer than they had to. Not to mention, the police had to be notified, she was probably gonna need a good lawyer, she was desperate to find out if Henry had indeed been returned to his mother, it would probably be a good idea to have a doctor check her out, but out of all of the concerns and worries spiraling through her brain, the thing that continued to drive her as she searched for her damn phone charger was Killian.

She had to find Killian.

Someone started pounding on her front door, causing Emma to freeze. As the assault against her door continued, Emma realized there was one thing that had not been returned to her from the night Pan had her taken.

Her gun.

Looking about for something she could use as a weapon, Emma froze again when a voice began to accompany the banging.

“Killian?” Sprinting to the door, she didn’t even check the peephole before throwing it open.

Hand still raised, ready to set another round of knocks on the surface of her door, Killian stared back at her with equal disbelief and elation.

“Swan,” he breathed, barely able to complete the exhale before Emma launched herself into his arms.

He struggled to keep hold of her and make his way into her apartment as she wrapped her legs around his waist and peppered his face with kisses.

“How… How are you here… How did you… find me so fast.”

“It was Pan,” he muffled against her lips, causing her to flinch back.

“What?”

Setting her back on her feet, he reached into the pocket of the jeans he wore - tight fitted jeans paired with an equally tight black shirt, charcoal colored waist coat, and a black leather bomber style jacket - and produced a familiar looking folded piece of paper.

Closing the door as she took the message from him with trembling fingers, Killian recited the words as Emma read them.

“Pan says… find her.”

Included on the paper was her full address.

“Well,” she said, wetting her lips and handing the note back to him. “Good thing you did, because tomorrow I’m moving to an unregistered address.”

Killian chuckled and they were back in each other’s arms, lips sliding and tongues tangling as their hands clung to the fabric of the other’s clothes.

“You’re alright? Truly?” he murmured in the space between them when they broke apart for air.

“Yes,” she assured him. “But I’m not sure how long I was out. I only woke up a few minutes before you arrived.” Pulling back further, she gazed up at him and asked, “How did you get here so fast?”

With a stunned expression, as though he himself hadn’t quite gotten over the shock of what he was about to relay to her, he said, “I live just on the other side of town.”

Emma was struck by the fact they never once talked about where they lived. All of his stories had been of his life back in the UK, having only mentioned once in passing that he’d moved to the US for a fresh start after his court martial.

“After I woke up and saw the note, I raced over here. Breaking several traffic laws in the process, I’m sure.” Taking her face back into his hands, he caressed the apples of her cheeks with his thumbs. “I had to see. I had to see for myself that you were alright.”

Reaching up, she placed her hands over his and closed her eyes, letting his touch and the comfort of his presence wash over her. When she opened her eyes again, she led them to her sofa, asking, “What about Liam? Or the police? Have you--”

“I called Liam on my way here,” he told her. “He’s booking the first flight out.”

“I guess I half expected him to already be in the States, working with the police or at least connecting with David and Mary--”

“Aye, he did all that,” Killian added, cutting her off so he could relay what Liam had told him over the phone. “After our phone calls to them, Liam and David and Mary Margaret were in contact with one another immediately and he came here to help them convince the police to take up the case again. Unfortunately, his leave ran out and he had to go back, but he said he would reach out to David and Mary Margaret, as well as the detective that’s working our case, to let them know of my return.” With knitted brows he looked around and said, “I’m surprised they aren't blowing up your phone or already at your door.”

“My phone is dead.” She nodded at the coffee table where the useless device was still laying, then glanced around once more as she said, “I was looking for the charger when you…” Emma returned her gaze to his, not wanting to take her eyes off him for fear he might simply disappear. Shaking off the absurdity of that feeling - while trying to convince herself it was absurd - Emma cleared her throat and informed him, “David and Mary Margaret live more than an hour away, so… we have a bit of time before they come barging in.”

“Aye,” Killian acknowledged. “And Liam asked that I wait to go to the station until after he arrives. He uh… he wants to be here. To support me through…”

“Of course he does,” Emma said, running her hand up and down his arm in a supportive and comforting manner. “He’s your brother and he loves you.”

Killian stood and started to pace, his hands sweeping through his hair over and over again. “I’m not sure what I’m going to tell him,” he confided. “About what we’ve been through. About what we… what I had to do in order to gain my…” Stopping dead in his tracks he looked over at Emma with mournful eyes and asked, “How am I going to tell him about Brennan? How do I confess to him that I killed our father?”

Emma sprang up for the couch and wrapped her arms tightly around his middle. “You didn’t kill him, Killian. You weren’t the one responsible for his death. And regardless, you won’t have to face it alone. You won’t have to do any of this alone.” Craning her neck, she captured his gaze and reminded him, “We will get through this the way we’ve gotten through everything else. Together.”

“Aye, love,” he expelled on a relieved breath, crushing her to him. “Together.”

After a few more minutes of simply holding one another, Killian loosened his grip and chagrined, “I’m sorry, Swan. I know I’m not the only one facing a daunting amount of trauma to work through.” Taking her hands in his, he brushed his thumbs over her knuckles, his Adam’s apple bobbing heavily before he spoke. “I know now that my father sacrificed everything to protect Liam and me. That he gave up his life to ensure I had a future.” Gently, he placed her hands against his chest and cradled them there, flicking his gaze up to meet hers, the intensity swirling in those forget-me-not depths nearly drowning her. “And I damn well intend to have one,” he murmured fiercely, their lips now only a hairsbreadth apart. “I know you must have your own trepidations about entering back into the world, but I want you to know that I will be by your side. For all of it. Always.”

“I know,” she whispered, pressing her lips to his and losing herself in the fervor of his kiss and the promise it left simmering between them.

After taking a much needed breath, Emma burrowed her face into his chest, refusing to let go as she tightened her arms around him. “For now though?” she implored. “For the little bit of time we have before David gets here and goes all Nolan, or before the police descend with their questions and interrogations, or before your brother arrives and I have to worry about earning his approval…” Killian chuckled at that, giving her a comforting and commiserating squeeze. “Can we just… do this? Can we just… be? Can we just leave the world outside for a little bit longer? I just want you to hold me. Can you just hold me and let me forget about everything else for a while?”

“Aye, love,” he murmured into her hair. “I can do that.”

The tightening of Killian’s arms around her alerted Emma that there was something she needed to do first.

“Um… actually,” she said apologetically, wiggling out of his embrace and shooting him a slightly embarrassed look. “Real quick, I need to um… use the restroom. Sorry.”

Killian chuckled again and fully let her go. “Go,” he said in an amused breath. “Take care of necessities while I make myself useful and get us some tea.” Waggling his brows at her he added, “Then we can cuddle up with a cuppa until the masses arrive.”

Emma smiled and threw out instructions of where to find things as she made her way to the bathroom. When she reached the door, she paused and turned back.

“Oh, and Killian?”

“Aye?”

Drawing in a cleansing breath, she declared, “I love you.”

He whirled around from the cabinets and beamed at her, elated. “And I you, Emma,” he murmured back, clearly torn between taking her in his arms again and letting her continue on with what she needed to do. “And I you.”

“Hold that thought,” she told him with a coy smile, her hand pressed against the bathroom door while her attention remained focused on him for a second longer. Watching him smile that adorable boyish grin as he went back to puttering around her kitchen, Emma placed her other hand over her chest. Her heart was full and feeling as though it might burst from relief and joy and hope and a certainty that settled deep within her.

They were going to be okay. There was a lot for them to face and get through and overcome, but… he loved her and she loved him. They were going to be okay.

Swinging the door open, she stepped into the bathroom, then stopped short with a gasp falling from her lips that took her elated smile with it.

“Oh, my God!” she exclaimed before clamping a hand over her mouth.

Killian’s rushed footfalls were accompanied by his frantic tone as he demanded, “What is it? Swan, are you--”

She flicked her gaze up to the mirror, her face white and her eyes wide as saucers. When he joined her his attention was on her reflection, but then followed her gaze as it returned to the counter, and the note laying there.

A note she somehow had not seen earlier when she’d quickly checked the bathroom for Killian.

A note that was sitting atop a very distinctive object.

“Is that…”

A pregnancy test.

Emma nodded and they both leaned down to take a closer look. Hands shaking, Emma picked up the stick and a shuddering breath left her lungs as Killian read the scrawling words that had been penned on the paper.

Pan says, congratulations are in order.

