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damneddamsy · 8 days ago

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second sight | cregan stark x fem!oc (bonus iii)

a/n: MDNI, rated 18+ (bottom king Cregan) :=> ding, ding, ding! another bonus feature! a special episode of the Stark-fluff, Cregan and Claere are craving some *ahem* "privacy" after the kids, they just cannot seem to get the fuck away from all this.

The halls of Winterfell were cloaked in shadow, the occasional torchlight flickering against the stone. Snow whispered against the windows, and the chill seeped into the air, though the ancient keep held strong against the heart of winter. Cregan Stark moved through the corridors with a hunter’s step, his cloak swaying behind him. It had been a day without incident—a rare blessing—but the quiet only reminded him of what had been missing.

Claere.

She was always busy—lost in her own mind or the needs of their people. If not with their children, she could be found in the godswood, among the crypts, or tending the glass gardens. She had a way of drifting, even when she was right in front of him. Chasing the solace of her own thoughts. It was part of her charm and the source of his greatest frustrations. He could never truly pin her down. Not her spirit. Not her thoughts. She was both his home and his mystery.

Cregan understood it—had always admired her depth—but tonight, he wanted her with him. No duties. No distractions. Just them.

A faint sound drew him to the solar: the unmistakable lilt of a harp. He paused in the doorway, leaning against the frame, and watched her unnoticed. Claere sat by the fire, her harp resting against her lap, fingers dancing over the strings. She wasn’t playing for anyone—only herself, violet eyes closed for the world, her lips barely parted as if the melody had carried her away. The amber of flames kissed her face, highlighting the curve of her cheek, and the line of her jaw.

After nearly sixteen years of marriage, she was still a force of nature. Her beauty had not faded; it had deepened, tempered by years and laughter, her soft edges sharpened by motherhood and the onus that was Winterfell. Yet in moments like these, she seemed untouched by time, still the ethereal girl who had walked into his life with starlight in her eyes. She belonged to Winterfell as much as the snow, the woods, the wolves.

“Have the spirits called for you again, Lady Stark?” His voice broke the silence, teasing.

Her fingers stilled on the harp. She opened her eyes and turned, a smile lighting her face. “No spirits,” she replied, setting the harp aside. “Only the cold. And my lord, it seems.”

He stepped closer, his boots heavy on the stone. “The cold I understand, but why me?”

“Why not?” She rose gracefully, her skirts brushing the floor as she crossed to him. “What brings you out tonight, Cregan? Shouldn’t you be upstairs, dreaming?”

“Dreams are quieter than my wife,” he quipped, his eyes gleaming with humour. “And far less interesting.”

She tilted her head, her gaze sweeping over him in that way of hers—sharp and thoughtful, as though she could see the bones beneath his skin. He raised an eyebrow, half amused and half wary. It'd been long since she'd looked at him like that. He almost felt like he was nineteen again, wishing this quiet, strange dragon princess would grant him the honour of sleeping by her side.

“What are you looking at?” he asked.

Claere tapped a finger to her lips. “You.”

“Have you found something worth your study?”

“Perhaps,” she mused, her eyes lingering on his chest. “You’ve grown... broad.”

He snorted. “Broad?”

“Big,” she clarified, her voice lilting with mischief.

“Big,” he repeated flatly. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

She shrugged, her expression maddeningly serene. “Wide, then. Broader than when I first met you.”

“Are you calling me fat? Is that how you talk to your lord?” His brows knit together in mock offence.

“I dare not,” she said, her lips twitching with barely concealed laughter.

Cregan took a step back, spreading his arms as if to display himself. Indeed, time had taken its toll on him—his shoulders ranging more like mountains now, his jaw sharper, his gait heavier, and the scars on his hands and knees aching in the frost. His hair, once the dark shade of wolf fur, began to slightly streak with silver, and though he still carried himself with strength, he bore up his longsword, Ice, yet the years of war and rule weighed on him.

“Big, is it? A lord of Winterfell should be big. Winter demands it.”

“Winter demands many things, my lord,” she said, her tone far too serious for her words. She stepped closer, circling him now like a wolf sizing up prey. Her eyes sparkled as she added, “I’ve no complaints. None at all.”

He rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide his grin. “You’ve a strange way of flattering your husband.”

“Flattery?” she echoed, feigning innocence. “I do not flatter. I speak facts.”

He shrugged off his cloak, tossing it carelessly onto a chair, and placed his hands on his hips. “Hmm. Maybe I have grown plump,” he admitted, rubbing at the scruff on his jaw. “Too much love. It’s fattening.”

She laughed then, her shoulders shaking as she covered her mouth. “Is that what you tell yourself?”

“Well, you said it yourself—I’m broad.”

She reached out, her fingers brushing his arm. “Strong,” she corrected softly, her humor fading into something gentler. “You’re strong, Cregan. You always have been.”

“Strong... and fat.”

Her laughter softened into a hum against his chest, her breath seeping through the leather of his coat, warming him in ways no fire ever could. For a fleeting moment, the room belonged to just them—the crackle of the flames and the rhythmic drumming of his heartbeat the only sounds. He held her as though anchoring himself, one hand at the small of her back, the other brushing up to the curve of her neck, fingers threading through the silver strands of her hair.

“You’ve made me mad, Claere,” he murmured, his voice gravelly, the words laced with frustration that didn’t quite reach his eyes. His thumb ghosted over her jaw, pausing just at the corner of her mouth. “Since the day you walked into these halls.”

Her hands splayed against his chest, firm yet tender, her gaze lifting to meet his, stormy grey to rich violet. Her smile widened, her teasing spirit undimmed.

“Perhaps I should try harder.”

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head, though his hand didn’t stray from her face. “You would. Just to see what happens.”

Her gaze dropped, lingering over the broad expanse of his chest. Her fingers traced lazy patterns across the leather, the calluses on her fingertips catching faintly. “And what would happen if you did snap?” she murmured, her voice dropping to something softer, almost daring.

His lips twitched into a smile, but his eyes burned. “You wouldn’t have to wonder long.”

The teasing faded from her face, replaced by something quieter, deeper, as though the air between them grew heavier, richer, in an instant. And without another word, he bent his head, capturing her lips in a kiss that was both fierce and tender, a reclamation of something neither of them had quite lost. Her lips parted for him, and her body softened, melting into him as though it had always been meant to.

The leather of his coat creaked beneath her grip, her hands tightening against him as his own slid to her waist, pulling her flush against him. Her sigh mingled with his, the sound filling the space between them as the firelight flickered against the stone walls.

When he pulled back, just enough to rest his forehead against hers, his breathing was uneven. His voice was thick, heavy with need. “You’ve no idea how maddening you are.”

“Good,” she replied, her words carrying an edge of heat.

He growled softly in response, the sound rumbling low in his chest as he lifted her with ease, her weight nothing in his arms. Her laughter spilled out, light and musical, her legs kicking playfully as they swung over his arm.

“Cregan!” she gasped, half-giddy, half-protesting, her hands clinging to his shoulders for balance.

“Hush, love,” he teased, his voice a husky murmur near her ear as he strode toward their chambers. “Unless you’d like the whole castle to know what I intend to do to you.”

Her lips curved, a wicked gleam lighting her eyes. “What do you intend?” she challenged, though her voice was breathless, the question hanging between them like smoke.

His answer was a heated glance, dark and smouldering, as he nudged open the door with his boot. The wooden slab creaked on its hinges, revealing their private sanctum bathed in the sweet light of nighttime. He stepped inside and kicked the door shut behind him with deliberate finality.

He carried her forward, setting her on her feet with a gentleness that belied the storm in his veins. For a moment, he simply looked at her, his hands lingering on her waist as though unwilling to let go. The moonlight softened her features, glowing her flushed cheeks and tousled hair. She was breathtaking—his Claere, unchanged in some ways, yet more of herself in others. Her hips were fuller now, her body strengthened and shaped by the years and the children she had borne, but to him, she was no less the quiet, strange Targaryen princess who had first stepped into his life.

“You're a torment.” His hands smoothed over her sides, tracing the curves that he knew better than his own heartbeat. “One I wouldn't wish away for anything.”

Her hand rose, brushing his jaw where silver threaded his beard. Her touch was learned, tender. “I have missed this.”

He swore softly under his breath, his hand sliding to her jaw, tilting her face up to his. His mouth found hers, and she sighed into the kiss, her hands fisting gently in his tunic. Her coyness lingered, even now, even after all these years. He felt it in the way her movements hesitated, her touch tentative, as though she were still learning to give herself fully. And he loved her all the more for this delicate, unspoken offering of herself, not because she must, but because she chose to.

“You’ve shared my hearth and bed for nigh on half your life, what is left to hide from me?” he murmured against her lips, his tone laced with a fond teasing.

She laughed softly, a breathless sound, her head ducking against his chest as though to hide. “I can not help it.”

“And I wouldn’t want you to,” he said, his voice gentler now, his hands tracing the curve of her back as he pulled her closer. “I’ve come to love all of it.”

Her blush deepened, but she didn’t pull away, her arms slipping around his neck as he bent to kiss her again. This time, she gave a little more, her hands tangling in his hair, her lips parting beneath his with a shy eagerness that made his chest tighten. He eased her back toward the dresser, their movements slow, unhurried, as though savouring every moment.

Claere gave a quiet gasp, her fingers tightening against his shoulders, but she let him guide her. His hands slid to the laces of her gown, deftly working them loose as his kisses moved along the side of her neck, the rasp of his stubble drawing a soft, shivering sigh from her lips.

Her breath hitched as the loosened fabric slipped over her shoulders, pooling around her waist. He turned her gently, her back pressing against his chest, his rough hands sliding down to rest at her hips. His lips hovered near her ear, tongue tasting the hot skin there, his breath sending gooseflesh across her skin.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice low and gravelly, a reverence in the words that made her shiver. His hands slipped along her sides, firm yet measured, as though he meant to memorize her at this moment. “Every time I think I’ve seen all of you, love, you undo me again.”

Her blush deepened, but she didn’t shy away, her hands lifting to brace against the dresser's edge as he pressed closer. His mouth skimmed along the curve of her neck, her shoulder, his teeth grazing just enough to make her gasp. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth, her violet eyes fluttering closed as he nudged her hair aside to kiss the nape of her neck.

Cregan’s hands roamed lower, roughened palms against soft skin, tugging the fabric of her gown further down her hips. He lifted one of her legs, guiding her knee up onto the edge of the dresser, and his hand slid between her thighs, his hardness digging into the small of her back. Claere’s breath stuttered, her fingers gripping the wood, but she let him draw her body into his as though they were one.

“Do you know what you do to me?” he growled softly, his lips brushing her ear as he spoke. “Do you feel it?”

She could only nod, her voice lost to the way his hand claimed her. The wood bit faintly into her palms as her body arched instinctively against him, dragging against his hardness, his name slipping from her lips like a prayer.

And then—just as the world narrowed to only them, the sharp, insistent knock at the door shattered the moment.

“Ma! Da!”

The sound shattered the air between them like an icy gale, and Claere stiffened. She turned her head, her breathing uneven, her cheeks flushed.

“By the gods, not again,” Cregan muttered, his head dropping to her shoulder as he fought to steady himself, his hands resting possessively at her hips.

Claere’s body shook with silent laughter, her hands resting on his shoulders. “Our little wolves are nothing if not determined.”

“Determined,” he echoed, lifting his head with a resigned sigh. “They’re fucking relentless.”

“They’re your children,” she reminded him, her smile soft as she adjusted her gown, the fabric slipping back over her shoulders.

Cregan rose, running a hand through his hair, his gaze fixed on the door as though he might burn it to ash with sheer will. The insistent pounding continued unabated, accompanied now by muffled sobs. His jaw tightened.

“One day,” he said, low and grumbling, “I’ll bar this door with iron. No, steel. Or maybe Valyrian locks.”

Claere chuckled softly as she secured her laces. “Until then, duty calls.”

He sighed, stepping toward the door with all the grace of a man facing execution. Claere followed, her hand brushing his arm as though to soften his scowl before it frightened the children.

When the heavy door swung open, the scene outside was a tableau of chaos. Eddric, the youngest of their brood, stood sobbing into his hands, his tiny shoulders shaking with every gasp. Beside him, Rickon stood in staunch defiance, his arms crossed over his chest, his lips pressed into a tight pout as though daring anyone to question his role in the debacle. And peering from behind them was Brandon, his elder brother, his head poking out from the shadow of the hallway, eyes wide with curiosity but no intention of stepping into the fray.

“Ma…” Eddric choked out between sobs, his tear-streaked face lifting to hers, every inch of him trembling with the desperate misery only a child could feel. His small arms reached for her, a silent, aching plea that melted through Claere’s resolve like frost under sunlight.

“My poor lamb,” she murmured, kneeling swiftly to gather him up. He clung to her as though the world itself had turned against him, his fists twisting in her gown. His tiny, hiccuping cries buried themselves into her shoulder, and she stroked his back with soothing circles, her brow furrowing in sympathy.

Behind her, Cregan crossed his arms, his grey eyes narrowing on Rickon, who stood stiff and unrepentant, though the flicker of guilt in his glare betrayed him.

“Well, if it isn’t my favourite troublemaker,” Cregan drawled, his tone dry but weighted. “What mischief have you stirred this time?”

Rickon’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t flinch, his gaze meeting his father’s with the stormy defiance of a young wolf testing the boundaries of the pack.

“He kicked me off the bed!” Eddric wailed, lifting his blotchy face just long enough to level a trembling finger at his brother. “It hurts, Ma. Look, it’s everywhere!” He twisted to display his bruises, as though bearing the marks of a battlefield defeat.

Claere gasped, her hand flying to cup his cheek. “Oh, no,” she cooed, her lips brushing the scrape on his elbow with all the care of a healer attending to a grievous wound. “There, mummy's kiss will make it better.”

Rickon groaned, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “He stole my pillow, Da!” he snapped, his frustration spilling in sharp, indignant tones. “It’s mine! He always takes it because it's bigger!”

Cregan exhaled, long and slow, dragging a hand down his face. “Rickon,” he said, his voice tempered with the deep patience of a father stretched thin, “you’re old enough to know that is no cause to toss your brother off the bed.”

“But Da—”

“Enough,” Cregan cut in, his tone firmer now. Without ceremony, he stooped and swept Rickon into his arms, the boy letting out a startled grunt. “Come on. There’s no glory in warring over bedding. Let’s see you to sleep before you declare another rebellion.”

Rickon squirmed briefly before resigning himself to his father’s grip, his head drooping against Cregan’s shoulder as his earlier indignation began to ebb. “It wasn’t fair,” he muttered, though his voice lacked its earlier bite.

“Life seldom is,” Cregan replied, his tone carrying the consequence of hard-earned wisdom. “The sooner you learn that, the better.”

In the warm glow of the hearth, Claere settled herself into a chair, cradling Eddric close. His cries had quieted to soft sniffles, his little fingers clutching her gown like a lifeline. She kissed his bruises, convincing Ed of their healing power, her lips lingering as she murmured something low and soothing, the words meant for him alone. Slowly, his breathing evened, his eyes growing heavier in her arms as sleep claimed him.

Cregan paused in the doorway, Rickon still perched on his arm, and watched her. She looked radiant there, bathed in firelight, the lines of her face softened with love and care. There was a strength to her, a steadiness that seemed to anchor the chaos around her, and he felt the familiar ache of adoration stir in his chest.

Rickon shifted, breaking the spell. “Will you tuck me in, Da?” he asked, his earlier bravado dissolving into the plaintive vulnerability of a child seeking comfort in the safety of his father’s arms.

“Aye,” Cregan said softly, his voice a promise. He gathered the boy close, his small body warm and limp with sleep. “But mind me, lad—no more skirmishes with your baby brother. You’re nearly of age to hold a blade, yet here you are, waging wars over feathers.”

Rickon’s sleepy protest was little more than a grumble, his head drooping against Cregan’s chest. Cregan smiled despite himself, the boy’s weight a familiar and comforting reminder of how fleeting these years would be.

When both boys were finally settled—Rickon snuggled under the heavy quilt with his arms wrapped around a stuffed pillow, shaped like a direwolf, heartfully stitched by his mother, and his younger brother already deep in the dreamscape—the halls of Winterfell grew quiet. Rarely did the great stone keep know such peace, and even then, it felt borrowed, as though it would be whisked away at any moment.

Cregan closed the door to the boys’ room with care, letting the latch click softly into place. The warmth of the fire from their chamber pulled him forward, a beacon after the weariness of the day.

Claere sat curled in the chair by the hearth, her head tilted back against the cushion, her eyes closed. The firelight painted her features in hues of gold and amber, dancing across her skin and catching the loose strands of her silvery braid. The faintest smile curved her lips, a soft and private peace resting there, as though she had tucked it away just for herself.

Cregan leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms, a wry grin tugging at his mouth. For a moment, he said nothing, content to watch her. She was beautiful in a way that wasn’t just about her face, though gods knew that alone could set him spinning. It was the way she carried herself, even in the quiet moments. The love for their children, the unspoken strength she wielded without ever showing it. The way she simply existed in his life was steady and grounding, yet she could still surprise him.

“They’ll drive us off the edge before winter’s through,” he said, his voice breaking the silence but low enough not to startle her.