The End

(cue evil laugh)

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[jrob64]

Her Favorite Moments of the Day

A CS Canon Compliant One-shot for CS Spooky Season/Autumnal Bingo

With this short one-shot, I can now say I have a bingo on my board! While the prompt 'creaky floorboards' was probably meant to have spooky connotations, my muse took this in a fluffy and slightly smutty direction. Thank you to @hollyethecurious for the fantastic idea of the autumn bingo board. Be on the lookout for some winter themed bingo stories in the coming months!

Thank you @hookedmom for being my beta once again!

Summary: Emma Jones's days include many moments with her husband and infant daughter, each one of which is her very favorite.

Rating: soft M (minor smut) and F (major fluff)

Words: 1191

Can also be found on Ao3 and ffn

Story under the cut

*********

Emma Jones watches her husband Killian lay the book he’s been reading aloud face down on the coffee table, as she rocks their eight-month-old daughter in the corner of their living room. “She’s finally asleep,” he says quietly, walking over to stand in front of his two blonde-haired loves.

When Hope was born, Killian placed the rocking chair in that specific location so his wife could look out at the ocean while she nursed their little girl. Emma knows it gives him endless pleasure seeing the two of them together, Hope gradually calming at the end of the day as Emma softly hums a lullabye.

Emma looks up at him. “Do you want to carry her upstairs?”

“Of course,” he whispers, carefully releasing a lock of his wife’s hair from their daughter’s lax grip. Then he gently lifts Hope into his arms, smiling down at her. Emma can tell he’s reveling in the feel of Hope’s sleep-stilled body against his chest. When she’s awake, she’s constantly on the move, scooting and crawling at a speed that has her parents fearful for her safety at times.

He turns and slowly glides across the floor, brushing kisses to the crown of the baby’s sweet-smelling head.

Emma watches them go with a sleepy smile on her face. Dusk has fallen outside, darkening the room enough to soften the edges. The fire Killian built in the hearth creates dancing shadows on the wall and a crackling soundtrack for their quiet home. After a hectic day of work and caring for a small, energetic child, the time she spends feeding her precious baby and watching her drift to sleep, while her beloved husband reads to them, are some of her favorite moments of the day.

As Killian approaches the stairs, she calls out to him unnecessarily. “Please avoid the creaky floorboards so she doesn’t wake up.”

“Aye, Love. You remind me every night.”

She does, because it’s part of their routine. She rises from the chair and heads to the bottom of the staircase so her eyes can follow him. He moves to the far right on the third step and skips the seventh one altogether. Watching his attractive backside as he performs the necessary movements is another one of her favorite moments of the day.

They’ve been married for years, but their affection and passion for each other hasn’t waned.

She goes into the kitchen to make hot cocoa, humming as she gathers the ingredients. She’s stirring the milk as it warms in the saucepan, when Killian comes up behind her, wrapping her up in his arms. “Something smells delicious,” he murmurs, nuzzling behind her ear, the low timber of his voice raising goosebumps of pleasure on her skin.

“You usually say that about my pancakes,” she says playfully.

“You’re well aware I’m not talking about anything you’re cooking on that stove, Love.”

She smiles. “The hot cocoa will be ready in a few minutes.”

“Ah, but I’m ready now,” he croons, pulling her tighter against himself so she can feel just how ready.

“What has gotten you so…worked up?” she gasps.

“I know you were watching me as I climbed the stairs. I could feel your gaze on me.”

“I love watching you avoid the creaky steps,” she admits. Biting her lip in anticipation, she turns in his arms to face him. “I love watching you do almost anything.”

He reaches around her and turns off the stove. “To hell with the cocoa,” he murmurs against her temple. Then he captures her lips, backing up until he bumps into the table behind him. They kiss hungrily, starved for each other, even though they just shared intimate moments that morning before Hope awakened.

“Upstairs,” she demands breathlessly.

He hoists her up, arms cradling her ass, and she wraps her legs around his hips. He walks them briskly through the kitchen and starts up the stairs. When he steps on the third one, it lets out a loud creak and they both freeze.

Listening intently, they breathe out a sigh of relief when all they hear is silence. “Sorry, Love,” he whispers. “I forgot.”

“Skip the seventh one,” she giggles.

He does, and they make it to their bedroom with no further mishaps. With practiced ease, they strip each other out of their clothes, lips eagerly exploring bared skin. These passionate moments are some of her favorites, too.

She moans as he pays special attention to her breasts, knowing how he loves that they’re still larger than usual. His clever fingers trace the shiny stretch marks that mar the smooth skin of her abdomen. She used to be self-conscious about them, but he assured her with his words and touch that he adores the reminders of her carrying their child.

Her hands aren’t idle. They stroke, caress and tease the places she knows bring him the most pleasure. Soon, husband and wife are panting and writhing, moaning and pleading. Their bodies are heated, slick with sweat and arousal. When he enters her, it’s familiar but completely new. They move in sync with one another, driving each other higher and higher, until they climax together.

As their bodies cool, his head cradled between her breasts, hand skimming her ribcage, she mumbles, “You deprived me of my hot chocolate.”

“Sorry, Love,” he chuckles. “I suppose you prefer that bloody beverage to intimacies with your husband.”

She tilts his face up to look into his eyes, her own conveying her sincerity. “Never,” she guarantees. “I will never have enough of you, my love.”

They’re in no hurry to move as they lay naked under the covers. These moments, when they are skin-to-skin after making love and having hushed conversations with each other, as their hands, fingers and lips roam, are more of her favorite moments of the day.

When they’re finally ready to move, Killian slips on some loose flannel sleep pants and goes downstairs to finish making the cocoa. Meanwhile, Emma cleans up, washes her face, moisturizes and gets into her pajamas.

He brings their beverages upstairs and they sip them contentedly, while each reads a book from a stack on their nightstand. When the mugs are empty, Emma takes them downstairs, completely forgetting to avoid the creaky stairs. She washes the dishes, double checks the lock on the front door, clicks off the lights and goes back upstairs.

Peeking into Hope’s room on the way back to theirs, she’s surprised to see Killian rocking their daughter. Upon seeing her questioning look, he murmurs with a grin, “You didn’t skip the creaky floorboards, Swan.”

Crossing the room with feather-light steps, she stops beside him, one hand carding through his thick hair, while the other softly caresses Hope’s rosy cheek. Bending down, she presses a kiss to the baby’s head, then one to Killian’s lips. She also counts quiet moments like these among her favorites.

Then again, when she thinks about it, every moment she spends with her husband and daughter are her favorite moments of the day.

*********

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this brief glimpse into Emma, Killian and Hope's life together. Be sure to check out all the fantastic offerings for the Autumn Bingo event found on Ao3 here.

Tagging:

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[exhaustedpirate]

her handless wonder

this all came to be from my love for the season 3 finale, my unsatisfaction at the resolution of that little Emma slip up a couple of episodes before AND my dislike of Regina; blended it all up and added a sprinkle of smut and voila! edited by the amazing @belovedcreation

rated M | 2498 words

also on AO3

“You traded your ship for me?”

“Aye.” 

It feels like hours ago and no time at all that he had made his confession. It still makes her heart pound just thinking about it. The truth and the devotion in his eyes meant that she could have done nothing except kiss him. Not that it was a hardship, really.

Killian kisses her now, on a dark corner next to the bathrooms, his lips insistent and passionate. Emma wraps her arms around his neck and prepares for the ride. Distantly, she knows they should stop - anyone could find them there. 

But his body is strong and warm against hers and his arms tight around her waist. Her self-restraint has limits - she had to wait an hour already (an eternity) so that she could make a quick exit, claiming exhaustion, and catch Killian’s attentive eye so he would know to follow her. Which led to her pressing him against the wall of this dark corner and pulling his lips to hers before he could say anything else to delay her desire to kiss him. And touch him. And hold him. And be touched by him.

Her lips trail down to his neck, hearing his quick breathing against her ear. She touches his chest over his many layers, her fingers caressing the chest hair peeking out through the shirt’s opening, and she feels his hand and hook on her hips. She smiles against his neck, worrying a mark to his hot flesh and feeling her insides tingle at the responding groan. 

“Touch me,” she demands, grabbing his wrists to urge him to do something, anything, her mind too flooded by desire to think of specifics.

But he flinches and pulls his arms away from her gasp. She lets him go, not wanting to force anything on him, and looks up. His lips are parted and his breathing rapid, signs of his lust, but there’s shame in his eyes overtaking the desire even as he tries to escape her gaze. 

“What’s wrong?” she asks quietly and places her hand on his cheek to bring his eyes to hers. “Killian?”