Her eyes fluttered open, those familiar violet irises finding him across the room. Her smile deepened when she saw him, softening the lines of her face. “And still, we love them.”

“Aye,” he admitted, pushing off the frame and striding toward her. “But tomorrow, I’m hammering iron bars across that bloody door.”

She laughed, soft and warm, and it lit something in him that not even the fire could match. “And what good will that do? They’ll only find another way in.”

He bent low, brushing a kiss to her temple, his hand finding her cheek. Her skin was warm from the fire, and she tilted her face into his touch like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Then perhaps we’ll run off,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a rumble. “Let Winterfell fend for itself.”

Her laugh softened into a smile, her eyes glimmering with both affection and exhaustion. “You’d miss them before the sun rose.”

“Not before I had one night alone with my wife,” he countered, his thumb tracing the curve of her cheek. The delicate flush that bloomed there made his chest tighten with something that felt far too big to name.

She averted her gaze, a shy smile tugging at her lips as her hands fidgeted with the folds of her gown. Even now, after everything—after children, battles, and endless winters—she could still make him feel like a boy with his first love. And gods, he loved her for it—loved the way that quiet modesty clung to her, no matter the hard times they had weathered together.

“On that one night, Claere,” he murmured, leaning closer, his lips grazing the shell of her ear. “You will not escape me.”

Her breath hitched, and when her eyes met his again, they were softer, violet raging darker. The smile she gave him then was small but certain, a silent promise that mirrored his own.

“Oh,” she whispered, her voice trembling with just a hint of laughter, “you’d better start planning your escape now, Lord Stark. Because I don’t intend to make it easy for you.”

His laughter rumbled low in his chest as he leaned down to kiss her properly, the warmth of her lips stealing the cold from his bones. In her arms, the long night ahead felt like the shortest one yet.

The Great Hall of Winterfell was alive with warmth and mirth, the heavy timber beams echoing with laughter and the soft strains of a fiddle accompanied by a drum. Outside, winter’s chill pressed against the stone walls, but within, the roaring fire and the camaraderie of the evening held it at bay. Soldiers and bannermen of the Stark household, gathered at the long trestle tables and shared hearty portions of bread, cheese, and venison. Tankards clinked, and stories were exchanged in the low hum of good company.

At the high table, the Stark family gathered under the warm glow of the hearth. The fire crackled softly, adding a golden hue to the rustic stone walls of the great hall. Bran, ever the mischief-maker, had turned his fork into a trident, wielding it with dramatic flair as he jabbed at invisible foes across the table. His shoulders hunched with exaggerated ferocity, his face twisted in mock seriousness.

“Yield, foul beast!” Bran declared, his voice echoing theatrically. “You’ll not escape the mighty trident of House Stark!”

Rickon nearly fell off his bench with laughter, clutching his sides. “You’re poking the air, Bran! What are you even fighting—ghosts?”

“Ghosts of the past, brother,” Bran shot back, waving the fork like a sword. “Or perhaps the ghosts of your dignity after I trounce you at the training yard tomorrow.”

“Ha, you wish!” Rickon retorted, puffing up his chest. “I’ll be the last one standing!”

Edd, the youngest of the boys, let out a delighted giggle as he mimicked Bran’s movements, his tiny fork barely lifting a piece of bread. “I fight ghosts, too, Bran!” he announced, swinging wildly, nearly toppling his goblet.

Cregan, seated at the head of the table, watched the exchange with quiet pride. His sharp features softened as he carved another slice of cheese pie, the aroma filling the air. His lips tugged into a wry smile as he set the pie onto Edd’s plate.

“You’ve a fine sword arm there, Edd,” he said, his voice warm, steady. “But mind the goblet. No knight worth his salt spills his drink before the feast is done.”

Edd straightened in his seat, nodding gravely as if his father’s words held the weight of a king’s decree. “Yes, Da,” he said, before immediately returning to his chaotic fork-wielding.

Luce, ever the bold one, stood on her bench with a flourish, her dark ringlets shimmering in the firelight. “That's nothing!” she declared, pointing dramatically at Bran. “You might be a knight, but I’m a dragon! Watch me!”

Bran rolled his eyes but stepped back with a half-grin. “Go on then, baby dragon. Let’s see you impress.”

Luce didn’t need more encouragement. Lifting the hem of her little gown, she twirled in place, her feet tapping in rhythm to the faint music that drifted from the corner of the hall. Her arms stretched out gracefully as she spun, her movements surprisingly fluid for one so young.

Cregan leaned forward, resting his chin on one hand. “Now there’s a sight,” he mused aloud in equal parts admiration and amusement. “A dragon taking flight in Winterfell’s halls.”

Luce beamed, soaking in the attention. “See, Rickon? That’s how it’s done!”

Rickon made a face. “You’re just spinning in circles.”

“It’s a dance, you numpty,” Luce fired back, stomping her foot for emphasis. “You wouldn’t know a proper dance if it bit you on your big nose.”

“I don’t need to,” Rickon shot back, smirking. “Dancing’s for—”

“Careful now, lad,” Cregan interjected, his tone mild but his gaze sharp. “I’d choose your next words wisely. Your brother and sister both dance far better than any warrior I’ve seen wield a blade.”

Rickon muttered something under his breath, but the redness creeping up his neck gave away his embarrassment.

Before Rickon could fully retreat, Bran stepped up beside Luce. “Don’t mind him,” Bran said with a wink. “Let’s show them how dragons really dance.”

He took her hand, and together they moved into the Targaryen dance of dragons as taught by their mother, a series of sweeping, elegant steps punctuated by dramatic turns. For all their playful rivalry, the siblings moved together in harmony, drawing cheers and applause from their small audience.

Cregan leaned back in his chair, his smile broadening as he turned his gaze to Claere. She was seated beside him, her violet eyes distant as she stared into the hearth, lost in her thoughts. Her fingers absently traced the edge of her goblet, and for a moment, she seemed untouched by the revelry around her.

Cregan noticed, as he always did. Reaching out, Cregan placed a hand over hers, stilling her movements. “Claere, love,” he said softly, drawing her attention. She blinked, her eyes meeting his, and he gave her a small, knowing smile. Picking up a piece of cheese pie, he set it gently on her plate.

“Shall we dance?” he asked, his voice low and inviting, his hand lingering over hers.

“Dance?” she echoed, her tone faintly incredulous, as though the idea was something foreign at that moment.

Luce’s voice rang out, breaking the moment. “Come dance, Mummy!” she pleaded, spinning in place with her skirts fanning out.

Claere’s gaze swept over the scene—Bran and Luce moving in harmony, Rickon and Edd clapping along, the soldiers cheering—and something in her softened. Slowly, she stood, smoothing her gown as she turned to Rickon with an inviting smile.

“Come, my wolf,” she said, holding out her hand. “Would you like to dance with mummy?”

Rickon’s face lit up as he scrambled to take her hand, his earlier teasing forgotten. Together, they stepped into the centre, laughter and music enveloping them. Luce and Bran laughed, twirling around her, and even little Edd toddled after them, his hands grasping at the air.

Cregan watched from the table, his chest tightening with a feeling too vast to name. Love, pride, gratitude—it was all there, woven into the laughter of his family. Edd tugged at his sleeve, his small voice piping up. “Da, come!”

With a laugh, Cregan stood, scooping Edd into his arms and spinning him in a wide circle. The boy’s delighted giggles rang out as they joined the dance. Cregan moved easily, his large frame surprisingly agile as he passed Edd to Luce and took her tiny hands in her twin's. Around and around they went, trading partners in a joyous whirl of movement.

At last, Claere found herself in Cregan’s arms, the warmth of his hand at her waist anchoring her to him as the music swelled. He pulled her closer, just enough that she could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against her own. His palm splayed over the fabric of her gown in a way that felt far too intimate for the setting. His fingers traced idle patterns, teasing at her side, each stroke sent shivers rippling across her skin, though she worked hard to keep her composure.

“Cregan,” she murmured, a quiet warning, though it lacked the conviction to be truly stern. Her voice was low enough to stay between them, a secret shared under the cover of music and candlelight. “You are playing a dangerous game.”

His lips quirked into that roguish, wolfish grin she knew far too well. “Am I?” His thumb brushed slow, maddening circles against her spine, just above the curve of her hip, each movement making her skin prickle with heat. He dipped his head slightly, his words a gravelly whisper meant only for her. “Or am I simply enjoying a dance with my wife?”

She shot him a pointed glance, though the edges of her irritation softened with amusement. “The children…”

“Are perfectly distracted.” He nodded toward the far side of the hall, where Rickon and Edd were spinning each other in clumsy circles, their laughter rising above the lively tune. Bran had taken to mimicking Luce’s dance steps with exaggerated precision, his little feet shuffling as he bowed dramatically to his giggling sister. Even the bannermen were caught up in the children’s antics, clapping along with indulgent smiles.

“They’re always watching,” Claere countered, though her tone was soft, her violet eyes flicking to his with equal parts exasperation and delight.

“Not closely enough.” His lips grazed the shell of her ear as he spoke, his voice low and teasing. “And certainly not closely enough to see what I’m thinking right now.”

Her breath caught as his hand slid just a touch lower, the heat of his palm searing through the fabric of her gown. She could feel the strength in his fingers, the deliberate way they lingered near the dip of her hip. He was maddening—utterly, delightfully maddening.

“You frustrate me,” she whispered, the faintest curve tugging at her lips despite her best efforts.

“I do?” He tilted his head, feigning offence, though the mischievous glint in his eyes betrayed him. His thumb brushed dangerously close to her ribs, just beneath the curve of her breast. “That’s a bold accusation, my love.”

Before she could respond, the hall doors groaned open, and a familiar figure entered, cutting through the haze of their quiet intimacy. The maester stepped in, his long grey robes swishing against the stone floor as he carried a scroll marked with the familiar dark imprint.

Cregan’s hand stilled against her, his attention reluctantly pulled away. He sighed, his brow furrowing as duty called to him once more.

“I'll be right back,” he murmured, his voice laced with quiet regret as he stepped back, releasing her from his hold.

Claere watched him go, the absence of his touch leaving her feeling unmoored for a fleeting moment. She turned to the children instead, scooping a squealing Edd into her arms before spinning him around in time with the lively tune. Laughter bubbled up around her, infectious and unrestrained, as the children danced circles around her.

From the corner of the hall, Cregan stood with the maester, the scroll unrolled in his hands. His jaw tightened as he scanned its contents.

Another summons to the Wall. Another month away from home, from her, from all of them.

Once, the call of duty had been a point of pride, a badge of honour he bore without question. But now… now, it felt like a curse. The thought of leaving his family—of enduring endless days without their laughter, their warmth, their very presence—made his chest ache with something akin to grief.

He glanced up from the parchment, his gaze drifting back to the scene before him. The hall was alive with light and music, the children’s laughter echoing off the stone walls. Bran twirled Luce, who curtsied dramatically before breaking into giggles. Rickon and Edd were caught in a mock swordfight, using wooden spoons as weapons, while Claere spun around with them, her hair coming loose from its braid, her smile brighter than the flames in the hearth.

It was a vision of home, of everything he cherished, and yet it was incomplete without him in it. He hated this—the thought of being an outsider to his own life, of missing the moments that made it worth living.

For a moment, he considered crumpling the scroll in his fist, tossing it into the fire, and letting the Wall fend for itself. But duty was duty, and the North would not wait for his whims.

Still, as he folded the parchment and handed it back to the maester, his gaze lingered on Claere. She glanced over at him, her eyes softening when they met his, as if she could sense his misdoubts.

“I’ll come back,” he murmured under his breath, though he wasn’t sure if he was saying it for her benefit or his own.

And gods help him, he hoped it was true.

The Glass Gardens stood on the edge of winter, its warmth still holding against the cold creeping in from the North. Frost laced the edges of the glass panels, but inside, the air was thick with the scent of damp earth and the last of the season’s growth. Claere knelt among the pepper stalks, her fingers working deftly as she plucked the ripe ones for the larder. Nearby, Bran huffed, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his silver curls damp with sweat as he fumbled with a stubborn stem.

He grunted as the stalk gave way, nearly tumbling back onto the stone path.

“Careful,” Claere chided, her tone warm with amusement. “You’ll crush the good ones.”

Bran frowned at the small basket at his feet, woefully emptier than hers. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve, determined to work faster, but his hands weren’t as practised as his mother’s. Precision was something he’d yet to master, though he tried, keen to impress her.

“Ma?”

She glanced at him from behind a few stalks, pausing in her work.

He hesitated before speaking, his voice careful. “Is Da traveling to the Wall soon?”

Claere stilled for a fraction of a moment, but she nodded, the gladness in her face giving way to something quieter, something closer to grief. She knew this was his duty, the burden that came with his name, but it didn’t make parting from him any easier.

Bran watched her closely, saw the way her fingers tightened around the pepper in her hand. He'd heard the stories—of her voyages beyond the Wall, of the White Dread soaring through the sky where no dragon had ever flown, of how she kept silent about what she had seen. It made him wonder.

“What’s it like out there?” he asked, curiosity bright in his young eyes. “Past the Wall?”

She exhaled slowly, rolling the pepper between her fingers as if weighing the memory. “Cold,” she said at last. “Empty.”

His brows furrowed. “That’s it?”

She hummed, amused. “What were you expecting?”

Bran’s voice picked up with excitement. “Did you see those huge spiders Lord Manderly talked about? And the dead people? And—”

“Bran,” Claere cut him off gently, managing a shaky smile. “What’s all this about?”

His ears pinked slightly, but he lifted his chin, emboldened. “I want to see the Wall, Ma. And the rest of the North.”

Claere tilted her head, watching him. He had always been this way—restless, seeking. They had called him the White Wolf of the North before he had even learned to wield a blade, a name heralded upon him too young, but he had embraced it all the same. He wanted to prove himself to his people, to see the lands he would one day rule. When Ice would come into his hands and the Stark brand across his chest, he wanted to feel as though he had earned it.

There was fire in his voice, the same fire his father carried when he spoke of duty, of oaths, of the weight of the Stark name. Claere tilted her head, watching him closely.

He was growing. He was only eleven, but she already saw the man he would become. The boyhood roundness had begun to fade from his face, his features sharpening into something more severe, more Stark. He was no longer a babe at her breast, no longer the child who would curl into her side on the coldest nights. And yet, when he spoke, she heard the ache of a boy who felt caged.

"They never let me come with them," he muttered, stripping a leaf between his fingers. "Not to the hunts in the Wolfswood. Not even to sit with them in the Great Hall when Da holds judgment. He—" Bran stopped himself, pressing his lips into a thin line.

Claere understood in an instant.

Cregan loved his son—loved him fiercely, protectively. But he was the heir to the North, and his father, in his worry, kept him wrapped in furs, tucked away from the bitter winds of the world, shielding him from the lessons that should have been his to learn.

She sighed, brushing her fingers through his sweat-damp curls, a feature he had stolen from her. “What is it, Bran?”

His nose scrunched, but he didn’t pull away. "I want to know it all," he said earnestly. "The mountains, the rivers, the villages that call our name their shield. I want to know the land before I’m meant to rule it."

There was steel in his words, a quiet stubbornness she knew all too well. It was a little something he'd picked up from his father dearest.

Her fingers stilled against his hair, and something deeper stirred in her gaze. “The North is vast,” she murmured, smoothing a curl from his face. “And cruel, sometimes.”

“I can be strong,” he insisted. “Like you. Like Da.”

Claere sighed, her palm coming to rest against his cheek. She had given him life, but Cregan had given him a duty, and between the two of them, he would never be anything less than honourable. Still, honour alone could not shape him. He needed more than rules, more than lessons spoken from the mouths of men who had already lived their lives. He needed to step into his own.

He needed to be allowed to try.

"Ma?" His voice was softer now, uncertain.

"Hm?"

"Will you talk to Da?"

She tilted her head. "About?"

Bran hesitated, then squared his shoulders. "I don't need to be coddled. I'm not weak. I want to be out there—I need to be. Da's always telling me what I must be, what I should become. How can I, if I'm never given the chance?"

Claere saw it now—how this had been weighing on him, how the bitterness sat heavy on his tongue.

He wasn’t wrong. And Cregan, she knew, would never let their son feel weak, not if he understood what he was doing to him.

"I'll speak to your father," she said gently. "I am truly sorry you feel this way, Bran. I'll make it up to you."

Bran looked away, guilty. "Not your fault, Ma."

“No, love.” She cupped his face, tilting him back toward her. “Your father loves you very much, but he can't see past his own fears. I swear to you, I will fix this.”

He nodded, lips pressing together, but she could see the hope rekindling in his eyes.

"Thank you," he said, and then—without hesitation—he wrapped his arms around her, dirt-streaked sleeves and all.

Claere smiled, holding him close, her hand stroking the back of his silver head.

"Oh, my sweet boy."

And though she knew the world would try to shape him, to harden him, she prayed that some part of him—the warmth, the earnestness, the light—would never fade.

The water was still warm, steam curling lazily into the cold morning air of the chambers. Cregan sat back against the edge of the wooden tub, the heat licking away at the tension coiled in his shoulders, though it did little to soothe the storm brewing in his mind. He rested his arms on either side, droplets cascading off his skin and into the bath with quiet plinks.