“I think,” His voice is rough as he responds, eyes shuttered even as he looks back at her. “We should stop, hmm, for tonight.” 

She wants to respect his wishes, she does, but she knows he’s deflecting. He wants her, can feel the proof of that against her belly, but something is stopping him. And then she notices how, while his right arm stays at his side, his left is carefully hidden behind his back.

“Killian,” Emma insists, her hands laying on his shoulders before slowly moving down his arms. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“It-I-” He stutters and that’s even more jarring than him stopping her advances. He flinches when she finally takes hold of his hand and hook and she finds her final clue.

“Is it because of this?” she asks, keeping her eyes on him while she tugs on his hook. He doesn’t answer but she sees the truth in his eyes. “You know, I don’t care about that, right?”

Killian takes a deep breath and there’s carefully hidden pain in his eyes. “That isn’t what you said earlier,” Emma frowns, her mind working overtime to figure out his meaning. And, like a lightning strike, she remembers - Davids insists Hook join her and she deflects, of course, because she’s emotionally fucked up: “What is he gonna do? I have magic. He’s got one hand.”. In her remorseful reminiscing, he is able to extricate himself from her loose grip. Her cheeks redden with shame and she looks away. He sighs. “It’s alright, Emma, don’t feel obligated to be with me just because of what I did.”

That catches her attention though. She looks up sharply and finds a resigned expression in his face. “No,” she says determinedly and sees his eyes widen slightly. “That’s not why I’m doing this.” She takes hold of his hand and hook once more, her grip tight. “I’m kissing you because I want to kiss you and I'm touching you because I want to touch you.”

He shakes his head against her determination. “Emma, it’s-”

“I was wrong and stupid,” She interrupts and locks his gaze with hers. “I said it because I was pushing you away, because I didn’t want you to get hurt. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said it,” She pulls his arms around her and feels warm at how they instinctively wrap around her again. “I don’t care that you only have one hand, I care about you and I care about being with you.”

He doesn’t let her say more, his lips pressing against hers in a hungry kiss, one she is more than happy to reciprocate, her arms wrapping around his neck. Their bodies mold against one another and she relishes the warmth, the perfect fit of their bodies. His hand finds the round curve of her ass and she grins against his lips before letting out a pleased gasp when the cold metal of his hook finds the bare skin of her back. 

“Besides,” she whispers. “I’m sure you can do a lot more with one hand than many men can with two. Wanna prove it to me?”

He chuckles darkly, his lips at her ear, teeth finding the flesh of her earlobe. She feels warm and like there’s electricity in her veins. She has never felt this way from such small touches before. “As you wish, Swan,” he whispers back in a hoarse voice, warmth pooling between her legs. “But we should find a more private place, don’t you think?”

She doesn’t answer, her hips grinding against his and her hands covering every inch of his body she can reach. Emma sucks in a sharp breath and takes hold of his hook. Without a word, she pulls him up the stairs, his steps in time with hers. They reach his door in a blur but it’s been far too long since she’s kissed him. He must feel the same way because he twirls her around until her back hits the wall next to his door and takes her lips in his.

“Killian,” she sighs against his lips, her hands grasping his shoulders.

“I got you, love,” he mumbles, hand finding the waistband of her jeans. “I got you.” His lips trail down her neck, focusing on her pulse and she feels like she wants to scream in victory. It feels better than she ever imagined. And she did imagine. A lot.

Emma is so distracted by his talented lips kissing, nibbling and sucking her skin that she doesn’t realize he unbuttoned her jeans until she feels his warm hand over her underwear. “Please,” she gasps, his fingers circling slowly against her clit. “Touch me, please.”

Her begging works. With a growl, he nibbles on her collarbone as he slips his hand inside her underwear and she swallows her sigh of relief with a loud moan. His hand stops and she opens her eyes to see him glancing around before looking back at her with a glint in his eyes.

“You’re going to have to be quiet, love,” he whispers and she bites her lip at the sound, his fingers twitching over her pussy at her reaction. “Can you do that for me?” he asks and his hook caresses her jawline.

She nods enthusiastically, rubbing her thighs together to urge him to touch her more and he grins, a smile full of promise and lust. He slants his lips over hers and she feels his fingers press against her clit, sinking her teeth on his bottom lip. 

“Gods I can’t wait to feel you around my cock, Emma,” he murmurs as his fingers begin to circle at a quickening pace. “You’re going to feel amazing, aren’t you?”

“Yes, yes,” she gasps, gripping his biceps tight in her grasp. “I want to feel you inside me.” 

His hook slides up against the skin of her belly and her mouth parts in a gasping moan. She feels his eyes on her but all she can focus on is the way his circling fingers quicken and his hook reaching the fabric of her bra. With desperate movements, she unhooks her bra, letting the undergarment sag underneath her clothing. She takes hold of his brace and looking into his eyes, she pulls his hook against her breast. His eyes darken as if he can see it, as if he can feel it, and she likes to believe he does. 

The cool metal presses against her hard nipple at the same time he slides a finger inside her. “More,” she whispers, she begs. “More.”

“Fuck,” he gasps, sliding a second finger inside her while pressing the heel of his palm against her clit. “You’re going to come for me, aren’t you, Emma?”

She nods desperately, wanting nothing more than to grant him that desire. But she needs something more, she needs- His lips find hers, a burning kiss. “Then, come, my love, come for me.” he begs against her mouth and his teeth find her bottom lip.

She shatters with a silent scream, his fingers slowing down to drag out her climax, to turn her into jelly in his arms. His left arm wraps around her waist to pull her against him, holding her up in her unstable legs. Emma blinks her eyes open to find him watching her, a desperate look in his eyes.

“I knew you’d look enchanting when you come,” he whispers and she is surprised to feel her body heat up at the praise, at the sound of his voice. His fingers drag between her folds slowly, whispering over her clit. “Better than I imagined.”

“You imagined it?” She smirks as her hands rub up and down his arms. 

“Many, many things, Emma.”

“So did I,” she confesses and bites her lips at his sharp intake of breath. Her hands move to his chest, feeling his heartbeat and slowly making their way to the waist of his leathers. “Should we go inside your room and see if reality measures up to fantasy again?”

“With pleasure, love.” 

Despite her request, she is still disappointed when he has to remove his hand from her clit. But he more than makes up for it by licking his fingers clean from her essence, his eyes fluttering shut with delight at her taste. He cups her chin and kisses her, his tongue tangling in his hers and she gasps out a moan at her taste in his tongue. His hips grind against hers and she feels his hardening desire against her. Her hand cups his cock over his pants and he pulls away from her lips to let out a strangled moan.

“Shh,” she grins, her hands massaging him while he looks at her with that blazing gaze and his bottom lip captured between his teeth. “You’re going to have to be quiet.” Her grin widens as she repeats his order back to him. “Can you do that for me?”

“Bloody hell,” he groans before fumbling for his keys in his coat pockets.

It takes too long for the door to open, especially when Emma is much more interested in pressing her body against his back and running her hands everywhere she can reach. The door slams behind her and the lock is turned determinedly, her body vibrating with anticipation and desire. The result is scattered clothing, rumpled sheets, sweaty bodies, a delicious morning shower and more orgasms than she ever thought she was capable of having. A perfect first night together. First of many.

Early in the morning, with her naked body draped half on him, half on the bed, she traces her fingers down his left arm, fingertips tracing his scars lightly. His right arm curls tighter around her waist but he doesn’t stop her.

“Maybe I should start using Regina’s nickname for you,” she randomly says, trying to cover up the teasing in her voice.

“Captain Guyliner?” She can hear his raised eyebrow. Ridiculous.

She grins, finally looking up at him. “Handless wonder.” There is teasing in her voice but also fondness, so much affection she feels like she’s drowning.

“So, just as good as a man with two hands?” He raises his eyebrow in jest but she can see his desire for an answer. 

“Hmm.” She bites her lip and swings her leg to straddle him, the sheet falling from her shoulders, her body in full view of his eyes in the light of the rising sun. She grinds her folds against his length and bites her lip at his moan. “A million times better.”

---

Regina is part of the family. Emma really needs to remember that. 

Needs to remember that she is Henry’s adoptive mother and Snow’s … stepmother. God. Needs to remember that family dinners are a great thing and, after so long on her own, she loves her family, loves spending time with them. No matter how hard it gets to do so.

“Next time, Miss Swan,” Regina’s haughty eyebrow is pointed judgmentally at the bread rolls she was asked to bring, “get something of quality.”