The room smelled faintly of pine and ash from the hearth, the scent mingling with the lingering lavender oil she’d left behind on the table by their bed. Her touch was everywhere—on the neatly folded throw draped over the chair, on the intricate carvings of dragons and wolves in the wooden headboard she had commissioned from the artisans of White Harbor. Even the small porcelain vase near the window, filled with wildflowers, was hers.

It was infuriating, how much he already missed a place he hadn’t yet left.

The Wall, the raven, the Wildlings—his duty, gnawing at him like a wolf to bone. For the first time in years, the honour he once carried so proudly felt more like a chain than a badge. He could feel its significance, cold and unrelenting, pressing against his chest.

He ran a hand through his damp hair, pushing it back from his brow, his gaze settling on the door as it creaked open. His wife stepped in like a shadow carried on the wind, her figure cutting through the flickering light of the chamber. Claere’s riding leathers hugged her frame, dark and worn from years of use, the supple material creaking faintly as she moved. The sight was arresting—always had been.

Cregan let himself look, unashamed in his admiration. It was too early for their little rascals to storm in with their endless energy, and for once, he could simply take her in. Her hair, still loosely plaited, caught the faint light filtering through the frost-glazed windows, glinting like spun silver. Her steps were unhurried, carrying herself with that same quiet intensity that made even the most seasoned men hesitate in her presence. That had not changed one bit.

“You’re up early,” she murmured, low but clear as if the morning itself bent to her tone.

He tilted his head slightly, watching her as droplets from his arm traced rivulets down the tub’s edge.

“The same could be said of you. You reek of dragon,” he rumbled.

“Mine is expected. Yours isn't.”

Claere paused by the table, her fingers brushing over the small vase of wildflowers she’d placed there days ago. She glanced at him, her violet eyes unreadable.

“You didn’t sleep last night,” she said simply, her gaze not accusing, merely observant as if she’d caught him in the act of something far less honourable than stewing in his thoughts.

His brow furrowed, his grey eyes narrowing in faint surprise. Claere rarely commented on him—let alone noticed him enough to remark on his habits. It stirred something unexpected in his chest, though he’d sooner die than admit it.

A brazen smirk tugged at his lips as he shifted, leaning back and letting the water lap lazily at his chest. “No, I didn’t,” he admitted, his tone softer now. “Too much on my mind.”

She didn’t reply, not immediately. Instead, she began to unhook the clasps of her riding leathers softly. His gaze followed the motion of her hands, deft and practised, until she slipped the jacket free, revealing the loose linen shirt beneath. There was a calm precision to her movements, the same as when she drew a fork and knife, or mounted her dragon. Everything Claere did seemed deliberate, as though she gave thought even to the air she breathed.

“You could join me, you know. I'd appreciate the pleasure of your company,” he drawled, the hint of a smile curling at the corners of his mouth. His voice was teasing, but there was a warmth in his gaze that betrayed something deeper, something softer.

She cast him a glance, one eyebrow arching, though her expression remained otherwise unreadable. “It’s barely sunrise,” she replied, setting the jacket neatly on the chair. “And I doubt the water’s warm enough for two.”

He let out a low chuckle, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest. “Oh, it’s warm enough. I've kept it warm for you,” he countered, his gaze dropping to her hands as she rolled up her sleeves. “You’re always complaining I keep this place too cold.”

Claere moved to the edge of the tub, folding herself onto the wooden step beside it with that same fluid grace he’d come to know so well. The firelight cast shadows along her cheekbones, softening the sharpness of her features, though her eyes never lost their edge. She rested her hands on her knees, her fingers tracing faint patterns against the fabric.

Cregan studied her, the curve of her mouth, the way her hair framed her face. He reached out, his hand dripping and warm, and cupped her cheek. She didn’t flinch, didn’t move away, even as his palm left a faint, damp imprint against her skin.

Her gaze was unyielding, quiet and searching. She knew him too well.

“The raven?”

He nodded to her, letting his hand drop back into the water with a soft splash. “I am not ready,” he said, as though it had been sitting on his chest since the letter arrived.

She said nothing, only shifted closer, her fingers beginning to trace idle circles on his forearm where it rested against the rim of the tub. Her silence was infuriating, as it always was, but it also steadied him in a way he’d never admit.

“They want me to see to the Free Folk,” he said, his voice carrying the bitterness of old grudges and honour-bound duty. “The ones you opened our gates for. They need assurances that the North hasn’t turned on them. They say there’s unrest. Whispers in the winds beyond the Wall.”

“It’s been a long while since you’ve been up there,” she murmured, her tone calm, almost detached.

“Aye.”

Claere’s fingers moved absently, tracing small geometric shapes against his arm. “Take me with you.”

Cregan huffed out a sharp breath, his frown deepening. “Pains me to refuse, but Luce and Edd need you here.”

Her gaze didn’t waver, but her lips thinned. “Then take Bran along.”

He barked a short, mirthless laugh, rubbing at his temple. He exhaled heavily, leaning back against the tub. “Bran's a boy, love.”

“One and ten,” she countered, her tone sharp enough to bite his resistance. “He’s nearly a man grown.”

Cregan stared at her, her words lingering in the heavy air like the echo of a distant horn. Claere’s violet eyes burned with an intensity that could have melted the frost clinging to Winterfell’s walls, and for a moment, he forgot the bath’s warmth as her words settled over him.

“You think I don’t know what he’s capable of?” Cregan’s voice was low, a growl beneath his breath. “He’s strong with the sword, quick on his feet, and gods know he can shoot better than I could at his age. But out there”—he gestured vaguely, his wet hand scattering droplets across the room—“it’s not just about skill. It’s about surviving, about looking into the eyes of a man who would gut you just to see how deep the blood runs, and still standing tall. You think I don’t see the boy still in him?”

Claere’s jaw tightened, her arms crossing as she leaned against the edge of the tub. Her hair glimmered in the dim firelight, a halo of silver against the shadows, but there was nothing soft in her stance. She looked like she belonged atop a dragon, unyielding and fierce.

“He won’t learn survival from sparring swords and the yards,” she said, her voice quieter now, though no less pointed. “You’re his father, the Lord of Winterfell. You’ve shown him how to swing a blade, how to aim a bow. But have you shown him the North? The real North? The Wall, the rivers, the Wolfswood? He needs more than stories and practice, Cregan. He needs to see what it is to be a Stark.”

Cregan’s fingers flexed against the rim of the tub, his calloused knuckles whitening. “You’d send him to the Wall? To see wildlings and brothers who've taken the black and a land that doesn’t care if you live or die?”

“I’d send him with you,” Claere insisted, leaning closer. Her voice softened, though the steel in it remained. “With his father. The man who survived it all, who brought the North back stronger than it was before. Show him what that strength looks like. Show him that carrying the North isn’t just his duty—it’s his legacy.”

Cregan stared at her, the firelight casting shadows over the planes of his face. His chest rose and fell with slow, measured breaths, the lines of worry etched into his brow deepening.

“And if it breaks him?” he asked quietly, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Claere’s expression softened, her fingers reaching out to trace the line of his damp jaw. Her touch was warm, a lifeline in the sea of doubt swirling inside him. “Then we'll be there to put him back together. That’s what parents do, isn’t it? You’re not sending him alone, Cregan. You’re leading him. Let him follow.”

For a long moment, he said nothing. The room was silent but for the faint crackle of the fire and the quiet ripple of water as he shifted. Finally, he exhaled, a sound heavy with resignation and something else—acceptance, perhaps.

“You’d make a fine wolf, Claere,” he muttered, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “Sharper teeth than mine, I think.”

“I've got fire, I have no need for teeth.”

Her lips curved, faint but real, and her hand lingered at his jaw for a moment longer before she stepped back, her expression turning devilish in that understated way she often employed. Her fingers moved deftly to the fastenings of the final layer of leathers, undoing the ribbons one by one, her movements intended as though she meant for him to watch. And watch he did.

Cregan’s arms tensed at the edge of the tub, his eyes darkening as he took in the sight of her, each piece of leather peeled away and set aside, revealing inch after inch of smooth, pale skin kissed by the faint glow of firelight, softened by time. She didn’t rush, letting his gaze settle over her. Basking in it.

When at last she stood bare before him, becoming winter itself, he tilted his head slightly, the faintest smirk on her lips as though to say, What are you waiting for?

The water rippled as she stepped into the tub, testing, graceful and slow. Steam curled in languid tendrils around her legs as she sank in, the warmth pulling a soft sigh from her lips. Cregan reached for her, his large hands steady as they found her waist, drawing her fully onto his lap. The water surged over the edges, cascading down the wooden sides and pooling onto the stone floor, but he didn’t care. His laughter rumbled low in his chest as he pulled her close, her bare skin pressing against his. He'd found heaven for a brief moment.

“There you are,” he murmured. “Much better.”

Claere’s fingers ghosted over a scar on his collar bone, the faint line of it cutting pale against the weathered bronze of his skin. Her touch lingered, as though her fingertips could feel the memory etched there, as though it might speak its story aloud.

“This one,” she said, “I remember.” Her fingers traced the ridge again, reverently, unflinching. “A missed arrow?”

“Missed by half,” Cregan replied, his grin sharp and laced with that wolfish pride she knew so well.

He let his hand glide up her spine, warm from the water, catching at the loose braid that framed her face. With a deliberate tug, he undid it, her silver-streaked hair spilling like moonlight over her bare shoulders, the strands dampening where they kissed the surface of the bathwater.

She hummed faintly, her lips twitching at the corner. “Your pride, your stories—they weigh on you like old armour,” she said, her tone teasing but threaded with something heavier. Her hand pressed flat against his chest, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breath beneath her palm. “What happens when the wolf grows too weary to wear them?”

“A wolf never does,” he countered, but there was no edge to it, no sharpness. Only affection as his thumb brushed against her cheek, tracing the faint flush of warmth brought on by the steam. “And what of you, dragon-rider? Does your fire burn low, or will you fly until your wings fail?”

Her brow arched, her lips curving faintly upward. “I would burn the sky if it meant keeping this family safe,” she said softly, but the fire within it was unmistakable.

She let her fingers trail down his chest, tracing old scars, each mark a story only she was privy to.

Cregan’s hand lingered between them, tracing absent patterns along the damp skin of her shoulder. As he worked water through her hair with slow, deliberate motions, he drew in a steadying breath and tried his tongue at the language that still sat awkwardly on it, the words as foreign to him as the heat of Dorne in winter.

“Skorī dōron ēza... ao gevive iā.... drīvo, nyke... brōzi hen... gevivys,” he said slowly, his Northern accent thick, the flow of the words more like the creak of a winter tree than the silk of fire. If a man is shaped by stories, I burn with them.

Claere paused, her fingers lightly brushing his forearm as her lips twitched at the corners. “Brōzi? Truly?” she murmured, her voice laced with restrained amusement. She tilted her head back, looking at him with those violet eyes that always seemed to see through him, to the marrow of the man beneath. “You meant to say sīragon, didn’t you?” From.

Cregan grunted, his jaw tightening in mock frustration. “Let a man try, Claere,” he muttered, rolling his eyes skyward, though a wry grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “It’s like twisting my tongue into a knot. And here you are, ready to skin me for it.”

She chuckled and leaned closer, brushing damp hair from his forehead. “It’s good to see you stumble now and again,” she teased lightly, her lips brushing his ear as she added in her mother tongue, “Ziry kesir iksis gevivys hen gevivys syt īlva tolvio.” That is what stories are for—for our struggles.

“I caught that,” Cregan shot back, his grin widening despite himself. He reached for her waist, pulling her flush against him in the water, which sloshed dangerously close to the edge of the tub. “And I’ll tell you what I’m good at regarding stories, love. Living them.”

“Oh?” she arched a brow, her tone a mockery of scepticism even as her fingers skimmed down his chest. “What tale do you think you’re writing now, my lord?”

“One where the winter's queen joins the king in the North for a bath,” he growled playfully, his voice low as he pressed a kiss to the hollow of her throat. “And he doesn't misspeak.”

“Not often, anyway,” she quipped.

Her laughter faded, but the warmth of it lingered between them. She leaned into him, her forehead coming to rest against his shoulder. He felt her sigh, her body melting into his like snow against the sunlit stone. His hand moved rhythmically, pouring water, untangling her hair, each stroke of his fingers careful. But there was something about her quietness now that unnerved him. The silence between them wasn’t hollow—it was heavy, as though the air itself waited for something to break.

“Cregan,” she said finally, her voice quiet but heavy, like a snowstorm building on the horizon. “I want to fly past the Wall again.”

The words didn’t land immediately. For a moment, the fire crackled, the faint scent of woodsmoke filling the air, and her voice hung there, unacknowledged, like a raven circling a battlefield. But then, like an axe cleaving through frozen bark, the meaning struck. His hands stilled against her back, and the silence between them became brittle.

Slowly, he moved, setting the water aside. His fingers lingered on her shoulder, reluctant to let go, as if even that small gesture might allow her words to take root. She turned just enough for him to see her face, her profile illuminated by firelight. The high cheekbones he’d traced with his thumb a hundred times, the proud line of her nose, the haunting violet of her eyes—all of it was familiar. And yet, what burned behind her gaze now was something foreign. Something he didn’t want to know.

“The Wall?” His voice was calm, but the sharp undertone betrayed him. “Why?”

“I need something,” she murmured, the words nearly swallowed by the crackle of the fire. Her eyes softened, but her jaw tightened, her resolve solidifying even as her voice quavered.

Cregan stiffened. The memory of her last flight past the Wall came rushing back, vivid and unforgiving. The days of waiting, the weeks of sleepless nights after her return, when she woke gasping for air, her hands clutching at her throat as if warding off unseen terrors. The Wall hadn’t just taken from her—it had nearly swallowed her whole.

“You needed something the last time, too,” he said, his voice low and cold as iron. “And it nearly destroyed you. I will not allow this.”

“Cregan—”

“No.” His hand caught her chin, tilting her face toward him, his gray eyes meeting hers with unflinching force. “Don’t ask me this again, Claere.”

“But—”

“Please.” His voice cracked, his plea pulling it down to little more than a whisper. “Don’t.”

For a moment, she looked like she might argue, her lips parting, her breath hitching. But then, something inside her faltered. Instead, she pressed her face into his chest, her trembling fingers clutching at his sides. He wrapped his arms around her instinctively, as if by holding her tightly enough, he could keep her anchored, stop her from drifting toward whatever shadowed place she sought.

“I just…” she began, her voice muffled against his skin. “Have you ever wondered, after I’m gone, what I’ll leave behind?”

Her words were a blow, swift and unexpected. Cregan stiffened, his arms tightening around her as though she might slip through them.

“Gone?” he echoed, his voice faint, disbelieving. He tried to summon a chuckle, something to lighten the moment, but it came out jagged and hollow. “You’ll leave Luna, of course. That terror of a beast. It'll live another ten centuries. And our children—wolves with their mother’s fire, gods help us.”

She didn’t laugh. Instead, she pulled back, her hands resting on his chest, her face shadowed with an intensity he couldn’t meet without flinching. “I do not jest,” she said softly, each word carving into him like frostbite.

His smile faded entirely, replaced by a deep furrow in his brow as he searched her face for answers. “What is this about?” he asked, his voice soft, coaxing. His hand came up to brush through her damp hair, a gesture as soothing for him as it was for her. “Does something trouble you, love?”

Her gaze dropped, her teeth catching at her bottom lip—a small, vulnerable tell that cut deeper than any words could. “Cregan, we don’t have long in this realm,” she said, her voice steady but low. “None of us do. And we must do what is needed for the future.”

“And the Wall offers you a future?” His voice hardened, anger creeping in now. It wasn’t the wild, hot anger of a battlefield, but a cold, slow-burning fury. “It’s taken enough from you already.”

“I’ve seen the aftermath,” she said, her tone calm but unrelenting. She lifted her gaze to meet his, and there was something in it that chilled him to his core. “After me.”

Her words cut deeper than the sharpest blade. He understood now. She wasn’t speaking of leaving—at least, not in the sense he wanted to believe. She was speaking of her absence. Her death.

Cregan’s jaw tightened, his arms pulling her closer as though he could tether her to him, to the present, to life itself. His chest felt tight, and his breath became shallow.

“You won’t leave me behind,” he said again, the faintest crack betraying his fear. “You can’t.”

Her gaze held his, unwavering, but he saw the glint of severity there, refracting the firelight like shards of ice. He swallowed hard, trying to push down the rising tide of dread that threatened to overwhelm him. She’d seen something—he knew it. And it gnawed at him like a wolf at a bone.

The thoughts came unbidden, tumbling over each other in his mind. Had she seen it? How had it come for her? Was it a blade, sharp and sudden, cutting her life away in an instant? Was it poison, insidious and slow, stealing her breath while he was too far to help? Or a fall, her body broken on the frozen ground before he could catch her? His hands clenched at his sides, his jaw tightening as he struggled to contain the frantic thoughts spinning wildly out of control.

He didn’t want to know, not truly, but the thought of not knowing was worse. He searched her face, his heart hammering against his ribs like a storm battering at a gate.

“Death is not something we must fear,” she said softly. Her hand came up to his face, cupping his cheek with a gentleness that belied the weight of her words. “Not for Northerners. The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.”

“And what am I without you?” he asked, his voice a mere breath. He grasped her hand where it rested against his cheek, holding it as though it might anchor him. “If you leave me, I have nothing. I am nothing. No dreams. No fight. No life. If you manage to leave me somehow, you will not go alone. I will follow.”

Her expression softened, a sorrowful smile curving her lips. She reached up to brush her thumb along his cheekbone, catching the tear he didn’t realize had fallen. “I know,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

He swallowed hard, the words clawing their way up his throat. “How... does it happen?”

For a moment, she didn’t respond. Her gaze dropped to the space between them, her fingers still lightly tracing his cheek. When she spoke, her voice was soft but resolute.

“Not for a long time,” she said.

The words struck him deeply, unraveling the tension that had gripped him like a vice. Not for a long time. He exhaled, his breath shuddering as though he had been holding it for years, his shoulders loosening from the weight of dread. It wasn’t a dismissal of the future, but a promise that there was more to come—more moments, more life, more everything.

His thoughts slowed, anchoring on the here and now. The curve of her lips, the heat of her body pressed against his, the faint lavender scent that clung to her hair—this was what mattered. This was the life they had yet to live, the future she spoke of, not just a far-off end but the fullness of days between now and then.

He tilted his head, studying her with a crooked grin that didn't quite hide the lingering edge of his earlier unease. “You’ve got a real talent for ruining a perfectly good bath,” he muttered, his voice low.

Her lips quirked, amusement flickering in her violet eyes. “Do I?”

“Aye,” he said, his hand sliding to her hip beneath the water, his touch firm but playful. “But I’m not letting you turn this into some talk of doom and death.” He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear as he added, “You’ve got better things to focus on.”

She arched a brow, her lips curving into that sly smile that always managed to disarm him. “Better things?”

“You, in my arms, all beautiful lips and legs,” he murmured, his other hand slipping up to cradle her jaw. “I’d say that’s better than any talk of what’s to come.”

Her blush deepened, but her smile didn’t waver. “Is this your way of distracting me?”

“It’s my way of reminding you,” he said, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth, his lips brushing against her skin with deliberate slowness, “that we’ve still got tonight. And tomorrow. And the day after that.” He kissed her fully then, a slow, lingering press of his mouth that carried everything he didn’t want to put into words.

When he pulled back, his grin had turned roguish, his grey eyes gleaming with mischief. “Besides,” he added, his hand slipping lower under the water, “I’m not done with you yet.”

She let out a soft gasp, her hands pressing against his chest as she gave him a mock glare. “Lord Stark, you are incorrigible.”

“Incorrigible, aye,” he murmured, tilting his head as if in thought. His fingers teased along her waist, drawing her closer until their bodies pressed together. “But you’ve yet to complain about it.”

“I could start now,” she quipped, her voice light despite the way her breath hitched when his hand slid lower, brushing against the bare curve of her hip.

He smirked, unrepentant, leaning back against the tub's edge as he pulled her onto his lap, water sloshing around them. “Could you, though?” His voice was a low rumble, filled with a teasing warmth. “Or would you rather stay like this, letting me remind you how much you love a Stark who doesn’t know when to quit?”

Her laughter bubbled up, soft and unguarded, and she settled against him, her legs folding to either side of his hips. “You have an awfully high opinion of yourself.”

“It’s hard not to, with you looking at me like that,” he said, his hands splaying against the small of her back. His thumbs drew slow, deliberate circles against her skin as he tilted his head to catch her gaze. “Like you’d fight the gods themselves to keep me.”

Her teasing smile faltered, something softer blooming in its place. “Don’t make me admit to such things,” she whispered, her fingers trailing over the scars on his chest. “Your ego’s insufferable enough.”

“I’ll admit it for you,” he said, lowering his voice as his fingers danced up her spine. “You’d have my heart torn from my chest if it meant keeping it beating for you. Don’t deny it.”

She didn’t. She couldn’t—not with the way her silence spoke louder than words, her hands trembling slightly as they cupped his face. She held him there, staring into the storm-grey of his eyes as though she could lose herself in them.

“Don’t think this means I’ll forget what we were talking about,” she said at last, her tone soft but resolute.

“Not tonight,” he replied, his voice thick with emotion as he cupped her face in return, his thumbs brushing over the high planes of her cheekbones. “Tonight, it’s just you and me. No ravens, no Wall, no ghosts of what’s to come. Just us.”

Her gaze softened, her lips parting as though to argue—but the words didn’t come. Instead, she leaned into him, her forehead pressing gently to his, her breath mingling with his in the quiet intimacy of the moment. “I'd like that very much,” she murmured, her voice a whisper of surrender.

For a moment, he let the world slip away. Let himself drown in the feel of her—the press of her body against his, the scent of her hair, damp and clinging to her shoulders, the contrast of her warmth against the chill curling through the room. He would not let himself dwell on the shadows of the future—not tonight. Not when she was here, flesh and fire, burning bright enough to chase away every dark thought.

His fingers found her chin, tilting her face up until her violet eyes met his, wide and searching. He kissed her slow, deep, savouring the shape of her mouth, the softness that yielded to him even as he felt the quiet strength beneath it. When he pulled back, his smile had returned—soft, but still edged with mischief.

“Enough of death and despair,” he murmured, tracing the seam of her lips with his thumb. “I’m more interested in seeing if you’ll laugh again.”

Her brow arched, though the corner of her mouth lifted in something close to amusement. “Laugh?”

“Aye.” His hand slipped beneath the water, slow, sliding up the length of her thigh. Finally, he cupped the warm space between her legs. “That sound that could warm even these stones.”

Her breath hitched—a sharp, stuttered thing as if caught between surprise and surrender. Cregan felt the way she tensed beneath his fingers, her thighs clenching around his hand, for a moment before they eased, parting wider beneath the water. The heat of her, the slickness, the way she yielded to him even after all these years—it sent fire curling through his veins, made something primal in him stir.

He pressed a kiss to her temple, slow and lingering, his lips trailing down to her cheek, her jaw, the curve of her throat. She smelled of the oils in the bath, the faintest hint of spiceflowers and winter roses, but beneath that, she was still just Claere—his Claere, the woman who had given him everything.

His fingers moved again, curling inside her, stroking, pressing in deep. She made a sound then, quiet but breathless, her nails digging into his shoulders, her head tilting back against his chest. He could feel her heartbeat against his lips, a wild, fluttering thing, the way it always was when he touched her like this—like she wasn’t a mother of his children, wasn’t the Lady of Winterfell, but just the woman who had always been his.

Her thighs shifted, parting wider beneath the water, as if trying to push his fingers deeper within her, a silent plea. He chuckled, low and dark against her ear, dragging his teeth gently over the delicate skin there.

“I wish you could see yourself now,” he murmured, nipping at her lobe before soothing the spot with his tongue. “Undoing yourself against my hand.”

A whimper slipped past her lips, her fingers tightening where they gripped his arms. He felt her shift against him, pressing back, as if seeking more from his palm, that spot beneath her belly, as if she couldn’t stand the slow, torturous rhythm of his hand.

“Cregan,” she whispered, his name a plea, a demand, a prayer.

He groaned softly, his free hand smoothing over her hips, lingering over the faint scars left behind by the life she had carried for him. Evidence of the children she had borne, of the pain she had endured, of everything she had given him—and yet, still, she was here. Still, she was his.

She turned slightly in his arms, enough for him to see the flush rising high on her cheeks. “The scars won't go. No matter how much I scrub.”

Cregan chuckled, low and deep. “Let them be,” he echoed her earlier words, dragging his nose down the slope of her neck, breathing her in, “it's like a map. To my favourite place in this realm.”

His fingers slid from between her thighs, and she whimpered softly at the loss. He didn’t tease her for it, not this time. He only gripped her hips, turning her in the water until her back was flat against his chest, straddling his lap.

Water sloshed against the edges of the bath, spilling onto the stones again, but neither of them paid it any mind. He caged her there, wrapped in the warmth of his body, his mouth ghosting along the curve of her neck. A slow, heated drag of lips and teeth, a quiet claim.

His hands wandered, splaying across her stomach before gliding lower, fingers tracing the soft curve beneath her belly button. “Do you remember the first time?” he murmured against her ear, his voice rough, teasing.

She shivered, her fingers tightening where they rested on his thighs beneath the water. “Of course I do.”

His teeth grazed her earlobe, playful, before he pressed a kiss just below it. “Do you remember how you trembled for me?”

She huffed a breath, both exasperated and breathless. “Cregan—”

He chuckled, low and deep. “Still do, I think.”

His fingers dipped lower, finding her again, teasing, stroking with lazy intent. Her head tipped back against his shoulder, a quiet moan slipping from her lips as he dragged his knuckles along her most sensitive place, slow and deliberate.

“That’s it, love,” he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction. “Let me have you.”

Claere’s breath stuttered, her fingers digging into his forearm, bracing herself against him as he eased her into it, as he coaxed her open with unhurried patience. His other hand smoothed over her stomach, pressing her back more firmly into him, grounding her as she trembled, adjusting to the steady, claiming stretch of his fingers.

She burned for him. Even after all these years, after all the nights spent tangled in each other, he still made her feel this way—like he was the only thing that existed, like her body was made to welcome him and only him.

Cregan exhaled sharply against her neck when she rocked into his touch, a breathless, greedy motion, chasing more, chasing him. He let her, let her take what she needed, let her move with him until she was slick and wanting, until her body was soft and eager against his own.

Then, with a quiet groan, he withdrew his fingers, shifting beneath her. As he tasted his fingers on his tongue, he realized how he would've preferred dryer ground than this tub, to let himself simply savour the taste of her for as long as he pleased.

She gasped when he aligned them, a sharp "ah!", a shudder running through her as he pushed inside, slow, stretching her inch by inch. She clenched around him instinctively, her hands flying to his thighs beneath the water, nails pressing into his skin as she sucked in a breath, caught between pleasure and the sheer, unbearable ache of taking him entirely into her.

Cregan groaned, his own body taut with restraint, his grip on her hips firm but gentle as he gave her time.

“It's alright, love,” he soothed against her ear, his lips brushing the shell of it. “I’m here. Slow.”

She exhaled shakily, letting herself sink back against him, letting herself adjust, letting herself feel every inch of him as he seated himself fully inside her. He swore he could feel her heartbeat right there.

He stayed still for a long moment, his breath hot against her damp skin, his hands smoothing over her stomach, her hips, her thighs, feeling her, waiting.

“Cregan,” she whispered, desperate now, the stretch melting into something unbearable in a wholly different way.

His arms manacled around her. “Move for me,” he murmured, coaxing, his hands guiding her hips, helping her find the rhythm that was theirs alone.

And when she did—gods. The heavens itself. Thunder crashing. Rain falling. A fucking avalanche. None of those phenomena came close. Every time, it was as if she had never known him at all.

And then—

A sharp, unsteady breath left her as she rocked against him, slow at first, a careful slide of bodies beneath the water, the movement languid and fluid like the tide. Cregan groaned low in his throat, his grip tightening on her hips, his fingers pressing into the curve of her neck, as if to keep himself from losing all restraint. It almost slipped past him.

“Just like that, Claere, yes,” he murmured against her temple, the praise breathy and rough, setting off a shiver down her spine.

Claere inhaled sharply as she pushed down again, the stretch of him sending pleasure curling deep in her belly, sharp and intoxicating. Her hands found his arms, clutching at the thick muscle beneath damp skin, seeking something to hold onto as he guided her into the rhythm, his body meeting hers in slow, wet thrusts. Every inch of him burned to go harder, faster, make her fall apart for him, But he wouldn't rush this—not when he had her, not when he could savour every second.

She arched into him, her head falling back against his shoulder, exposing her throat. He took advantage of it immediately, his lips dragging along the delicate column of her neck, tasting the salt of her skin, nipping, soothing, marking her as his own.

“I've missed this, missed you, missing being inside you,” he whispered, voice hoarse, strained, a kiss on her shoulder for each punctuation. His hands slid up, tracing the swell of her breasts beneath the water, rolling a peaked nipple between his fingers until she gasped, her body clenching around him.

She whimpered, pressing her hands over his, guiding them lower, needing more, needing everything. He gave it to her, rolled his fingers at that very spot, his touch rough and knowing, his pace quickening just enough to make her moan, to make her toes curl against the marble beneath them.

Her name fell from his lips like a prayer, reverent, desperate. He had touched her like this a thousand times, had kissed every inch of her body, had watched her unravel in his arms more times than he could count—and yet, every time felt like the first.

And every time, he was wrecked for her. Ravaged. Devastated. Left lost in her.

She was close now, he could feel it in the way her muscles tightened around him, the way her breath grew uneven, in the way her hands trembled against his own. He gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to let go, to chase his own pleasure, determined to take her there first. It was his taste of paradise, to see her explode onto him.

“There's my girl,” he rasped, his fingers slipping lower, finding the place that made her break. “Give it to me, love. All of it.”

She did.

Her body tensed, her back arching as pleasure crashed over her in a sharp, shuddering wave. She clenched around him so tight he swore he saw stars, her moan breathless, mouth falling open into a silent scream, her nails digging into his skin.

Cregan groaned, his control snapping, his grip on her tightening as he thrust into her once, twice, before he was spilling into her with a ragged sound, his entire being wrenching inside out, his head dropping against her shoulder.

For a moment, as colour flooded back into his sight, there was only the soft lap of water against their skin, the slow rise and fall of their breaths. Home, home, home, was all he could think about. She was his home.

He let out a long, satisfied sigh, his grip on her loose but lingering, hands still smoothing over the curve of her waist, as if he wasn’t quite ready to let go. Claere slumped against his chest, her body boneless, skin flushed, hair damp against his shoulder.

“Well, Claere,” he murmured, voice thick with amusement, “you’ve officially fucked me out.”

Claere hummed, half-lidded and pleased, her fingers idly tracing the ridges of his forearm. “Mmm.”

He huffed a laugh, nosing into her damp hair. “Mmm?”

She grinned, stretching out in his lap like a cat, unabashed, utterly content. “I like seeing you like this.”

“Like what?”

“Spent,” she purred, tipping her head back to meet his gaze, mischief dancing in her eyes. “Sweet. A little ruined.”

Cregan groaned, leaning his head back against the rim of the tub, but he was smiling. “Give me a moment to recover, woman, before you start making me hard again.”

Claere hummed, trailing a slow finger down his chest, tracing the scars and muscles that she knew as well as her own skin. “Recover already?” she mused, tilting her head, feigning innocence. “What a shame. I thought the mighty Lord Stark had more verve than this.”

Cregan cracked an eye open, giving her a look—half amusement, half warning. “Watch yourself.”

“Oh, I am,” she whispered, shifting in his lap just enough to feel the lazy thrum of heat still there beneath the surface. She smirked. “But are you?”

Cregan exhaled sharply, hands tightening at her waist as she rolled her hips against his thigh, slow and teasing. He was already hardening again, the ache not quite gone before she threatened to stoke it back to life.

Claere leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to his jaw, then lower, trailing heat down the column of his throat. “No need to rush,” she murmured against his skin, voice silken, taunting. “We have all morning.”

Cregan growled, deep in his chest, tipping his head back, eyes fluttering shut as she moved against him. “Gods help me,” he muttered, but his hands slid lower, gripping her, guiding her.

Claere laughed, warm and wicked. Unlike anything he'd seen, once or twice.

“I think you’ll survive.”

And just like that, the hunger stirred anew.

The courtyard of Winterfell had become a storm of movement—horses stamping against the frost-bitten ground, men checking their saddles, the clink of steel and murmurs of last-minute preparations. The banners of House Stark stirred in the biting wind, a reminder of the legacy they carried Northward.

But in the midst of it all, Cregan Stark found himself shackled—not by duty, not by the weight of his furs or the steel at his hip, but by the small, determined hands of his children.

Rickon clung to his left arm, Edd had his fingers curled into the fabric of his cloak, and Luce—his wild little pup—had scaled his back like a mountain cat, arms looped around his neck in a stubborn vice. The three of them, strong and sharp, but still young enough to make their sorrow known in the way they gripped onto him, as if holding him would stop him from leaving. Their sighs and sniffles echoed in his ears, though none of them would dare cry—not properly. A Stark did not wail, but they knew how to make their sorrow known.

“You best come back fast, Da,” Edd grumbled into his father’s shoulder.

“I’ll be counting the days,” Rickon muttered, arms tightening.

Luce, face buried against his shoulder, huffed, "Then bring me redcurrants from White Harbour this time. The big, fat ones. You forgot last time, and I still haven’t forgiven you."

Cregan chuckled, shifting her weight easily, bearing all three of them as if they were nothing. "I’ll bring you all the redcurrants in the North, my love," he promised.

He crouched, easing her to the ground alongside her brothers, taking each of their faces in his hands. His thumbs brushed over their cheeks, memorizing the weight of them, the warmth. He wouldn't feel this for a long time.

"I'll come back quick as the wind," he said, pressing kisses to their brows, and their hair, one by one. "And when I do, I'll have stories for you. The kind you’ve never heard before."

"Will they be true stories?" Rickon asked, eyes narrowing.

Cregan grinned. "Aye. And the best kind of true stories—the ones that sound like lies."