Murder is bad. Murder is illegal. She is the Savior, she can’t murder people. 

Killian’s hand finds her thigh under the table, massaging it reassuringly, and her pulse slows. She turns her head towards him and smiles back at him in gratitude. He pats her jeans covered flesh and turns back towards the table. 

“Actually, your Majesty,” She loves the way he says it like an insult, nothing like the way he refers to her mother. He stretches his arm to take a bread roll from the basket. “I was the one who chose these as they are my favorite.”

It’s a lie. Emma had been the one to pick them - finding the cheapest option, considering they were just bread rolls - but she wasn’t going to say so. He grins at the former Evil Queen as he takes a bite of one. He doesn’t fake it. He doesn’t care, not like she does. No one does.

She sees Henry trying to hide a grin from the corner of her eyes. He enjoys family dinners but Emma thinks he enjoys it more because of the inherent rivalry between his adoptive mother and his birth mother’s boyfriend. Maybe she should have a talk with her son about his enjoyment of family drama. Although she’d feel like a hypocrite.

“Of course, the Savior can’t think by herself without her handless wonder.” 

Regina speaks with disdain, meant as an insult. It would be, at any other point. But they remember that first night, his insecurity, her reassurance, his touches, his talent. And so, to the surprise of the smirking Queen and exasperated family members, Killian laughs. And Emma laughs with him.

“You are absolutely right, your Majesty,” Killian smirks, sitting back on his chair and subtly placing his hand back on her thigh. “I am her handless wonder.”

[simgerale]

CHAPTER ONE ; 1/3

TRANSCRIPT:

[sounds of swords clashing and rowdy cheering]

geordie: Your highness, apologies for the intrusion, but her majesty has asked me to remind you of the time.

killian: [panting] The time? And what exactly is the time?

g: Half past noon.

k: So she wished to inform me of my tardiness. Thank you, Geordie. I will be with you shortly.

---

k: Am I the only late one?

g: I am afraid so. Even the princess arrived promptly.

k: Drat. Dara will never let me live it down. The one time I lose track of the hour…

g: No matter, your highness. Soon you will be Knight Captain and have plenty of excuses for tardiness.

k: I sincerely hope not. I am perfectly satisfied with my rank.

---

luca: There you are, at last.

k: Apologies, apologies. What did I miss?

[iam93percentstardust]

an idea inspired by paranormal home inspectors:

as a joke, because he's a terrible, terrible person, bucky advertises steve's home inspector job as a way to get rid of the ghosties and ghoulies causing creaking floors and cold spots in your home. to steve's never-ending frustration, the ad goes viral and people take it way too seriously. it's never ghosts, of course, just bad insulation, mishung doors, and old floors, but it's paying work at least.

the first time he gets called out to the old mansion on the hill just outside of town is before the new owner takes possession of it. he does the usual, collects his paycheck, and goes back home, only to get called out a few weeks later because the owner has since moved in and is still complaining of cold spots.

aldrich killian gives steve the creeps. if this guy is actually complaining about the cold spots, then he sure doesn't act like it. he acts oddly excited instead, a weird gleam in his eyes when he shows steve to the previous owner's son's room, who disappeared the day after his parents were killed in a car crash. killian says the cold spots are the worst there. steve notes the spots and decides that it's probably a draft coming in from the old windows, given that he'd just replaced the insulation.

killian leaves him to it, disappointed by steve's insistence that there are no ghosts in the house. steve gets to work on the window, whistling some pop song that he heard on the radio. it isn't long before he hears someone humming behind him. he sighs and puts down the tools, turning around to remind killian that he's been doing this a decade, he doesn't need to be supervised, and humming is just going to distract him.

except--

it's not killian.

"hi!" the slightly transparent twenty year old says, handsome face inexplicably matching the photos hanging up on the wall behind him. "i'm tony!" he leans in, and steve can feel the temperature in the room drop a few degrees. "and you're going to help me get out of here."

[karatekels]

Solar Flare – Prologue

Hey y’all – welcome to the Valek fic that I’ve been wanting to write since all the way back in August of last year! I’ve been polishing up the ideas and developing some new characters (this is my first time writing an OC as a love interest!) as well as looking forward to some returning characters (*eyes Cassandra*), and I’m hoping this will be the fic that gets me back into the writing frame of mind. With that, I hope you enjoy!

Summary: As vampires become a growing problem and the number of Slayers dwindles, the Catholic Church decides to perform another ‘miracle’, attempting to create a weapon that will be able to find the despicable creatures in any and all shadows that they may hide. Similarly to the botched exorcism of Jan Valek, the experimental ceremony that Rose Hanlon undergoes doesn’t go exactly as intended, and she escapes the city with a set of abilities she doesn’t even understand.

TW: [this chapter] relatively vague descriptions of violence and abuse

TW: [for the fic; may change as I write] blood-drinking and other vampirism fun, graphic violence, graphic sex, abduction, abuse, threats

---

Solar Flare

Prologue: Syzygy

---

From the journal of Father Killian…

July 27th, 1998

We’ve received news that yet another team of Slayers has been decimated, torn apart and massacred just north of Sicily. Our numbers are dwindling like never before, and the clergy have become desperate for a solution. The Diaconate of Monteriggioni has spent countless hours researching, trying to determine a solution that will allow us to hold them off while our numbers return; we need more soldiers to wield God’s Light. The Archbishop has granted permission to use any means necessary to fend off these attacks, and their leading suggestion certainly pushes that permission to the limits of His clemency.

It began with research into the Old Rites. After all, the Primogen of their monstrous ilk, Jan Valek, was a result of a misbegotten exorcism – why not pursue a similar avenue to try to atone for the sins of our past? This train of thought led our scholars to a series of old Germanic texts, the eldest of which preceded vampirism by several decades, and to a binding ritual intended for relics. Such a blessing would allow for relics to be traceable should they be stolen, so that we need not live in fear of losing these precious symbols of our faith. It was one of the youngest parishioners that suggested the ritual be performed on a human, allowing them to seek out evil like a beacon and lead our Slayers right to their nests.

The peak of the Perseid meteor shower in two weeks’ time will be the ideal time to perform the necessary rites according to Father Lorenzo. The Tears of Saint Lawrence returning to Earth every summer is already a celestial blessing, and with the shower’s radiant approaching Cassiopeia more than it has in centuries, this will only strengthen the binding of this blessing to its vessel.

All that remains now is to find one.

---

August 10th, 1998

The past days have had Monteriggioni in a frenzy. Staving off attacks, finalizing the plans for the ritual, and finding a vessel… This last step proved by far the most difficult, as they needed to be descended from the Crusaders, grown but not an active Slayer, someone useful for the role but not expendable should things go… awry.

Jeremy Hanlon came to me a week ago with an option, just when we were starting to think that all hope may be lost. Hanlon, a fifth-generation Slayer with both family lines tracing back to the Crusaders, suggested his daughter as the vessel. The young woman, Rose, has long posed a problem within the city’s walls and to her family, rejecting the tenets of our community and refusing to train as a Slayer or to marry a man of similar lineage to continue the bloodline. Hanlon has spent the better part of her lifetime trying to atone for the sins of his daughter, and believes that this opportunity is the road to her salvation as well as our own. Despite the woman’s violent reluctance, we have run out of time to pursue other avenues, and as an unmarried woman, her father has retained custodial rights as is customary with our laws, and has agreed on her behalf.

Fortunately the ceremony is to take place tonight, during the peak of the Perseid shower. The sunset can’t come soon enough; the intensity of her ire rattles the very stones of the vestry in which she is being kept.

---

August 16th, 1998

The ceremony was performed, and we have spent a week with the vessel in relative isolation as Rose continues to be… resistant. At the very least, it has allowed us to gradually determine the success of the ritual and the limitations of her new abilities.

On the second day, we were able to use a captured thrall to conduct an experiment, moving the vile creature into the rooms surrounding her own. Without fail, she was able to detect what room the vampling was located in through a feeling she described as an itch that needed scratching. This bodes well for her intended purpose, and it is expected that a more aged or powerful vampire will elicit a stronger sensation, thereby enabling the Slayers to identify the most imminent threat during a pursuit.

A more serious issue arose yesterday. Rose is compelled to obey a direct command from a member of the clergy, as enforced by the use of certain runes during the ceremony, and this has held true for the most part. She will perform simple tasks and answer questions asked of her as instructed, but it would appear that there was a mistranslation with the runes that has led to her obeying vampires as well. The same thrall used for her previous days’ training was brought into her cell to test Rose’s capacity to destroy the foul creatures. Initially she attempted to fight off the compulsion to serve her purpose and exterminate the abomination, but looked to be conceding until the thrall asked her for help.

We lost three good priests last night; she tore into them like they were made of paper. Her strength and speed have definitely been elevated beyond a normal human’s capacity, though not to the level of the vampiric. There is some concern amongst the Scholars that a vampire would be able to supersede our own commands if they knew it would be effective, but if we can make her amenable to our pursuits, it should not pose a legitimate threat in practice.

In the name of the Father, let her soul settle into this new role, so that she may guide us to our Salvation.

---

August 19th, 1998

She’s gone. Rose has escaped.

The security tapes showed her clearly trying to commit suicide to no avail – she has been made to endure, after all. Furious, she tore a leg off of the bedframe and pounded her way through the hinges on the door. Further cameras had shown her tearing through the halls and disappearing into the catacombs without a trace.

We have sent for one of the strongest remaining regiments of Slayers from their base in New Mexico; they are our only hope of retrieving Rose so that we may make the necessary adjustments to her blessing and stand a chance against the ever-growing threat of the vampiric race.

Not only do I fear for the vessel and what she represents, but for the girl as well. We cannot be certain that we have seen all of her abilities at work, or identified any newly created weaknesses, and she could be in greater danger than she knows. Should a lesser man of the cloth – or, God forbid, a vampire – stumble upon her and learn of their powers of persuasion over her, I shudder to think of what fate might befall her.

Our Lord works in mysterious ways; let this turn of events be a blessing in disguise.

---

Syzygy refers to three celestial bodies appearing in a straight line – In this case, we’ve got Valek, Rose, and Jack!

[takemetothemoon-fics]

helpless pt1

Title: helpless pt1

Pairing: Killian Jones x reader

Word count: 984

Warnings: blood, swearing

Tags: angst, hurt-comfort

Synopsis: when reader gets really hurt, she has no choice but to go someone who is not really her friend....

A/N: I'm back!! I think this will be a multiple part story, I wanted to test something new. so the idea was that y/n arrives at his door beaten up and weak, and he has to kind of take care of her, but she's cold and doesn't wanna open up to him. enjoy :)

MASTERLIST

They got you good. Your face is bloody, and you're covered in bruises. You're a long way from home, and won't make it back in one piece, so you have only one choice.

You new his house wasn't far from where you were, so you gathered yourself and went.

You stand in his doorway, bloody and beaten up. Your knees are weak and you're on the verge of collapsing right then and there

"I'm sorry. I didn't know where else to go" You say, weakly.

His eyes instantly show concern. While you are definitely not his friend, he's not a complete monster.

"Come inside"

You try to get over to a chair, but your legs are unstable and it causes you to stumble. He lifts you to the chair as gently as possible, and leans you back. He takes a moment to study the bruises.

"You are beaten pretty badly. Who did this to you?"

Your breathing is heavy. Blood drips out of your mouth on the floor. there's a huge cut on your face, and blood leaks from it. You exhale, not giving him a response. You don't want to open up.

He gives you a stern, but concerned look, waiting for you to speak. It's breaking his heart to see you so roughed up. If this were any of his men in this state, he would be furious.

"You got any antiseptic?" you say, with a cold tone in your voice. Anything to break the silence.

He gets to work quickly, cleaning the injuries and getting the necessary supplies for stitching it up. He takes a deep breath and asks the dreaded question

"Who did this to you, y/n?"

You wince in pain as he touches the cloth to your open wound "It's none of your concern."

He shakes his head. "Your pride is going to get you killed. I have never seen an enemy left in such a state. You can hardly walk. Tell me. Who did this."

You lean your head against the wall, closing your eyes. You let out a groan, feeling discomfort because of your wounds.

"No offence y/n, but you truly are stubborn. I'll ask again. Who did this to you?"

"Let it go Killian."

"No. This could be vital information. The person who nearly killed you could attack you again, or attack me and my men. Or we could have some common ground on this matter. Please just tell me who it was."

"It's nothing!" you yell in frustration as you stand up with trouble. "Thank you for the care. I'm going now." You stand up, regretting your decision of coming here in the first place.

He stands in front of the door and sighs, shaking his head "I can't let you leave in this condition, y/n. You are practically helpless."

"Let me leave." You try to push him aside, but you have no strength left, and it causes you to have to take a step sideways, leaning into the wall with your hands.

"You cannot leave. You are in no condition to move. If whoever attacked you finds you leaving this state, for all I know they would just finish you off. Do not be so stubborn."

"Why are you acting like this? As if you care about what happens to me."

"You may not believe me y/n, but I do care. You have caused me a great deal of grief and rage, but seeing the state you are in right now fills me with empathy. So I'm not asking you again. Who did this to you?"

"It's nothing of your concern Killian"

"I am telling you, it is my concern." He takes a deep breath "Whoever did this to you, they are not good. I am willing to set our little rivalry aside to make sure this person doesn't cause any further trouble. I am only telling you this once, y/n. Who did this to you?"

"shut up." you say, softly.

He rolls his eyes. "What a surprise, the proud, stubborn woman finally breaks." he steps closer and towers over you, looking you dead in the eyes "Who. Did. This. To. You!"

"SHUT. UP!" You yell at him, your voice shaking. Your eyes tear up a little bit. You take a deep breath and put your hands at the wall, holding yourself up.

He notices how much this is obviously hurting you. You are on the verge of tears and it takes all your strength to keep from collapsing. It secretly pains him to see you in such a state. He sighs and looks at you. He takes a step closer and places a hand on your shoulder. He speaks in a softer tone

"I know this may be a shock to you y/n. But I'm willing to put a hold on his hate for you to help you. We can put our rivalry away temporarily and focus on this matter at hand. All I ask is for you to tell me who did this to you, so that I may ensure this does not happen to you or anyone I may care for again."

"Fine. It was Sunamo and his men." You say softly, having your eyes closed.

His eyes show shock and his jaw drops at such a name. Sunamo is a sadistic monster who knows no mercy. He lets out a slow exhale. For the first time in all his time knowing her, you are showing slight trust in him. This is certainly a breakthrough.

"What did they do to you?"

You look at your shoes with a puzzled look on your face, looking for words.

"Take your time. I am not going anywhere until I get the whole story. This Sunamo is someone I have had my eye on for a while. You are not the first to suffer at his hands. What did he do?"

[novaursa]

Fires That Never Freeze

- Summary: You receive the news about Rhaenys' death at Rook's Rest, before Jace arrives as he secures the Twins.

- Paring: targ!reader/Cregan Stark

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is only daughter of Rhaenyra, has silver hair and violet eyes and is bonded to a dragon. These events happen after The Heir of Ice and Ash. To read all parts in chronological order, or more of my works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 5 524

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @21-princess

You cradle your son, Killian, against your chest, his soft breath a soothing rhythm amidst the storm brewing in your heart. His dark hair is thick for one so young, a stark contrast to your own silver strands that cascade down like a river of moonlight, braided intricately yet now trembling at the edges as you shudder with grief. His violet eyes—your eyes—peek up at you in curiosity, innocent to the world that has been drenched in blood and betrayal. You wish you could preserve this innocence forever, shield him from the horrors beyond these stone walls, but you know all too well that the winds of war spare no one.

The letter lies crumpled beside you, the wax seal of the Three-Headed Dragon snapped in two. The words are still fresh, cutting through you like Valyrian steel, sharper than any sword you could ever wield. Your grandmother—brave, indomitable Rhaenys—is gone. The Queen Who Never Was met her end at Rook’s Rest, where she and Meleys faced the combined fury of Vhagar and Sunfyre. The account is almost too monstrous to believe: how Meleys’ head was severed and paraded as a trophy, how Aegon the Usurper was carried away like a broken thing, sealed in a crate to hide his mangled form. They say he is scarcely more than a corpse now, held together only by pride and the twisted whims of fate.

Your tears fall silently, trailing over Killian’s soft cheeks as he looks up at you, gurgling without a care in the world. He knows nothing of what has been lost, what will never be.

Suddenly, you feel Cregan’s presence behind you—warm and steady like the roots of an ancient tree. He kneels by your side, his grey eyes searching yours with concern. His large, calloused hand rests gently on your back, grounding you in the present. “Y/N,” he murmurs, voice soft as the snow falling outside. “I heard. The raven...”