The boys exchanged glances, considering, before they nodded solemnly.

Meanwhile, Bran had not let go of his mother.

He was pressed into her embrace, face tucked against her shoulder, silver curls gleaming beneath the pale light. Unlike his siblings, he was quiet in his sorrow, but Claere knew. She rubbed slow, soothing circles over his back, whispered to him in a voice only for him to hear.

"Listen and stay close to your father," she murmured, her lips against his temple. "Mind the men. Never stray too far past your people. Write to me often."

His arms tightened around her waist. "I know, Ma."

Cregan reached out, and rested a hand on his son's shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze. "Say your goodbyes to your brothers and sister, lad," he said. "They'll be missing you, too."

Bran nodded, swallowing hard.

Cregan's gaze lifted to Claere's, and the sight of her nearly undid him. She was holding herself still, the grief of parting written in the tight set of her mouth, the sheen in her violet eyes. Gods, he hated leaving her. Especially her.

But before she could speak, he grinned, and in one swift motion, he pulled her into his arms, his grip firm around her waist. The strength of it startled a soft laugh from her lips, though her hands instantly found his chest, holding on.

“You’ll not let me go without a proper farewell, will you?” he murmured against her mouth.

She huffed, exhaling sharply as his lips found hers—soft at first, then lingering, warm and slow. He kissed her once, twice, savouring the taste of her, the press of her body against his. She made a quiet noise against his lips, and he swallowed it down, trying to burn the memory of her into his bones.

And then, between kisses, his voice dipped into something smug, something playful.

“We may have made a babe last night.”

She let out a startled little laugh against his mouth, her fingers tightening in his cloak. “And how would you know that?”

He tilted his head, brushing his lips along the shell of her ear, letting his teeth graze just enough to make her shiver.

“Because I’m sore all over,” he murmured, amused. “And the last time I felt this way was when we had Luce. And I vaguely remember a warm bath, too.”

A sharp breath left her, and she buried her face into his neck, laughing despite herself. Her hands clutched at him as if she could hold onto him for just a moment longer.

"Seven hells, Cregan," she whispered, voice unsteady.

His arms tightened, and for a breath, for a single moment, he allowed himself the weakness of wishing he didn’t have to go at all.

A sniffle interrupted them.

Both of them turned just in time to see Luce dramatically rubbing at her nose with the edge of her sleeve, her expression twisted into one of exaggerated disgust. "Ew."

Rickon made a retching sound. "Could you not, Da? Please?"

"Spare us," Edd groaned, burying his face in his hands.

Bran only flushed, shifting awkwardly. He was still young enough to find it embarrassing but not young enough to pretend he didn’t understand.

Cregan threw his head back, laughing deep and loud, the sound echoing through the courtyard. "Little shits, the lot of you," he rumbled, pulling away from Claere just enough to face them. "You'll understand one day when you have husbands and wives of your own."

Luce wrinkled her nose. "Not if I can help it."

Rickon nudged her. "You’d be the worst wife, Lucy."

"And you'd be the worst husband, cretin," she shot back.

Bran cleared his throat, mounting his horse with a smirk. “You’re both the worst.”

Cregan clenched the reins in his hands, the leather biting into his palm. It was a hard thing, being a father, harder than war, harder than ruling. He had spent years keeping his children safe, but now, as he watched his children watch him, he wondered if he had been holding him back instead.

"Goodbye, Da!"

"Bye, Bran! Tell me if you catch any white-walkers!"

"We'll miss you, Bran!"

The North called. Duty answered.

But love… love hesitated.

With a final breath, he turned his horse, Bran following suit. The moment he did, something inside him clenched—an ache deep in his ribs, in his very bones. He felt the pull of them all, the invisible tether tying him to this place, to these people, and it took everything in him not to turn back, not to look one last time.

Because he knew himself.

If he looked, if he caught another glimpse of his wife’s sorrow, of his children standing there, waiting for him to return—

He would not go at all.

So he rode forward, his men falling in beside him, their horses’ hooves muffled against the frost-covered earth. The great gates of Winterfell groaned as they shut behind them, sealing him away from the warmth of home, from the touch of his wife, from the laughter of his children.

The road stretched long and endless before him. The Wall loomed in the distance, a cold and unfeeling thing. And though he did not turn back, though he did not let himself break—Gods help him, he had never longed for home more than he did now.

Bran had always known his father was a great man. Lord Cregan Stark, the Wolf of Winterfell, the Warden of the North, the man who held the cold in his hands and never let it break him. He had grown up listening to the stories, the songs, the whispered words of men who spoke his name like a legend, like something larger than life.

But it was different to see it.

Riding south, he had always known the reach of their name, but now, as they travelled north to the Wall, he saw the weight his father carried.

At every holdfast they passed, at every village, people stood straighter when Cregan rode through, their voices full of deference, their eyes filled with something between admiration and fear.

At the inns where they stopped for the night, men lifted their cups in salute. They asked after Winterfell, after the family, after the North itself as if his father carried the realm itself on his back.

But none of them asked about Bran. They called him the White Wolf, they spoke of the name that had been given to him since birth, but it was just that—a name. A heavy, hopeless name.

Cregan Stark was not just a name. He was a man. A man that people followed, a man that people obeyed, a man that Bran had to become. To live up to that man felt impossible.

That night, he could not sleep.

The inn was warm, the furs thick, but rest did not come. His body ached from the ride, from the stiffness in his limbs, but his mind whirled too fast. His father’s shadow loomed over him, over everything he was meant to be, and pressed down like a mountain.

He rose quietly, careful not to wake the others, and slipped outside.

The night air was crisp, the scent of pine and smoke lingering as he stepped into the clearing beyond the inn’s outer walls. His fingers itched, restless, so he grabbed his sword from where it rested by his belt and gave it a few testing swings.

The blade felt foreign in his hands, unfamiliar despite the years of training. He tried to remember what the master-at-arms had told him—balance, precision, patience. He went through the motions, cutting at the air, but it all felt wrong.

“You’re holding your wrist too stiff,” came a voice behind him.

Bran was startled, turning to find his father standing there, leaning lazily against one of the wooden posts, watching him with something close to amusement, head tilted.

“You should be asleep,” Bran muttered, lowering his blade.

Cregan smirked, stepping forward. “Sleep comes slow without your mother by my side.”

Bran huffed a quiet laugh. “Ma barely sleeps at all.”

His father chuckled, shaking his head. “Aye, that she doesn’t. It’s a wonder I’ve ever had a peaceful night’s rest.”

Bran knew that was true. His mother’s sleepwalks, her quiet steps in the hallways, the distant sound of her harp intoning at odd hours—she was never still. Sometimes, when he was younger, he would wake and hear her voice in the dark, murmuring songs under her breath, half-lost to sleep. He had never found himself unsettled, it felt wrong only when she did not do such things.

And his father had never seemed to mind. Cregan never seemed to mind anything about her. How she didn't speak unless it was her family around her. How she spoke in riddles, sometimes communing far beyond this realm.

They stood there a moment, father and son, the night quiet around them, the stars distant and bright. Then Cregan reached for his own blade from his side. Not Ice, but a smaller sword he must’ve borrowed from the men.

“Come,” he said, gesturing. “Show me what you’ve learned.”

Bran hesitated. “You’ll only beat me.”

“Probably,” Cregan agreed, grinning.

Bran narrowed his eyes, then lunged.

His swing was quick, sharp, aimed for his father’s side, but Cregan merely shifted, barely moving before steel met steel. The impact jarred up Bran’s arm, and his strike knocked him aside as if it were nothing at all.

Bran clenched his teeth, adjusting his footing, and struck again. Faster. Harder. His father met him just the same, fluid, smooth as if he were dancing.

Bran was breathing hard, his muscles tightening with every deflection, every parry that sent him stumbling back. Cregan wasn’t even trying. He could tell.

“Again,” his father said, voice low, patient.

Bran’s frustration snapped like a bowstring. He stepped in, aiming high, but his father pivoted easily, meeting him before he could complete the strike, catching Bran’s wrist in a swift motion that sent his sword spinning from his fingers.

The blade clattered onto the dirt.

Bran stared at it, chest heaving, fists curling at his sides.

Cregan rested the flat of his sword against Bran’s shoulder, light, teasing. “Dead.”

Bran swatted it away, scowling.

His father only laughed, ruffling his curls like he was still a boy in the training yard. “You’re not bad, boy,” he admitted. “But you’re forcing it. You need to stop thinking so much.”

Bran let out a breath, his jaw tight. “I am feeling it.”

Cregan’s grin widened. “Then why do you keep losing?”

Bran released a sharp, frustrated noise, stepping away to retrieve his fallen weapon. The truth was, it wasn’t just the fight weighing on him tonight. The unease had been growing inside him since they’d left Winterfell, a slow, creeping thing that settled deep in his bones.

He bent down, fingers brushing the hilt.

“It will be hard,” he muttered, half to himself.

Cregan cocked his head. “What will?”

Bran swallowed, fingers tightening around the sword. Then, quietly, he said, “Living up to you.”

He exhaled, standing straight. “Taking care of the keep. My brothers, Luce. You, Ma. Holding Winterfell. Fighting battles. The Wall. The Iron Throne. Protecting the North.” His voice was quiet, but steady. “It all seems… larger than me.”

A silence stretched between them.

Then, instead of speaking, Cregan raised his sword.

“Pick it up,” he said again.

Bran hesitated only a moment before stepping back into position, blade in hand.

Cregan took a stance. “Come at me again.”

Bran exhaled, adjusted his grip, and lunged.

Their blades met with a sharp clang, but this time, Cregan let the fight last longer. He let Bran push forward, let him move, let him feel the rhythm of it. Not just swinging wildly, but measuring his steps, learning the weight of steel in his hands.

“Hard?” Cregan said between swings. “Aye. It is.”

Bran pivoted, stepping quickly, but his father was already there, blocking him before he could complete the strike. His father fought like the wind, fast and untouchable. But this time, Bran did not let himself falter.

“You will learn,” Cregan said.

Another strike, another deflection, but Bran kept moving.

“You will grow.”

He was sweating, his arms ached, but he wasn’t stopping.

“You will be strong.”

Bran gritted his teeth, his next swing sharper, and more measured, and his father grinning.

“And gods help the poor fucker who stands against you.”

Bran’s breathing steadied. He wasn’t there yet. He wasn’t his father yet. But maybe, one day, he could be.

He grinned, lifting his sword again. “Again?”

Cregan barked a laugh, stepping forward to meet him. “Again.”

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zegrasdrysdale · 1 year ago

Text

[ one day ] j. hughes

paring : Jack Hughes x fem!reader

summary : (Y/N) accidentally distracts Jack while he’s being interviewed in their home for a day in the life of a Devils player documentary that's being filmed, and Jack brings up the idea of a proposal

warning(s) : a quick mention of suggestive content but no actual sex

author’s note : i don’t understand how this plot came to be and tbh it's kinda stupid but i’m taking it and running with it

༺═──────────────═༻

Jack being one of NHL's most popular players has it's pros and cons. Today is one of those cons that they both hate. Jack is being followed around for the day to film a Devils documentary that follows players during their off days. Jack being one of the Devils' star players means he had to do the documentary.

That was before (Y/N) talked him into it. She didn't realize how intense it would all be. An entire film crew has set up in their living room with big cameras and lighting. They have made themselves very much at home after knocking on their door at the crack of dawn.

The two of them were having a really good morning in bed together when the film crew came knocking. Lots of naked cuddles and kisses were exchanged when a knock rang out through their apartment. It ruined both of their moods.

They stand in their kitchen and watch the crew finish setting up from the island counter. Jack is now dressed in a dark grey Devils hockey t-shirt with black sweatpants that have a Devils logo on the pant leg.

"Do you want me in this?" (Y/N) questions. Jack looks over at her with a confused look on his face. "I mean, we've been mostly quiet about our relationship so I completely understand if you don't want me to be apart of your episode of the documentary."

Jack shakes his head as soon as the words pass her lips. "No, I want you in this, (Y/N)," he tells her. "It's a documentary about a day in my life and you're a really big part of my life so of course I want you in this. Just let me do the interview really quick then we can act like it's a normal day."

The woman doing the interview is one of the Devils reporters, but (Y/N) can't remember her name at the moment. She sits opposite Jack in the comfy chair. The camera over her shoulder is pointed at Jack.

While Jack is being interviewed, (Y/N) goes to her room to get ready for their insane day ahead. She needs to put on some actual clothes too. All she's been wearing since she got out of bed is one of Jack's t-shirts and a pair of really small shorts. Not exactly what she wants to be wearing if she's going to be followed around for most of the day by people that work for the Devils.

She can hear some of the questions being asked while she's getting changed. They're the usual questions. Asking about how the season is going for him, how he's been recovering from that shoulder injury that kept him off the ice for a handful of games, and how it's been having his brother on the team with him. Sometimes Jack's sassy side comes out. He's never been the one to hide how he's feeling when answering questions.

To mess with Jack a little bit, and to kind of surprise him when he's done with the interview, (Y/N) grabs Jack's Devils hoodie that he wears to practice sometimes. His number sits on her chest and it's a little too big. She pairs the black hoodie with a pair of jeans that are ripped at the knee. She throws her hair up into a high ponytail and puts on light makeup just to cover any blemishes or pimples that'll pop out on camera.

When she leaves their bedroom, Jack is talking about how amazing it is to be considered one of the league's best players.

"It's always the goal to be one of the best in whatever sport you play," Jack is saying as she walks through the living room. "I, um, didn't think it would happen, uh, so early on in my, um, career." (Y/N) looks over and sees that Jack has his eyes on her. "Sorry. Got distracted." There's a smile on his face when he sees what she's wearing.

The reporter turns and looks at (Y/N). "I didn't know your girlfriend lived with you, Jack," she says as she turns back to him. (Y/N) smiles and starts to make some coffee.

"One of the best decisions I have ever made," Jack says from the living room. "Getting to fall asleep with her in my arms and waking up with her wrapped around me is an honor. We've been together for over two years now and it's been incredible. My parents and brothers all love her, but not nearly as much as I do."

(Y/N) smiles to herself as the coffee brews. Her back is to him at the moment so he can't see the smile.

The way Jack talks about her sometimes makes her fall in love with him a little more. She talks about him like that all the time to friends and family, but knowing he's saying all of this in front of a camera for a documentary makes what he'[s saying a little more special. He isn't holding back because he's on camera.

"That's so cute," the interviewer says. "Could we be expecting a Jack Hughes proposal soon?"

"We'll see what happens," Jack replies. That causes her to spin around immediately and look at Jack. The smile that was on his face is still there as their eyes meet from two different rooms. Her smile grows bigger.

They've never talked about marriage. Both of them are very happy with where they are at in their relationship so they both not rushing to walk down the aisle. Plus, they're 21 and 22 respectively so they're still really young. They don't have to get married right now.

The interview goes by without another mention of marriage, or (Y/N). She's okay with that because this is about Jack and his accomplishments as NHL's rising star. He's come a long way since his rookie year.

(Y/N) was around that year but they weren't together. They were close friends at that point so she saw every day how Jack struggled his rookie year. He struggled with hockey and he struggled with what people were saying about him online. Calling him a NHL bust despite being drafted first overall.

They grew closer that year and it was during his sophomore season when they got together. She's been super supportive of him since he got drafted, but especially after his rookie year.

Jack quickly excuses himself before he gets mic'd up for the rest of the day. She's pouring coffee into two mugs for both of them when Jack comes up behind her and wraps his arms around his girlfriend.

"I know we never talked about it but-"

"Yes, I'd like to get married to you one day, Jack," (Y/N) interrupts as she turns in his arms. He presses her against the counter with one hand and takes his hot coffee in his other. "We don't have to rush into anything though. I'm happy with where we are and you're still trying to prove yourself in the NHL."

"So one day?" he asks.

She leans forward and kisses him softly and quickly. "One day."

༺═──────────────═༻

MASTERLIST

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#hockey imagines #hockey imagine #hockey fanfiction #hockey fic #hockey oneshot #nhl imagines #nhl imagine #nhl fanfiction #nhl fic #nhl oneshot #jack hughes #jack hughes fic #jack hughes x reader #jack hughes fluff #jack hughes fanfiction

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justanotherhornycatgirl · 2 months ago

Text

the most unfortunate part of my family constantly watching How I Met Your Mother when i was a kid (besides the obvious lingering psychological damage of being a young trans girl subjected to HIMYM) is the fact that i will never be able to stop thinking about it

specifically, HIMYM is a deeply transmisogynistic show, probably the most transmisogynistic sitcom I've ever seen (which would say a lot even if I'd only seen 2)

trans women, street queens, and the spectre of the tranny are the second most consistent humorous fallback the show relies on, just after "it's funny just how much of a rapist Barney is"

and yet what has always baffled me about the show is that, despite all the transmisogyny, Robin Scherbatsky feels so much as if she was written by someone who understands the transfem experience

a woman in the main cast defined by how she's different from other chicks

she wears suits, she drinks scotch, she likes guns

but we learn very quickly in the show that she is like this because she grew up as a boy, she talks through tears about how her father was so disappointed to have a daughter, and raised her as a son instead

how when puberty hit she couldnt ignore the fact that she was a girl anymore, and felt like a girl, and that she was attracted to men like a girl

and how it caused her to have a falling out with her father because he couldnt accept that he didnt have a son, and never did, not matter how much he convinced himself

we see her struggle with the bittersweet feeling of connectedness at the fact that the men in her life view her as "one of the bros", and the pain when that results in them struggling to love her like a woman

her anxieties over not knowing how girlfriends are "supposed" to act, the fact that in her late teenage years she went from pretending to be a boy and leaned hard into becoming a hyperfeminine pop singer and actress, the fact that she so relentlessly pursues a career in journalism where she would both be seen as a respected voice and attractive/admired

there are far too many examples of this to list, but i especially want to focus on her relationship to motherhood

she is consistently shown as averse to and afraid of motherhood

afraid to touch babies out of fear of holding them wrong or hurting them

but later in the series, when she learns she is infertile, it makes her distraught

and she spends multiple episodes mourning the fact that she will never be a mother

and im aware that this is a common trope with infertile women in media, but the implications absolutely change in this perspective

i dont have any big conclusion for this, just a mess of thoughts about a show i hate and also cant stop thinking about

#if you havent seen the show #dont watch it #hatewatch it if you want #but it just isnt good

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blueteller · 2 months ago

Note

I found this on reddit it's not my opinion but it's kind of funny and disconcerting.

What do you think?

( https://www.reddit.com/r/CharacterRant/s/uwKw63Cgoc )

"A rant on Trash of the Count’s Family

Alright before I begin I would like to preface by saying that I am a long time reader of the novel and love this novel to death. It kept me company during my darkest and lowest points of my life and I am forever grateful for it !

The rant also in no way affects the brilliance of the story. With that out of the way here it goes:

This is an amazing fantasy novel filled with great visuals, writing, story and top-notch characters. However it has TWO big problems that broke the story smooth sailing for me and I need to rant about it because where I am from I am pretty sure no one reads TCF in a 6000 mile radius.

One big problem was the romance. THERE IS ABSOLUTELY NONE OF IT. This is not a problem if the main character doesn’t want romance (he doesn’t nope) but NONE of the main/side characters that has been introduced so far also want nothing to do with romance. It was a little awkward to read the story based in medieval setting where characters are as pure as angels as they come.

Now, you can of course raise the point that romance was never the main focus of this novel (it’s not even a background focus or some D plot) but let’s analyse this novel here for a second okay? This novel is very gore and never ever shy away from very dark themes or stories.

- The main protagonist of the story (sorry forgot his name it’s been a long time) has his entire village with whom he has spent 20 years murdered and burned to ashes, all the men women and children are totally dead.

- The Prince story is also pretty dark and deals with some adult themes about race and identity.

- The dragon raon (is that the name?) backstory is…holy shit some hardcore torture and let’s not forget the revenge torture that happened later with raon eating steak.

- The butler and his butcher son

- The absolute crazy HUMAN EXPERIMENT arc that was happening in the Empire. I mean holy shit they really went into crazy detail about body mutilation and the scientists are absolute psychopaths in how they love their job.

And I am just scratching the surface about how dark this novel is and there’s plenty of it. The point is that it is very adult oriented novel with these stories but on the flip side their romance department is so negligible that even Tom and Jerry had more romance than this.

It actively avoids it like a plague. Why is this an issue? Let me explain.

Simple answer it feels a little jarring or disorienting when you read the novel like going back and forth between watching the looney tunes movie and switching immediately back to a Black Mirror episode.

But I have to give where credit is due. I didn’t notice the romance problem until after some 500+ chapters later (that’s how good the novel story is ) and how did I notice it?

After some battle trying to reclaim the south (north?) tower and this is the part where the Empire’s royalty is on the brink of collapse the redhead girl (I also forgot her name but she is part of the main gang) is extremely tired after a long battle and Cale tries to help her by giving her some healing potions (remember at this point she is the only female character that understands Cale the most and their relationship is the most developed of all) but she says she is so tired she can’t even lift her arms, so Cale (as logic would have it) offers to feed her the potion himself (see completely logical under the circumstances) but Raon the dragon out of nowhere says, “You are too weak Cale! Let me do it”. And I am like…say what? We know the main gang always comments that Cale is weak and all but come on guys we know he isn’t and in fact he’s been through crazy shit. During that battle he never had to fight and was in top condition so that remark from raon made even more less sense.

And then the redhead laughed it off and said “it’s okay I will do it myself” and she does…after a bit of struggle to lift the said bottle.

It’s a small thing but it did break my immersion (it was already broken before, I will explain later). It forced me as a reader to actually “think” about the author intentions something that should never happen when reading a fantasy novel. And it made me go “hmm wait a minute” and then I reflected back on all the 500+ chapters I have read and I came to a realisation that…forget main character romance there is hardly any romance of any proportions from any and every character in this whole novel! It was so impossibly impossible that it teared through the immersion completely.

The second reason for this rant and this is connected to when my immersion showed a small crack. And this reason is purely a preference thing so feel free to ignore this as you want.

I personally believe that when you make a “reborn in a fantasy world” story you absolutely must never collide “our” world with the fantasy world.

Don’t do that.

From page 1 you are setting up this fantasy life, fantasy way of living and thinking, fantasy people, fantasy stories and most importantly a fantasy you. Don’t break this immersion by literally making the world he (Cale) came from an integral part of the story.

When the main protagonist found out who Cale really is and confronted him about it by listing some Korean food items I was a little disappointed because it felt like a parent telling a child that role playing as a prince and over now put the castle made of pillows back in place and do your homework for school tomorrow.

Maybe it’s just a me thing but after that confrontation, every time Cale interacted with anyone be it the redhead, his dragon, butler or anyone it all felt so plastic and fake, like I was overly conscious of the fact that this is a fantasy land filled with fantasy people and well…it made me feel a little lonely."

Wow, this is quite interesting! Thanks for sending me this. Not because I agree – anyone who knows anything about my opinions on TCF would know that the very 2 points that the author of this post has "problems with" are the things that I embrace with great enthusiasm.

So, prepare for a long ride!

First of all, let me make this absolutely clear, the same way this person did at the beginning of their own post; they are allowed to have their own opinion on what they like or dislike. The same way I am allowed to like or dislike certain elements of stories. I don't claim that TCF is a flawless work either – it's just that all the flaws it does have, at least to me, are so minor I don't care about them in the slightest.

I might actually be "brave enough" in the future to actually make my own post about the "flaws" of the story for me, no matter how few. But not today. Today, let's focus on the reddit post.

Now, imagine a person (the author of this post) is given an apple pie in a restaurant.

This person very much enjoys apple pies. They continue to visit the same restaurant and keep ordering this apple pie. But after a while, they discover "two big problems" with the apple pie.

First of all, it does not contain cinnamon. So this person is like – why not! That is, they did not notice before, but it is SO jarring to them now that they know! Because they believe all apple pies should contain cinnamon. Secondly, this apple pie is made out of a species of apples they do not like. In fact, they are convinced this apple species is not fit for apple pies! So, they quit ordering apple pies at this restaurant.

Meanwhile, there's a second regular customer (me) who orders the apple pie at this restaurant. This customer, in fact, is kind of sick of cinnamon. They were so happy they discovered a restaurant that doesn't use it! This person also notices this apple pie has a very interesting texture to it, one they very much enjoy, because of the specific apple species this restaurant uses. It quickly became their all-time favorite dessert.

Obviously, neither customer here is wrong. "The customer is always right in matters of taste" is a saying for a reason (although people usually say only the first half of it, forgetting the second part), and just because I love the "apple pie" in question, I am not going to shame the other person for their own taste.

With all that said, please allow me to address to the post properly, step by step.

First, when addressing the lack of romance as a problem, this is this person's argument: they list major dark moments in the story, like Choi Han's village getting massacred, dark race racism, Raon's torture et cetera. Then they say, "The point is that it is very adult oriented novel with these stories but on the flip side their romance department is so negligible that even Tom and Jerry had more romance than this".

Correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't believe… Tom and Jerry had any romance either. That cartoon did not even have dialogue. So like, huh??? What kind of argument is that? Should I say that Tom and Jerry has a critical flaw that is has no talking despite being all about comedy? That it would have been better if it was dubbed or something? Well, there was that one movie I remember from childhood but – never mind, we're getting off track here. This argument kind of, completely falls flat for me.

I get the implication. "TCF is has so many dark themes, it should be mature enough to contain romance as well". Which is, completely off the mark for me, personally. Maturity and romance have NOTHING to do with each other.

There's also the statement that "It actively avoids [romance] like a plague." And I agree, kind of. This story avoids romance on purpose. But It never felt unnatural for me. I was kind of expecting it to pop up eventually, back when I first started reading. I thought for SURE Rosalyn would be somebody's love interest – because she had to be, right?? But it gradually dawned on me that there are so many cool, pretty, strong, independent female characters… And none of them are representing a specific fetish or exist solely to be somebody's wifu. The women are PEOPLE, they are fleshed-out, complex characters who have goals and ambitions and just like for the men, there is no thought about romance here because there is so much going on – most of it world-ending, in fact – that focusing in romance would actually DECREASE the maturity of the story instead of enhancing it.

The author of the post said, "It was so impossibly impossible that it teared through the immersion completely". What, do you need characters getting laid to be truly realistic mature adults or something? I think you have the wrong idea about adulthood… Let me say it again, those people are too busy in this story to focus on dating. Even if Cale himself wasn't so obviously ace, his life has been so crazy since he transmigrated, I have no idea HOW on earth he could have found the time (or anyone else for that matter: just look at poor Alberu, swimming in paperwork 24/7!). He can't even sleep for more than 4 hours per day during the war arc. What I personally would find jarring is exactly this: characters trying to freaking date or play off romantic subplots while the world was LITERALLY GETTING DESTROYED. That would have been so petty and ridiculous.

So, the expectation that there HAS to be romance, just because… I think it is a faulty expectation to have in the first place. And it is NOT unnatural that the characters don't do romance (especially with how many species there are among the cast and the age gaps between them, it would have been awkward to say the least; unless you're the type to like Twilight style of romance). The story put a lot of focus to forge familial bonds between the characters. It doesn't lack in the relationship department, just non-platonic one. And if this is a problem for someone and they find it jarring, well… Again, no cinnamon in apple pie, I guess.

Next, we have the argument that "when you read the novel like going back and forth between watching the looney tunes movie and switching immediately back to a Black Mirror episode". I don't know Black Mirror, but I get it. The author of the post claims that the comedic character interactions – the ones that had been very well established in the first 200 chapters of the story, covering full 2 years in the timeline – are… what, unrealistic? Inaccurate? Cartoonish? I’m not 100% sure what the exact issue is here.

They quote a scene where I assume Rosalyn is too tired to lift her arms and Cale offers to help and Raon says he's too weak and let him do it instead. The author of the post then acts confused, as if it was completely unreasonable, because Cale is not weak. Um…. I don't know if they were not paying attention, but that's just false. Cale is PHYSICALLY weak, despite all his Ancient Powers. That is exactly the whole reason why he keeps coughing blood and fainting and stuff. So it was funny, and in-character, and fitting with the rest of the story – at least in my opinion. If that broke this person's immersion, then fine I guess, but I really don't see the reason. I guess they don't enjoy the "texture" of this "apple pie".

Speaking of texture, the last point pf the post I want to address: the belief that you should not mix "real world" and fantasy. They say, "I personally believe that when you make a "reborn in a fantasy world" story you absolutely must never collide "our" world with the fantasy world. Don't do that". Excuse me, but uh… why? That is not the case at all, for many stories? I mean, you could approach it that way, nothing wrong with keeping it separate. But most classic isekai examples usually stray from that idea, actually. Are you familiar with Chronicles of Narnia, by any chance? Did you know that the magical lamppost that Lucy found in the woods actually came from England? It was a very fun bit of backstory from the Magician's Nephew.

"Don't break this immersion by literally making the world he (Cale) came from an integral part of the story." Why not, man??? It was so brilliantly done! In fact, it was so freaking cool, the way TCF did it! What, is "our world" so boring and terrible you must keep it separate from the fantasy at any cost? It was plot relevant, it gave Cale legit ties to the new world, it fleshed out his character, it was incredible! 10/10! If TCF lost that element, it would have been a great loss.

And even if you don't like the mixing of "fantasy and reality" as something "immersion breaking"… there is one problem with this kind of argument, in TCF at least.

Kim Rok Soo is NOT FROM OUR REALITY.

Let me repeat: the man is not from regular, modern Korea! HE IS FROM A FANTASY MONSTER APOCALYPSE DIMENSION!

The whole reveal of what kind of place KRS comes from is what make this story so good to me. It was an incredible twist. The "regular, normal man from modern world" was a red herring meant to hide the fact that he was an ability user from what is basically a superhero world full of monsters! It is not! Regular! Modern! World!!!

"When the main protagonist found out who Cale really is and confronted him about it by listing some Korean food items I was a little disappointed because it felt like a parent telling a child that role playing as a prince and over now put the castle made of pillows back in place and do your homework for school tomorrow." That… you really, REALLY missed the point here, man. That was not the vibe of the scene at all! Choi Han and Cale are both essentially war veterans, mentioning foods from their childhood! This the "Frodo and Sam talking about the flavor of strawberries from Shire at the foot of Mount Doom" from Lord of the Rings type of moment! Only, well, a bit more comedic. Still, it was so touching!! But, well… again, you don't like the taste of the pie, there is nothing I can do about it.

And lastly, there was this paragraph at the end of the post:

"Maybe it's just a me thing but after that confrontation, every time Cale interacted with anyone be it the redhead, his dragon, butler or anyone it all felt so plastic and fake, like I was overly conscious of the fact that this is a fantasy land filled with fantasy people and well… it made me feel a little lonely."

I never noticed such a thing. I do not know if more people felt that way. But I always thought that the characters were well-established and their behavior natural. I am sorry that the immersion break made the author of the post lonely. I hope they can spend time with their friends and feel a little better. Fantasy shouldn't just be a tool to "fill an empty void in your life and escape terrible reality". For me, stories are meant to create something beautiful, to inspire, and to make one consider the possibilities of reality. I mean, if Cale can stop world-ending threats by being brave and making good strategies, why can't I handle the minor problems that reality has to offer? It's all a matter of perspective.

So, that is it. That's my whole response. I hope it satisfies you! Have a great day!

#tcf #trash of the count's family #lcf #lout of count's family #q&a #replies #tcf meta

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riansdiary · 5 months ago

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Assume it as a fact + Do not accept waiting + Focus your awareness to what you want 🎀

Dearest Gentle Readers 💎

Rian, yours truly is back with a new epiphany for the law of assumption! If you were ever wondering what the hell I'm doing on my break, I'm just living my life and relaxing. Manifesting left and right. Also a lot of reflecting and thinking deeply about loa and how I can help myself and others to make it easier.

In fact, this just happened today. I thought of these today and I'm so glad I brainstormed about the loa to understand it more and make it easier for myself. It is hella easy, it's only us complicating it because it is truly that simple. I was thinking and finding a way to manifest easier in a relaxing way and to make my mindset better.

Let me break it down to you in three pieces. The things written in the title of this post are basically all I'm doing to use the law of assumption and it has never made sense like this ever before. It made it even easier for me! Let's go!

Oh and yes! I am a huge fan of A Good Girl's Guide to Murder Books and have finished reading the first two books in just four days! Can you believe that? I was hooked! I couldn't put my phone down! Yes, I read the e-book version. I also adore Emma Myers so much! She was the Pip Fitz-Amobi I imagined while I was reading! She's perfect for the role! I watched the first four episodes of the show today and I love how they did almost if not literally the exact same as the book! Anyway, let's get that out of the way now.

This all started this morning when I was eating a snack. The snack was a snack in my country and it's kind of hard to break. It's a big piece, I can't just shove it in my mouth like that. I was trying my best to break it but it just couldn't break. You know what I did? I relaxed and I did this in a second. I assumed that I was very strong and could break this snack easily. All I did was assume it's a fact and believed it. I had this silent confidence as I assumed that. I thought of this once - "I'm so strong I can break this so easily" and that thought came out naturally after I assumed that I'm strong and guess what? I was able to break the snack very easily and effortlessly. I broke that hard piece in half in a freaking second after I assumed and thought that. I then realized that this was the way I used to manifest when I first started learning about the law and I should continue it this way. Starting from that, I started assuming that my desires are a fact, fully believing they're here even without proof and persisting has been a breeze ever since that moment. Every time I manifested in this very simple way, things just materialized way faster so I decided that I will do it this way again which is the best way for me.

This is the meaning of assume:

Assume good things and assume your desires into being. Assume that your desires are facts now. Simply assume something and shift your mindset to the person who is it or has it. All I did was assume that it's a fact that I'm strong. I embodied the version of me who was always strong and can break that hard snack in two in one second.

I literally was trying so hard before and yet nothing happened but as soon as I assumed and shifted my mindset to the me who's strong then I was able to break it so easily.

Now on to the next point.

Don't accept waiting when you're manifesting.

I learned this one from Indigo Detry's video:

youtube

Everything I learned is in here and as soon as I implemented this, I never wavered even once. I fully accepted that I have my desires immediately. Do not accept waiting. Do not make manifesting a process because that just makes it longer when it shouldn't be. Decide that it's instant for you. I'm not waiting for my manifestations anymore, they're here now and I'm focusing on them instead of the old story. Because of that, I now feel fulfilled and consider it done.