You can’t find the strength to speak, so you only nod. He understands without needing further words; he always has. The Lord of Winterfell was never meant for courtly games or gilded halls, but here in the cold North, his honesty and strength have become your rock amidst all the chaos. Yet even his unwavering strength can’t shield you from this hurt.

“I thought dragons were… unkillable,” Cregan says after a pause, his voice rough with both sorrow and disbelief. “The stuff of legends, creatures older than men, forged in fire. I thought they were eternal.”

You blink away the tears that threaten to blind you and force yourself to meet his gaze. There is no room for illusions, not in this world where even gods bleed. “Anything can be killed, Cregan,” you whisper, voice trembling yet laced with a fierce conviction. “Even the gods. Even kings and Kingmakers alike.” The venom laced in the last words is unmistakable. Ser Criston Cole, the leech in royal armor, the wretched man who enabled this war to take root with his false oaths and blackened soul—how you despise him. The thought of him twisting the fate of nations with his cruelty makes bile rise in your throat

Cregan’s brow furrows as he takes in your words. He knows of your distaste for Cole, for all those who put ambition over loyalty, who would see the world burn if only to rule over the ashes. He moves closer, wrapping a protective arm around you and Killian. “You’re right,” he says quietly, his voice a deep rumble, “but we’re still here, and we’ll fight back for those we’ve lost. For those who remain.”

Killian shifts in your arms, cooing softly, as if sensing the turmoil in your heart. You lean into Cregan’s warmth, letting yourself take solace in the strength he offers. “Rhaenys was always so brave,” you murmur, your voice breaking slightly. “She defied them all her life, never once bending to their will. They feared her because she was a woman who would not be cowed, and now… they parade her death like some kind of victory.”

“They can parade all they like,” Cregan says, his voice turning steely, “but a victory built on treachery and murder will crumble. Aegon’s body may still cling to life, but his cause is already rotting from within. The realm will see it.”

His words, though meant to comfort, bring little ease. The war rages on, and with it, the losses mount like a tolling bell. Your heart aches, both for those who have fallen and for those who must still face what lies ahead. Yet, as you look down at Killian, you feel a flicker of hope amidst the darkness. He is a symbol of all you fight for—a future not bound by the horrors of the past, but shaped by those who endure.

“Thraxata will know,” you murmur, more to yourself than to Cregan, your thoughts turning to your own dragon, the Midnight Fury. “She will mourn with me.”

Cregan tightens his grip around you, his chin resting on the top of your head. “And when the time comes, she’ll fight with you too, alongside us all. This isn’t over, Y/N. We have something they’ll never understand—a love forged in fire and ice, bound by loyalty.”

You close your eyes and let yourself be held, the flicker of strength in your chest rekindling. The tears still fall, but now, with every drop, there is something else too—a growing resolve. Rhaenys’ death will not be in vain. The world will hear the roar of her legacy through you, through your son, and through every soul that refuses to bow to the false kings who sit on thrones built on blood.

For now, you hold your family close, taking what comfort you can in the warmth of Cregan’s embrace, in the small heartbeat thrumming steadily against your chest. The autumn winds howl outside, but here, amidst stone and fur, there is still love, still life. The storm may rage, but you will not break.

Not yet.

The weirwood stands tall and ancient, its pale bark almost glowing in the dim twilight. The blood-red leaves flutter softly in the breeze, a stark contrast against the gray skies overhead. You feel small before it, like a child gazing up at something vast and unfathomable. The face carved into the heart tree’s trunk stares down at you with those deep, knowing eyes, as if it sees not just you, but every thought, every secret tucked away in the recesses of your soul.

You’ve been standing here longer than you intended, lost in the quiet of this sacred place. Yet, beneath the peace, there’s an unease gnawing at you. The chill of autumn clings to your skin, sharper now, more present. It crawls into your bones, but you can’t bring yourself to move. You’re here, but not truly—your thoughts scattered like leaves on the wind.

For a moment, everything sharpens. You feel the press of the cold more keenly now, and your breath curls in the air like faint wisps of smoke. Then, the world begins to shift. The rustle of the leaves grows distant, muffled, until it’s almost drowned out by something else—a whisper that’s barely more than a breath, carried on the wind. You stiffen, your heart quickening. It’s a voice, faint yet clear as the first crack of ice on a frozen lake.

Y/N.

It speaks your name, though you cannot tell whether it’s a man’s voice or a woman’s. It sounds old, ageless even, and it seems to echo within your mind as much as in the air around you. A rush of images floods your vision—flashes of faces, places, events yet to come or perhaps already past. You see fire and blood, wings spreading wide against a burning sky. There’s the glint of steel, a flash of a crown—someone crying out, their voice lost in a roar of flames. 

Then, as suddenly as it came, the frenzy halts. You stagger back a step, your surroundings snapping back into focus, the world real again. But the cold clings to you, more than it did before. The weirwood watches you, its eyes holding secrets it will never share. You swallow, trying to steady your breath, your heart pounding loud enough to drown out all else.

“Y/N!” A familiar voice cuts through the fog of your thoughts, pulling you back fully to the present.

You turn, dazed, and see Cregan striding toward you, his expression tense with concern. Behind him is Maester Kennet, his gray robes fluttering as he hurries to keep pace. Cregan’s eyes are locked on you, his brows drawn together, the worry evident in his every movement. “What’s wrong? You’ve been out here too long—it’s freezing.” His tone is gentle, but there’s an edge to it, the underlying fear for your well-being.

You blink, still feeling the lingering echoes of the vision, the remnants of those hurried images flickering in your mind’s eye. “I… I’m fine,” you say, but your voice is shakier than you intend, betraying the truth of your unease.

Cregan stops in front of you, reaching out to cup your cheek with one roughened hand, his thumb brushing against your cold skin. “You don’t look fine, love,” he murmurs, eyes searching yours as if trying to find the cause of whatever has you so shaken. “What happened?”

“I’m not sure,” you admit, closing your eyes briefly as you lean into his touch. “The weirwood… I thought I heard something. Saw something.”

Maester Kennet approaches cautiously, his gaze darting between you and the heart tree. “The Old Gods have their ways of sending messages, Lady Y/N,” he says softly. “The weirwoods are their eyes, their ears. It is not unheard of for them to reach out to those who carry their favor.” 

Cregan frowns at that, his grip on you tightening protectively. “She’s been out here too long, alone,” he says, not taking his eyes off you. “Whatever she saw or heard can wait until she’s had some rest.”

But Maester Kennet shakes his head, his face grim as he pulls a folded letter from his robes. “I wouldn’t have interrupted if it weren’t important. A raven came not long ago—from the Twins. Your brother, Jacaerys, has secured passage for his forces. He’s on his way to meet you, Lady Y/N.”

The words bring a sudden, fierce surge of emotion—relief mixed with dread. Jacaerys is alive, fighting as he always promised he would. Yet with every victory comes new dangers, new battles. And the visions, whatever they meant, linger in your mind like a shadow cast over the joy of the news.

Cregan, ever perceptive, sees the conflict in your eyes and places a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “We’ll face whatever comes,” he promises, his voice a low rumble, the kind that always makes you feel like you’re standing on solid ground, even when the world tilts.

You manage a small smile, nodding. “Yes…”

But as you glance back at the weirwood, its face still and expressionless, you can’t shake the feeling that the Old Gods are watching more keenly than ever. The autumn winds whisper secrets you’re not sure you want to hear, and deep in your heart, you sense that whatever lies ahead, the choices you make will ripple far beyond the snow-covered hills of the North.

With a deep breath, you turn away from the tree, allowing Cregan’s steady presence to guide you back toward Winterfell, leaving the whispers of the gods behind—for now.

The winds bite sharper today, swirling through the bare branches of the godswood and over the snow-covered battlements of Winterfell. You stand beside Cregan at the edge of the courtyard, your cloak pulled tight against the chill. Thraxata looms behind you, her obsidian scales gleaming in the pale winter light. The Midnight Fury’s violet eyes are fixed on the skies above, where your brother is soon to arrive. The air hums with anticipation, the kind that makes your heart race and your fingers twitch. Beside you, Cregan rests a hand on the pommel of his sword, his gaze as steady as the stone walls that surround you.

“Are you ready?” Cregan’s voice is low, warm like a hearth fire, grounding you in the present moment.

You nod, though the tension in your chest remains. “I haven’t seen Jacaerys in so long. I only hope he’s as safe as his letter claimed.”

Cregan squeezes your hand, a brief but reassuring gesture. “If he’s anything like you, he’ll be stronger than ever.”