Now, the last part.

Focus your awareness on what you want.

This is a little bit more non-duality but I feel like it's also true for manifesting. This was taught to me by my friend @starnightlover and it only sinked in today as I brainstormed about how I can stop looking for my desire in the 3d or how to stop focusing on the old story. I'm doing a combo of all three. It goes hand in hand.

I always say this when I'm answering asks about the 3d. What you focus on grows so don't pay attention to what you don't want. Awareness and Attention are our superpowers. Whatever you are aware of and what you focus on is what will manifest. I was thinking about how to stop looking for my desires in the 3d or how to stop thinking of the old story and this fixed these problems for me.

What you focus on manifests so how do you focus on what you want? I thought as I was doing something in the bathroom. I wanted to manifest having Dove Cameron's lips. Her lips are so gorgeous so I started manifesting that today. So I came up with a way to focus on what I want instead.

1. I made myself a vision board of my desires. The photos I used are in 1st person POV and I just included pictures of me having my desires and I made it the background of my phone, that way I will always see it everyday and it reminds me that I have it and it's already done.

2. I stopped expecting or accepting waiting when I'm manifesting. I decided that starting now, there's no waiting or process when I manifest. I immediately get it.

3. I assumed that my desires are facts now. I stopped feeding myself the old story. I stopped feeding the old story with any attention to let it die off. There's no waiting so that means it's already done. I did not care about what the 3d was showing me. I shifted my awareness from me not having Dove Cameron's lips to me actually having it already and I started to only pay attention to my desires. I also stopped wanting and desiring and instead assumed that my desires are facts and instantly here now. I shifted my mindset to be in my ideal reality. I embodied the version of me who had whatever she wanted just by assuming my desires are facts now, rejecting the waiting process, not forcing anything, focusing my awareness to what I want and using my vision board as the proof of my desires being here.

I also implemented my recent post about the devil's snare scene from Harry Potter and I'm always just relaxed now. Because why would I worry about my desires when I have them now? I also stopped forcing myself to feel things which made it be like act as if for me. It wasn't it.

All I do now is just assume, assume my desires are now facts, reject any waiting or process, change my thoughts and shift my awareness and feed my attention to the new story instead. If ever the old story bothers me which is super rare, I just relax, take a deep breath and either see my desire in my head or look at my vision board. I'm also embodying Hermione and using a sub for her so I'm getting the intelligence boost for sure! I'm embodying how Hermione would learn and apply the law of assumption and I've been seeing some benefits from acting like her!

This has been making it really easy for me and I know this will help a lot of people! I'm assuming so!

Assume your desires are now facts, dismiss and don't feed the old story any attention, reject waiting or anything implying a process, simply change your thoughts, focus your awareness on what you want (make yourself aware of what you want), relax and know it is done. Stop wanting and start relaxing and having! You would relax if you have it now.

I'll try and make an example post for this!

#law of assumption #manifestation #manifesting #lawofassumption #loassumption #how to manifest #subliminals #harry potter #hermione granger #ron weasley #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #dove cameron #law of assumption success #Youtube

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rootspiral · 3 months ago

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Agatha All Along deep dive: episode 4 part 4

(Wandavision entries: [1][2][3])

(AAA entries: ep1 [1][2][3][4] ep2 [1][2][3][4] ep3 [1][2][3] ep4 [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][+1] ep5 [1][2][3][4][5] ep6 [1][2][3] ep7 [1][2][3][4][5][6] ep8 [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][8][9] ep9 [1][2][3][4][5][6])

agatha once again protecting billy with her whole body.

"I didn't think it was real! I thought it was me, that it's my fault that I can't keep a job, that everything I touch turns to shit! That I couldn't save her!"

The poison drips through (yes I love Succession). Generational curse, generational trauma. The pain of who knows how many centuries of parents and grandparents and great-grandparents times a thousand. It's like a boulder that you're carrying around on your shoulders, and you can't see it and you can't put a name to it, how could you? How can you possibly know why your mother drank herself stupid, why your grandmother abused her children? You were born yesterday and drank all that poison without knowing what it was, you let it take it over and you walk around spreading it to the world.

And amidst all the pain, alice only ever chose to blame and hurt herself and she was always gentle to others. her biggest regret is not having been able to save her mom! you know why alice never turned into a villain like agatha? because her mom loved her. as simple and as that. lorna was so ill-equipped to save alice, she didn't know what she was up against, she was in a world of pain herself. and she went above and beyond to show her child how infinitely precious and loved she was.

oh wow, I usually say I'm crying as a figure of speech, but I am crying for real thinking about this.

lilia who has lived so long and experienced her big share of suffering, knowing all too well what alice is going through. there's so much compassion in her voice

jen stubbornly refusing to care about anything but her own pain, which is actually a very human way to respond to trauma? it's like she's at a crossroads and it's up to her to choose whether she goes back to being the force of good she used to be, or whether she goes down agatha's same path. I say it's up to her because it ultimately is, but she was so lucky finding this coven and community at such a crucial moment. agatha didn't have any of it.

no! don't apologize, you beautiful, generous soul! the sense of guilt and inferiority complex is real

agatha's face when billy is attacked

she starts running toward him even before alice

but when she gets there she freezes and lets alice go check on him

when she sees he's fine, she sighs and collapses against the door, clutching her chest.

lilia is really starting to get attached to everyone, and throughout her life love and loss have always been inherently linked. she already knows she's going to lose them.

okay jen refusing to leave the circle is still funny, I'll give her that

through all this rio has been watching and studying agatha, she always does. she knows that her diabolically smart wife loves to be in charge and come up with plans. she's being encouraging!

look at how small alice is! she's been helping and consoling billy just a moment ago, despite being miserable herself.

first of all, that's hilarious, so jot that down. second of all, you know agatha is so relieved she has to put on a show instead of doing something icky like, idk, sitting in a circle and talking about their feelings. and look at rio at the drums, she's already put all the clues together as well

oooh, she's doing the thing! she's detectiving! agatha harkness ladies and gentlemen, her hobbies are women, murder and puzzles.

and who gives her the solution? who has had millennia to study and commiserate human love and grief? she says it and she looks at agatha so pointedly.

The song that's so irrevocably linked to Nicky's memory, the song that she's been desecrating and using as a means to kill. A mother took it and poured all her love into it and made it pure again. Agatha has to live with that now, and you know that's going to take root inside her and affect her no matter what

this whole performance is patti going I might be singing backup again but watch me be a total diva about it

I LOVE YOU PATTI LUPONE

you'd think that alice should sing lead vocals here, seeing as it's her trial and her mom's song and all. WELL THINK AGAIN

the massive ego agatha has, honestly. you gotta respect that.

the feeling when you are the only normal person in a group of total hooligans. did I already say how gorgeous sasheer looks in that outfit? no I didn't. you are an apparition, sasheer.

but I want the song to have its own separate entry so hold on tight, brb

go to episode 4 part 5

#agatha all along #agatha harkness #agatha deep dive #alice wu gulliver #jennifer kale #lilia calderu #character study

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rafesbabygirlx · 2 months ago

Text

A Lot of Time has Passed | Part 8

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

Summary: Discovering that JJ wasn’t your biological brother was hard. Learning that both his dads were terrible was even worse. But he’s your brother, no matter what, and you’ll always have his back. You persuade Rafe to to help them get to Morocco and for you to go with them. Rafe can seek his revenge on Groff, and you can help your little family find their treasure.

A/N: Part 2 has dropped and I’m still an emotional wreck. Sofia is still present but that storyline is different in my universe. Each of my parts will contain 2/3 episodes each so they will be a bit longer, and will probably be 2 parts.

Word count: 4.5k

Warnings: lil bit of smut at the end bc of course I had to throw that in there. ;) (oral f receiving)

JJ bursts through the back patio door into the house, panting hard and leaning forward with his hands on his knees. Startled, you leap up from the couch where you’d been watching V play on the floor.

“J, what’s going on?” you ask, rushing over to him after a quick glance to ensure V is safe.

“Hey, sis,” he says between breaths, then mutters under his breath, “Well, maybe not sis anymore.”

You catch his words despite his attempt to muffle them. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Grabbing a water bottle from the fridge, you shove it into his hands. “Calm down and talk to me.”

JJ takes a long drink before blurting out, “It means my whole life’s been a lie. You’re not my sister, and Luke’s not my dad.”

The words stun you. You glance over JJ’s shoulder and spot Rafe standing in the hallway, drawn by the commotion. You subtly shake your head, signaling him to stay back. JJ wouldn’t open up with Rafe hovering.

“That letter,” JJ continues, his voice trembling. “The one from Genrette? Dad told me all about it. He said I’m his grandson. Larissa is my mom.”

You laugh softly, more out of shock than amusement. “JJ, that baby died. We all know the story. Dad’s probably just messing with you.”

“No,” JJ says firmly, shaking his head. “He told me my real dad dropped me off with him. He and Larissa were close, and he thought I’d be better off with Luke. Luke took me in, and then a couple weeks later, Larissa was found dead. They lied about me so no one would suspect I’d been given away.”

You stare at him, trying to process the revelation. “So, Larissa’s your mom, and—”

“Chandler Groff is my dad,” JJ interjects, his voice rising. “Think about it—when we went to Goat Island, Genrett only knew three names: yours, mine, and Sarah’s. It makes sense for Sarah; she’s a Kook and a Cameron. But how did they know us?”

“Dad said I used to play in the gardens when he worked there. I just assumed you were there too. I don’t know how long he worked there—I was only three. I didn’t think much of it when Genrette knew my name,” you reply, trying to rationalize it all, though doubt creeps in.

“Look, Dad’s a lot of things, but I don’t think he’s lying about this,” JJ says, his tone softer now.

“Okay,” you say, trailing off as you take it all in. Then, trying to lighten the mood, you smirk. “So, if this is true, that makes you a Kook by blood.”

JJ shoves you playfully, suppressing a laugh. “Never. P4L, baby. And this changes nothing between us. You’re still my big annoying sister.”

You smile, pulling him into a hug. “I’ve been stuck with you for nineteen years, J. I’m not letting go now.”

JJ rests his head on your shoulder for a moment, the weight of the conversation still lingering. Then he pulls away. “Alright, I gotta go find Kie and the others.”

“Bye, J.” You watch as he rushes out of the house and down the dock.

Rafe steps into the kitchen, exhaling sharply. “Don’t start,” you warn before he can say anything.

“I wasn’t gonna,” he replies, dragging out his words. “But damn, that’s wild. Your brother’s a Genrett. Hope this doesn’t make him a partner in my deal.”

You glare at him, unamused. “You don’t even know if my dad’s telling the truth.”

“Maybe. But it could explain the lies.” Rafe shrugs. He knows how Figure Eight people operate better than you ever will.

“Can we just drop it?” you plead, needing a distraction. You move back to V, who’s now fussing with a toy.

Rafe follows you to the couch, clearly not ready to let it go. “Speaking of Hollis and Groff…”

You roll your eyes. “What now?”

“I haven’t heard anything about the deal,” he says, watching for your reaction.

“Weird.” You give a short, dismissive response, hoping he’ll take the hint.

Thankfully, he does. Leaning down, he pinches V’s cheek and kisses you on the head before heading out to the patio.

A knock at the door interrupts the moment. To your surprise, it’s Sarah. You pull her into a tight hug, realizing how much you’ve missed your old friends since settling into this new life with Rafe and V.

“Hey. Rafe home?” Sarah asks hesitantly.

“Yeah, he’s outside. Everything okay?” you ask, taking the slip of paper she hands you. It’s about a zoning change in the Cut.

“Great, more good news,” you mutter sarcastically, gesturing for Sarah to head out to the patio. You skim the notice, letting the Cameron siblings talk in private.

Later, after putting V down for a nap, you catch Sarah storming out of the house. You find Rafe slumped on the patio, his head in his hands.

“What happened?” you ask, placing a hand on the back of his neck and rubbing down in between his shoulder blades..

“She wouldn’t even let me touch her,” he mumbles, his voice thick with emotion. “I just want my family back.” He pulls you close, burying his face against your stomach.

“It’s going to take time, Rafe,” you say softly, scratching his scalp with your nails.. “You’ll get there.”

His shoulders relax under your touch. Looking up at you, he smiles faintly. “Thanks,” he whispers, standing to kiss you deeply before sitting back down.

Your phone buzzes with a text from JJ in the Pogue group chat:

JJ, 4:30 PM: We need everyone we can get. I know you love the high life now, but you’re a P4L, sis. We need you too.

You look up at Rafe. “Mind watching V for a bit? I want to go to the town meeting. It’s important.” You hand him the zoning notice.

“Why the fuck do you care about this?” Rafe scoffs. “You live here now. That doesn’t concern you.”

You glare at him. “This is the kind of attitude that’s going to get you nowhere with Sarah. The Cut is still my home. I’m still a Pogue, and I’m going. Watch V.”

Without waiting for his reply, you grab your keys and walk out.

.⭒☆━━━━━━━━━✰━━━━━━━━━☆⭒.

The meeting hall buzzes with tension as you arrive, stepping into a sea of familiar faces. The Pogues are here in full force, just as you expected. Loyalty runs deep, and none of you are known for backing down without a fight. You wave to your group, making your way through the crowd, and settle into a seat next to JJ. He’s tense, jaw clenched, fingers tapping rhythmically against the table as his eyes flicker toward the far side of the room.

That’s when you see them—Topper, his mother, and Ruthie. The smugness on their faces makes your blood boil. You glare, your expression sharp enough to cut glass, but when they smirk at you, you let your sarcasm fly. With a quick, deliberate motion, you raise your middle finger. Topper’s mother gasps audibly, turning away with a look of pure disgust, while Topper and Ruthie exchange uneasy glances before staring straight ahead, feigning composure.

The meeting begins, and the air grows heavy. The topic: the property you once called home. The land that held your childhood memories. People exchange confused glances, murmurs rippling through the crowd. The leader of the meeting steps forward, explaining that the floor is open for anyone to speak.

Before you can react, JJ bolts upright, ready to unload his anger. You and John B yank him back into his seat.

“No, not you,” you hiss, glancing around nervously.

John B stands, and his voice fills the room. He speaks from the heart, his words a powerful blend of truth and desperation. But as he finishes, the silence feels deafening. That’s when Dale stands, his presence heavy and calculated.

Dale’s voice is smooth, almost rehearsed, as he talks about an “injunction” that supposedly invalidates JJ’s auction win. He mentions a promissory note that the bank failed to honor, claiming it renders the sale void. The crowd shifts uneasily, whispers of confusion and anger spreading like wildfire.

Then, Dale gestures toward the back of the room. “The rightful owner,” he says.

Luke rises, and the room explodes into chaos. Shouts echo as people recognize him. You feel your chest tighten, anger and betrayal clashing in a storm inside you.

“Sorry,” Luke says, his voice hollow. His apology feels like a slap in the face.

“Sorry?” JJ spits, his voice venomous.

“Save it,” you snap, cutting Luke off.

Dale drones on, spewing corporate jargon about what they plan to do with the land. But you know better. You see through the lies. They want to strip it away, crush the community, and take what little they all have left.

Your anger boils over. You charge at your father, shoving him hard.

Kie’s voice breaks through. She turns around to stare down Luke, “JJ and y/n loved you, they shouldn’t have but they did,” she says, anger in her eyes.

“You only ever looked out for yourself! You never gave a shit about us” you shout, the room’s noise dimming under the weight of your words.

Your father doesn’t fight back, his expression a mixture of guilt and sadness.

You falter for a moment, your chest heaving, but the rage inside you keeps burning.

Behind you, JJ suddenly storms past, his movements purposeful. You barely have time to react before he grabs a chair and hurls it through the nearest window. The sound of shattering glass ignites the room into chaos. Police officers rush in, but JJ doesn’t back down. He fights them, swinging and shouting until they finally wrestle him into a squad car.

“Guys, get him!” you yell to Pope and John B.

Pope leaps into action, climbing onto the back of the truck. With a loud crash, he smashes the rear window, and he and John B pull JJ out.

“Go, J! You’ll be fine—you always are,” you say, grabbing his face and locking eyes with him for a moment. Then you push him to run, and he takes off into the night.

Your group gathers around you, their faces tense but resolute.

“I gotta get home to V. You got him?”

Pope nods. “We got him. Don’t worry.”

“Yeah, I know you do, just wanted to hear it,” you reply, watching them disappear after JJ.

By the time you get home, your anger is still simmering. You step inside to find Rafe lounging on the couch with V in his arms. He looks up as you enter, his expression cautious.

“How was it?” he asks, his voice careful.

You ignore him, your thoughts too clouded by everything that’s happened. Despite the changes Rafe has made, despite the family you’ve built together, there’s a part of you that can’t separate him from the Kooks.

“Hello?” he calls, his voice following you into the kitchen.

“Like you give a shit,” you mutter, just loud enough for him to hear.

Rafe sets V in her high chair and walks toward you. “What’d you say?”

You turn, and he’s already towering over you. “Like. You. Give. A. Shit.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he snaps, his tone sharper now. “You come in upset, and I’m not allowed to care?”