You smile at his words, but the edge of worry still lingers. War changes people, molds them into something else—sometimes into something harder, colder. You’ve seen it already in the eyes of the soldiers who have passed through Winterfell, men whose laughter now rings hollow, whose smiles are mere shadows. What has the war made of your brother?

Before your thoughts can spiral further, the distant roar of a dragon echoes through the sky, accompanied by the deep flap of massive wings. All eyes turn upward, and there—emerging from the rolling clouds—is Vermax. His green and bronze scales shimmer with an ethereal glow against the muted grays of the northern sky, his wings outstretched as he circles lower. Your heart lifts at the sight, despite everything.

Thraxata rumbles low in her throat, a sound that’s half-greeting, half-challenge. She shifts, restless, her powerful tail sweeping across the ground and leaving deep grooves in the snow. You place a calming hand on her side, feeling the heat radiating from her scales, even in the biting cold. “Easy, girl,” you murmur, though a part of you understands her unease. The bond between dragon and rider is one forged in fire and instinct—Thraxata senses your tension as clearly as you do.

Vermax lands with a powerful thud in the courtyard, snow scattering like dust beneath his claws. Jacaerys dismounts swiftly, his dark curls wild from the wind, his face shadowed with exhaustion and resolve. His eyes—dark brown—search the crowd until they find you. Despite the grimness that hangs about him, a grin breaks across his face.

“Y/N!” His voice is hoarse, but filled with unmistakable affection.

You rush forward, closing the distance between you, and throw your arms around him. For a moment, you’re children again, finding comfort in each other amidst the storms that have always threatened to tear your family apart. But the moment is brief, tinged with the weight of all that has passed. When you pull back, you can see the subtle changes in him—the deeper lines etched into his face, the hardened edge in his gaze.

“Brother,” you breathe, cupping his face, your thumb brushing against the scar just above his brow—a mark of a recent battle, no doubt. “You’ve grown into a man of war.”

Jacaerys huffs a quiet laugh, though it lacks the lightness it once held. “It seems the war gives us little choice in what we become.” His gaze flickers over your shoulder, landing on Cregan. “Lord Stark,” he greets formally, though the respect in his tone is genuine. “Your hospitality has been unmatched. It’s a comfort to know my sister has found such a strong ally—and husband.”

Cregan inclines his head, his usual sternness softened slightly by a hint of warmth. “Your family is ours now, Jacaerys. Winterfell stands with you, as do the men of the North. We fight together.”

The words, though simple, carry a promise, one that Jacaerys seems to take solace in. He nods, a flicker of relief crossing his features before his expression grows serious once more. “The Twins have bent the knee. Their armies are ready to march when we give the word. The Riverlands will rally to our cause, though they’ve suffered much at the hands of the greens.”

You clench your fists at your sides, feeling the familiar fire of rage ignite in your belly at the thought of those who serve the usurper, those who’ve turned against your mother, against your family. “We’ll make them pay for every drop of blood spilled,” you vow, your voice cold with determination. “They’ll learn the price of treachery when fire and blood rain upon them.”

Jacaerys’ gaze meets yours, a shared understanding passing between you. “We will, sister,” he says quietly. “But we must be wise in how we strike. Our enemies are many, and some hide in shadows even we haven’t uncovered.”

As he speaks, the men of Winterfell gather closer, eager to hear news from the South. Thraxata moves to stand beside Vermax, her violet eyes fixed on him, a low rumble vibrating through her chest. Vermax, ever the more temperate of the two, remains still, watching her with a calm curiosity. The two dragons are like night and day, one fierce and unpredictable, the other steady and patient—a reflection of the bond shared between their riders.

Maester Kennet steps forward from the crowd, ever the dutiful servant, and bows his head. “My lord, my lady,” he addresses you both, “the men are ready to host your brother and his retinue. Supplies are being gathered for the march south, but it would do you both good to rest and break bread together before the night grows colder.”

Cregan nods, though his gaze remains fixed on Jacaerys. “You’ve traveled far, and winter’s grip grows tighter by the day. We’ll speak of war and plans soon enough. Tonight, we celebrate family.”

Jacaerys glances at you, his eyes softening briefly before he returns his attention to Cregan. “I’d welcome that. It’s been too long since I’ve felt the warmth of kin.” He turns to you once more, taking your hand and squeezing it. “Mother would want us to stand strong, Y/N. For her, for all of us.”

You swallow back the knot in your throat, nodding. “We will, Jace. We will.”

As you walk back toward the Great Hall, arm in arm with your brother and Cregan beside you, the dragons shift close behind ready to take flight, their steps heavy on the snow-covered earth. Above, the first stars begin to pierce the twilight sky, cold and distant. You can still feel the echoes of the weirwood’s whispers, the glimpses of futures yet unwritten. But here, with your family by your side, you draw strength from the bonds that even war cannot break.

The Great Hall of Winterfell is alive with the low murmur of voices and the crackle of hearth fires. The long table is crowded with Stark bannermen, their weathered faces drawn with the seriousness of the discussion. The banners of the North hang proudly on the walls—gray direwolves on fields of white and gray. The smell of pinewood smoke and spiced wine fills the air, mingling with the scent of roasted meats brought out for the evening. It is a scene both warm and solemn, a brief moment of respite before the weight of strategy drags everyone back into the cold reality of war.

You sit beside Cregan at the head of the table, your hand resting on his arm as Jacaerys stands before the gathered lords. He wears his determination like armor, though there is a heaviness in his eyes that no amount of resolve can mask. His voice, strong despite the weariness clinging to him, rings out over the hall.

“Our enemies have grown bolder since my brother’s and grandmother's murders. Aemond has broken the oldest of laws—he’s a kinslayer, and for that, he’s forfeited not only his honor but any right to mercy. The greens think the deaths of Luke and Rhaenys will weaken us, make us retreat into mourning. They’re wrong.” His words are met with murmurs of agreement, grim nods from the assembled bannermen.

Lord Cregan speaks next, his voice deep and measured. “Justice for Prince Lucerys and Princess Rhaenys will be served, Jacaerys, but the North is not free of its own burdens. The men and Houses we pledged to your cause will march with you as promised—greybeards and veterans who have survived more winters than most. But the majority of our forces must remain here, at least until the winds shift and winter’s bite eases.”

A rumble of assent follows Cregan’s words. The greybeards, some of whom are gathered here tonight, nod their heads, weathered faces set in stony determination. These are men who’ve lived through harsh winters, wars, and endless trials. They know the cost of every step taken southward, but they also understand the weight of their oaths.

You lean forward, feeling the cold steel of duty and sorrow twisting within you. “The Wall grows restless,” you add, your voice quieter but cutting through the room. “Reports from our scouts say the wildlings stir, and there are whispers of darker things in the woods. The North cannot abandon its duties here, not entirely, not with winter closing in. We fight on two fronts—one for vengeance, and one to hold back the darkness that always comes with the cold.”

Jacaerys’ jaw tightens, though there’s no anger in his gaze, only acceptance. “I know what I ask of you, of the North. I wouldn’t pull you from your duties lightly. But we’re in desperate need of men who’ve seen true battle—men who won’t falter when the greens come for us again.” He looks around the table, locking eyes with each of the bannermen. “Aemond’s murders of Luke and Rhaenys aren't just an insult to my family, it’s a warning of what’s to come. They’ll strike at us all, one by one, until there’s nothing left to fight for.”

Maester Kennet, seated near the fire, clears his throat, his thin fingers wrapped around a goblet. “A measured approach is wise. The North is vast, and winter makes even the shortest march an ordeal. Splitting our forces to both hold the Wall and reinforce the Riverlands is a sound strategy. But we cannot be reckless. The cold is our greatest enemy—aside from the greens themselves.”

A grizzled voice interrupts, belonging to Lord Harwood Flint. “We’ve sworn our oaths to your mother, Prince Jacaerys, and those oaths stand. The greybeards and I will march south, aye, but only as far as the weather allows. If winter deepens, we’ll be forced to retreat—lest we lose more men to frost than to battle.”

Lord Cregan nods solemnly. “The North keeps its promises, Jace, but our duty here is unbreakable. If winter passes, we’ll ride in full force, dragons and all. Until then, you’ll have what men we can spare, the strongest and the most experienced. The rest must remain to guard our lands and prepare for whatever winter may bring.”

You watch Jacaerys as he absorbs their words, weighing them against the urgency of his mission. It’s a hard truth, but one he’s known in his heart. “I understand,” he finally says, though the strain in his voice is evident. “The North has always held its ground when others falter. Your men’s presence in the Riverlands will tip the scales more than you know. We’ll make every sacrifice count, for all of our sakes.”

A silence falls over the hall, filled only by the crackling of the fires and the occasional clink of cups against wood. It’s a heavy silence, the kind that carries the weight of lives yet to be lost, battles yet to be fought. You feel the tension in your own shoulders, the mix of sorrow and determination that has become all too familiar.

Cregan’s voice breaks the silence, firm and resolute. “Then it’s settled. The North will march with you, Jacaerys, and we’ll hold the line here until the time is right to unleash the full might of Winterfell. The Wall must remain guarded, our lands defended. But rest assured—the North remembers, and we will have vengeance for both Lucerys and Rhaenys.”

Jacaerys meets his gaze with a nod of gratitude, his eyes glistening with something more than just determination—hope, perhaps, or at least the stubborn refusal to let despair take root. “Thank you, Cregan. Thank you all. My mother will hear of your loyalty, and when the time comes, I’ll see that those who’ve wronged us pay with fire and blood.”

You reach out, placing a hand on Jacaerys’ arm, drawing his attention back to you. “We’ll see this through together, Jace,” you say softly, yet with unshakable conviction. “For Luke. For our family.”

His lips press into a tight line, but he nods, and in that moment, you see the boy you once knew, the one who would always protect his siblings, no matter the cost. War has hardened him, yes, but it hasn’t broken his spirit. And for that, you’re grateful.

The meeting ends with agreements made, plans solidified. As the lords begin to rise and drift away, you, Cregan, and Jacaerys remain, sharing a moment of quiet amidst the chaos. Thraxata and Vermax can be heard outside, their low growls a reminder that no matter how heavy the burden, you are not alone in this fight.

You glance at Cregan, who offers you a small, reassuring smile, and then at Jacaerys, whose eyes hold the same fire that burns within you. The North may be bound by its duties to the Wall, but when the time comes, it will roar in unison, and the South will tremble beneath the weight of vengeance and justice.

Until then, you steel yourself for the battles to come, knowing that winter is both your enemy and your greatest ally. The North will remember, and so will the world.

The chambers are dimly lit, the glow of the hearth casting flickering shadows across the stone walls. The scent of pine and smoke lingers in the air, mingling with the faint hint of sage and lavender from the herbs hung above the door. Outside, the cold wind howls, but in here, the warmth is grounding—a cocoon that holds only the two of you.

You stand before the fire, watching the flames dance, lost in the flicker of embers. Thoughts of the day’s discussions linger in your mind, heavy like the weight of armor. You’re still processing the event, the decisions, and the weight of what’s to come. But for now, those thoughts seem distant as you feel Cregan’s presence behind you. His steps are soft as he approaches, yet you can sense the strength in each movement. When he wraps his arms around you from behind, drawing you into his chest, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“Y/N,” he murmurs into your hair, his voice a deep rumble. There’s a tenderness there that you’ve come to cherish—an intimacy that only grows with each passing day. You lean back into him, feeling his warmth seep into your skin, grounding you in this moment, away from the burden of duty and war.

His hands slide over your waist, tracing the curves of your body with a reverence that never fades, no matter how many times he’s touched you this way. “You’re troubled,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck. It’s not a question; he knows you too well.

You close your eyes, allowing yourself to melt into his embrace. “I’ve been thinking… about everything. About Jace, the war, what lies ahead. But mostly… about what I felt in the godswood.”

Cregan’s hands still for a moment, his grip tightening just slightly. He turns you gently to face him, his eyes searching yours, concern and affection mingling in his gaze. “You saw something, didn’t you?” he asks quietly.

You nod, reaching up to cup his face, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, roughened by stubble. “I did, but I don’t want to think about it right now,” you whisper, letting your thumb brush over his lips. “Right now, I just want to feel alive. I want to feel us.”

Something shifts in his gaze, the concern giving way to something deeper, more primal. His hand moves to cradle the back of your neck, drawing you closer, and when his lips finally meet yours, it’s with a passion that sends a surge of heat through you. The kiss is slow at first, a tender exploration, but it quickly deepens, becoming something more urgent, more consuming.

You thread your fingers through his hair, tugging slightly as you press closer, your bodies molding together as if trying to erase any distance between you. His hands roam over you, rough and strong, yet every touch is filled with affection. It’s a contrast that you’ve always found intoxicating—the fierce warrior and the gentle lover, both sides of him intertwined in every caress.

Cregan’s mouth trails down your neck, leaving a line of burning kisses along your skin. “Y/N,” he growls against your throat, his voice thick with desire. “You’re mine.”

You shiver at the possessiveness in his tone, the words igniting something deep within you. “Yours,” you breathe, tugging at his tunic, eager to feel the heat of his skin against yours.

Clothes fall away with hurried hands, the cold air biting at your exposed skin for only a moment before the warmth of Cregan’s body presses against you. You pull him with you, leading him to the bed, his eyes never leaving yours as he lays you down then, his weight a comforting pressure above you.

The passion between you ignites like wildfire. His hands grip your hips as he enters you, and you gasp, arching into him as he moves with a rhythm that feels like a dance, one you’ve perfected together over countless nights. Every thrust is filled with a mixture of desire and love, each one drawing you closer to the edge, making the world beyond these walls fade away until there’s only him—only you.

Your hands roam over his back, nails digging in as the pleasure builds, each moan, each whispered word of affection driving you both higher. There’s a desperation in the way you cling to each other, as if the passion is the only thing anchoring you both in a world that threatens to tear everything apart.

“Cregan,” you gasp, his name a prayer on your lips as you reach that peak together, the intensity of the moment overwhelming. He groans your name, his voice rough and breathless as he collapses against you, burying his face in your neck, holding you as if he’ll never let go.

For a long while, neither of you speaks, content to simply breathe together, hearts pounding in unison. The room is warm, the glow of the fire casting soft light over your tangled limbs. Cregan’s hand strokes your hair absently, his fingers combing through the silver strands as you lay nestled against him.

But eventually, the silence gives way to the thoughts that have been haunting you. You shift slightly, turning to look up at him. His eyes are closed, a peaceful expression on his face, but you know he’s awake, lost in his own thoughts.

“Cregan,” you say softly, drawing his attention. His eyes open, meeting yours, and the concern returns as he sees the seriousness in your expression.

“What did you see, love?” he asks, his voice gentle, though the tension in his jaw betrays his worry.

You take a breath, recalling the frenzied images that had flashed before you in the godswood, the voice that had called your name. “It was like a storm in my mind,” you begin, your voice barely above a whisper. “I heard my name—felt something pulling at me. And then… I saw flashes of fire, blood, wings beating against a sky that burned. There was steel, a crown, and screams lost in the roar of flames. It was so vivid, so real, but I couldn’t make sense of it. And then it was gone, as quickly as it came.”

Cregan listens, his brow furrowed as he considers your words. “The Old Gods speak in riddles and symbols,” he says quietly. “I’ve heard tales of their whispers, of visions granted to those who stand before the weirwoods. But they’ve never been clear—they show what might be, not what is certain.”

You nod, but the unease still lingers. “It felt like a warning, Cregan. Like something terrible is coming, something we’re not prepared for.”

He tightens his hold on you, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Whatever it is, we’ll face it together. You’re not alone in this. The North is with you, I’m with you, and we’ll do everything in our power to protect what we hold dear.”

You close your eyes, letting his words soothe some of the anxiety that gnaws at you. “I know. But there’s so much at stake… and so many unknowns. I can’t shake the feeling that the gods are watching, waiting to see what choices we’ll make.”

“The gods may watch,” Cregan murmurs, his voice a low rumble against your skin, “but it’s our choices that shape the future. Whatever comes, we’ll face it, side by side.”

You find comfort in his certainty, the steady strength he always offers when you need it most. Nestled in his arms, you feel the tension slowly drain from your body, replaced by a sense of peace, however fleeting. For now, the future can wait.

[killiansprincss]

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again 5A is criminally underrated. Watching it when you know why Emma has gone fully dark is heart wrenching because it’s not because of any dark magic it’s all because of love and seeing how she acts around Killian makes me weep because girl was trying so hard to make sure he doesn’t remember he’s the dark one because she was convinced she could save him and all throughout Camelot how she’s dressed in white is just chefs kiss. Emma’s walls have been smashed down by Killian and she’s slowly accepting that she deserves a future with him and she wants that so badly she refuses to let him die, straight up refuses and makes him immortal