“No, not when you’re one of them,” you fire back, your arms crossed as you glare up at him.

“What happened, y/n?” He lets out a big sigh, signaling his frustration with you.

“The rich always win—that’s what happened,” you say bitterly.

The words spill out of you, your anger finding its target. You recount the meeting in vivid detail, emphasizing every injustice, every betrayal.

“I hate them, Rafe. With every fiber of my being. And Topper and Ruthie? They were there, smirking like they owned the damn place.”

Rafe sighs, but you cut him off before he can speak.

“That place is my home. Those people are my family. They helped raise me, JJ and John B since our parents didn't care enough to. I didn’t die of malnourishment as a child thanks to Mr and Mrs. Baxter down the road. I didn’t have to wear the same 3 outfits every day, because Ms. Houlihan would provide me with her daughter’s hand-me-downs. I wouldn’t have made it out of my house alive if Mr. Maden hadn’t heard my screams when my father was beating me and my brother and intervened, taking us home with him. You will never understand what it is like to be from there. There’s an actual sense of community. We look out for each other. You couldn’t say the same for this side of the island, could you”

You continue.

“I don’t care about my house. I know you’ll protect me. I can always work something out for JJ. The people that have no choice but to stay, they still care and I care about them. Those people work their asses off every single day. All of that happened to me and I’m still proud, because of people like them. I will raise my daughter to respect them just as much as I do. Not look down on them or not care that their lives are about to be ripped from them.”

Rafe shifts uncomfortably. “I’m sorry,” he says softly.

You roll your eyes, you really don't mean to take it on him, he didn't have anything to do with what happened. You just feel an insane amount of guilt coming home to this house, when all the people you love went home terrified wondering how long they have left in theirs. Rafe was partly to blame for this feeling, giving you space in his home and that’s why you couldn’t hold in that anger with him. This is just all too much for you.

“V needs a bath tonight. I’m going to bed,” you mutter, brushing past him.

Hours later, sleep still evades you. You hear Rafe come in, his footsteps soft. He leans down and presses a kiss to your temple.

“I have another meeting. Will you be okay?” he whispers.

You nod without a word, and he leaves.

Once the front door closes, you slip into V’s room. She’s sleeping peacefully, her tiny chest rising and falling rhythmically. Tears sting your eyes as you stroke her cheek.

She’ll never know the struggles you did, and for that, you’re grateful. But she’ll know where you came from. She’ll be proud of both sides of her family.

You pick her up and carry her to your bed, pulling her close. Her soft breaths lull you to sleep.

When Rafe returns, he finds the two of you curled up together. For a moment, he stands there, a small smile spreading across his face. Changing quickly, he climbs into bed, draping an arm over both of you.

As sleep takes him, the steady rhythm of your breathing and V’s soothes him, filling the room with a quiet sense of peace.

.⭒☆━━━━━━━━━✰━━━━━━━━━☆⭒.

The next morning, sunlight filters through the blinds as you wake up, feeling lighter than you did yesterday. Glancing down, you see V laying beside you patiently, her little hands fidgeting with the blanket. A soft smile plays on your lips as you look over at Rafe, sprawled on his back with his mouth slightly open, snoring softly. Even in this unguarded state, there’s a rare peace to his face, one you don’t see often.

Carefully, you lift V and tiptoe out of the room, letting Rafe sleep a little longer. In the kitchen, you place her in her high chair, giving her a few toys to keep her entertained while you prepare her oatmeal and set the coffee machine to brew. The scent of fresh coffee fills the air as you hum softly, stealing glances at your daughter, who babbles happily to herself.

When Rafe eventually makes his way downstairs, coffee mug in hand, there’s a cautiousness in his step. He hesitates near the counter, watching you, unsure of where you stand after last night. You meet his gaze and close the distance between you. Without a second thought, you wrap your arms around him, pressing your cheek to his chest.

“I’m sorry for last night,” you say quietly, squeezing him a little tighter. “My outburst wasn’t fair to you.”

Rafe doesn’t miss a beat, his arms circling your back. “You don’t need to apologize. You were right—I don’t understand. But if it’s something you’re passionate about, I care about it too. I’ll help you however I can.” He pulls back slightly to look down at you, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

You blink up at him, half in disbelief. “I can’t believe you just said that. You wanna help the Cut?” you tease lightly.

“For you? I’d do anything,” he replies, sincerity evident in his tone. His hand cups the back of your head, drawing you into a kiss that lingers longer than either of you expected.

The soft hiss of water boiling over breaks the moment. You pull away with a laugh, rushing to the stove to tend to V’s oatmeal. Rafe stays close, his fingers brushing your waist as he leans against the counter.

“I’ve got to stop by the docks today,” you tell him, plating V’s food. “Left some things on the boat the other day. I’ll take her with me, and we’ll just hang out for a bit.”

Rafe nods, sipping his coffee. “I’ve got some meetings to handle, but maybe we can meet for lunch?”

“Sounds perfect,” you agree, leaning into him as he plants a kiss on your shoulder before heading upstairs to get ready.

By the time you arrive at the dock, it’s mid-morning. You set up a shady little play area for V, making sure she has water and snacks. While she plays happily, you spread out a towel nearby, basking in the warm sun. Every so often, you glance over at her, marveling at how much joy she brings into your life.

After about thirty minutes, you scoop her up and hold her to your chest, brushing your fingers through her soft, honey-blonde curls. The simple act fills you with a sense of calm and gratitude, and you lose track of time.

It’s nearly 11:30 when you realize you need to pack up and meet Rafe. As you gather your things, movement on a nearby boat catches your eye. Hollis. You’ve only met her once, but that was enough to form a strong dislike. Despite your better judgment, you approach, intending to keep things civil for Rafe’s sake. But you freeze when someone else steps into view.

Sofia.

Confusion twists your features as you inch closer, straining to hear their conversation.

“What are you gonna do? Shoot me now that I’ve exposed your scam?” Sofia’s voice is sharp, cutting through the quiet.

You scoff silently, disbelief washing over you.

“I risked doing this for someone I loved,” Sofia continues, her tone laced with bitterness. “Just for you to screw him over like this?”

“Loved?” Hollis echoes mockingly. “That’s right—I met his other special lady a few weeks ago. You got your money, no? What’s the problem?”

You hear the rustle of papers.

“This is the legal contract,” Hollis says. “Me, Chandler, Goat Island—it’s all there. You played your boyfriend. I could ruin your family in three phone calls.”

Sofia rushes off the boat moments later, stopping abruptly when she spots you. Her face pales, guilt written all over her.

“How much?” you demand, your voice sharp and unwavering.

“$25,000,” Sofia mumbles, avoiding your eyes. “Plus some—”

You cut her off, your tone dripping with disdain. “Don’t worry, I can keep a secret. Just as good as you, apparently.”

Your glare lingers before you brush past her, the weight of what you’ve overheard sinking in.

As you drive to meet Rafe, your thoughts churn. Sure, you’ve played him before—for the right reasons. When he was lost, blinded by his father’s expectations, you stepped in to stop him from spiraling further. But this? This was different.

Sofia hadn’t just hurt Rafe; she’d betrayed the version of him he’s been working so hard to become. The version that puts his family first, especially V. That makes her actions feel even more unforgivable.

.⭒☆━━━━━━━━━✰━━━━━━━━━☆⭒.

You spot Rafe waiting for you outside the restaurant, leaning casually against his truck with a grin on his face. V lights up at the sight of him, and her little arms reach out as he scoops her up effortlessly.

“Bout time,” he teases, pressing a quick kiss to your lips before dropping one on V’s head. “I thought you girls were gonna stand me up.”

“Never,” you reply, forcing a playful smile, though the tension in your chest lingers. The encounter with Sofia still weighs heavy on your mind.

The three of you settle into a cozy booth, and you do your best to keep the mood light. But your silence must have been louder than you realized because Rafe eventually breaks it.

“How was the boat? Even though it was docked,” he jokes, trying to draw you out.

You blink, snapping out of your thoughts. “Good,” you reply quickly. “It was a nice time for the two of us.” You glance at V, who’s happily nibbling on her crackers.

The waiter brings your food, and while Rafe digs in with enthusiasm, you find yourself pushing your meal around on your plate.

“Rafe,” you begin hesitantly, “I’m starting to get worried that this is a scam.”

You’re trying to convince him some other way than exposing Sofia. She was really a nice girl, from the same place as you. You grew up together, you hung out together, worked at the country club together. Her family let you crash on their couch to get away from Luke. $25,000 can go a long way for someone like us. That town council meeting really screwed with your head. She was also really happy with Rafe and you came back just to ruin all of that.

Partly blaming yourself for that decision to betray him, not knowing it was Rafes' own words that made her do it, not you. Even though you didn't know that she overheard something he said, you've been on that end of the stick with him many times and know the pain it could cause despite you caring so deeply about him.

He looks up from his plate, his brows knitting together. “What? You told me you’d support me in my decision. The one I made for us.” He gestures toward you and V. “Now you think I made a mistake?”

“That’s not it,” you insist, setting your fork down. “Hollis was docked next to your boat. I overheard her saying some weird things. It just… made me uneasy, that’s all.”

Rafe leans back, his jaw tightening as he absorbs your words. For a moment, he says nothing, then shakes his head.

“Whatever,” he says dismissively, though there’s an edge to his tone. “It’s supposed to go through in a few days anyway. So, your opinion of what you *think* you heard doesn’t matter anymore.” His expression softens slightly as a smirk creeps onto his face. “We’ll be swimming in cash, baby.”

The sudden change in his demeanor catches you off guard, but you decide not to push further. For now, at least. You know how stubborn Rafe can be, and pushing him too hard might only make things worse.

As V babbles happily in her high chair, you force a smile and nod along. But deep down, the unease remains, tangled up with guilt, doubt, and the unresolved question of how to handle the truth about Sofia.

.⭒☆━━━━━━━━━✰━━━━━━━━━☆⭒.

You arrive home after a full day out with Rafe and V, feeling the kind of exhaustion that’s both fulfilling and draining. The park had been a blast, shopping for V had you both laughing over baby shoes and tiny outfits, and dinner ended with V fast asleep in her car seat.

Rafe carefully carries her inside, her little face nestled against his shoulder. He whispers, "I’ve got her," as he heads upstairs to lay her in her crib. You head to your shared bedroom, the quiet of the house settling over you like a blanket.

Changing into a tank top and sleep shorts, you sit on the edge of the bed, your mind drifting. It doesn’t take long before Rafe joins you. He walks in quietly and sits next to you, wrapping an arm around your waist and pressing gentle kisses along your shoulder. His lips are warm and unhurried, and when he moves your hair aside, you instinctively tilt your head to give him better access.

He shifts, kneeling between your legs, his hands resting on your thighs as he continues kissing your neck. There’s a tenderness to his movements, but when he tugs at the hem of your tank top, you stop him with a raised eyebrow.

“Really? Now?” you tease, though your tone is more amused than annoyed.

“Just want a quick taste of you, angel,” he murmurs, his voice low and smooth, sending a shiver down your spine.

You can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips. Looking into his eyes, you reply, “How can I resist that?”

Rafe doesn’t waste a second. He softly guides you to lie back on the bed, his touch firm but careful. He slips your sleep shorts down, his hands trailing along your legs as he spreads your thighs. The look in his eyes is one of complete focus, as though nothing else exists but you.

He starts slowly, planting featherlight kisses on your inner thighs, inching closer to your center. His lips finally reach their destination, and his tongue moves in deliberate, practiced strokes. You arch your back, your fingers gripping his arm that’s wrapped around your thigh as he applies just the right amount of pressure.

“Rafe... oh my God,” you cry out, your breath catching as the waves of your climax crash over you. He doesn’t stop until he’s sure you’ve ridden out every last sensation.

When he finally pulls back, his chin glistening with evidence of his handiwork, he smirks and leans forward to rest his head on your stomach. His arms wrap around your waist as he clings to you, clearly satisfied with himself.

You laugh softly, still catching your breath, and nudge him off gently. “Alright, Casanova, let’s get some sleep. I’ve got to meet my brother tomorrow.”

Rafe groans playfully but gets up, changing into a pair of sweatpants before sliding under the covers. As you pull your shorts back on and climb into bed, he immediately reaches for you, pulling you into his arms.

“Goodnight, angel,” he whispers against your hair, his voice heavy with contentment.

“Goodnight,” you reply softly, letting the warmth of his embrace lull you to sleep.

.⭒☆━━━━━━━━━✰━━━━━━━━━☆⭒.

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misty-caligula · 2 years ago

Text

Okay this is gonna be long, but I’ve got a lot of ground to cover so please bear with me. In a real way, this is my series thesis.

I’ve said before, many times now (like a cycle) that for me the most important scene is ep 1 act 1 scene 1. There’s something There that I have been struggling to see clearly, struggling to articulate, and s2e9 really finally gave me the last pieces for it.

I think that Pit Girl is the point of the entire story. But not in the way that I thought going in. I feel like I’m rambling, so I’m going to try to structure my thoughts.

Imagine you’re a new viewer. You haven’t watched yj start to finish 30 times, you’ve never even buzzed before. You turn on the tv and the FIRST thing that happens is you see ... brutality. A half dressed girl chased through the freezing woods, murdered without a chance. They drag her through the snow, string her up, pour her blood on the ground. Hack her into unrecognisable chunks. Sit around in scary outfits and rip at her, with a huge focus on the teeth, as horror music plays. Then, Misty takes off her mask, puts on her glasses, and does the worst possible thing. She smiles. Directly at you.

Again, forget everything you know and go on vibes. You’re seeing the teens pre-crash, and you’re seeing them in the third timeline, fully formed, with horror motifs and covered in fur. You’d be mistaken for thinking that you were seeing start and end. Except that... we know, and you know, that Pit Girl is the middle. These monsters somehow came back from this. How? When they’re so so so far gone?

Hence the show. I know I’m not breaking new ground here, but bear with me. I’m going somewhere.

(Edit: Readmore added because honestly, LONG post)

You’d be forgiven, fresh-faced new viewer, for thinking you were watching some kind of gross-out slasher. But what happens in S1? Restraint. Laura Lee, the first non-crash victim dies at the end of episode eight. Jackie end of ep 10. (For the sake of this thesis we’re going to be almost exclusively focused on the teens.)

And yet there’s this tonal shift, It’s like ... inevitability. Like watching a crack in a window that’s very slowly spreading. Everything is steadily Getting Worse. The weather is slowly getting colder, the days are getting darker, food’s getting scarcer, life is getting harder. But so much of this difficulty is coming from external events and pressure. Yes, cracks start to show in the internal relationship dynamics, of course, but if food was plentiful, if shrooms were less so, if the weather were better, then they could probably work out a very long term stable situation. Sadly for them, things are not stable, and the pressure is building.

Then Jackie dies and the glass gets a really big break.

It’s worth mentioning at this moment that Jackie at any time could’ve come the fuck inside. Safety and warmth and even love were available to her. All it would’ve required was for her not to be the centre of the world. To make actual goddamn concessions and join the team. Which is why she couldn’t possibly make that choice, because she had to be invited, she had to be apologised to, she had to be accommodated. She couldn’t see the rest of the ‘jackets as being people who just like her were in a really shitty situation. She saw them as being external, as being in cahoots against her, as being part of some Thing that she wasn’t in on. She couldn’t let go of the society they’d left, and she preferred to die. Which sure is a choice...

Keep all of that in mind though. We’re taught to blame Shauna for Jackie’s choices. Let’s stop with that. Jackie chose not to assimilate, she looked around the cabin at the team eating the bear and praying to the wilderness and instead of just paying lip service to fit in, like Tai, she decided to put her foot down and make a Thing of it. She decided that being Right was more important than being Included.

Seriously, keep that in mind, we’re coming back to it. Cycles, you know...

Season 2, everyone’s hungry and hey we have this spare Jackie lying around. And we joke like “ha, you gonna eat that?” Only...

No. They WEREN’T going to eat her.

Really think about that for a second. They put her in the meat shed. With the bear. Think about what that does, psychologically. Linguistically. The meat shed is made to store food. The bear has a word: carcass. Day after day after week after month they carve progressively more pathetic chunks from it, subsisting on what little it offers. In the EXACT same room, sitting right there is Jackie. Her body has a different name. Corpse. With many different connotations. At NO point does ANY of them raise the fact that they’ve taken their friend and added her to their meat stockpile.

Because they haven’t. Instead, they’ve added a new sub-room. The meat shed is now also a morgue. And nobody ever once had to say it. They got it. We got it. You got it. And while they starved and their bodies BEGGED for food, Jackie’s corpse lay there, frozen and fresh, and stubbornly refused to become a carcass, because they wouldn’t let it. They knew that there were more important things than meat, even when they were starving.

The bacchanal was a mistake. A literal error. It simply wasn’t planned, wasn’t meant to go down that way. Maybe if they HAD considered that route earlier and had a discussion about it they’d have been prepared, psychologically, maybe if they weren’t so starved. Who knows. But in the middle of the night they were offered a way out, and they took it.

But Shauna took it first.

Even in their state, even faced with an ideal roasted feast infront of them, they waited until Shauna said it was okay. Because Jackie was Shauna’s friend, and they knew that she was still a person. That this was still a corpse first. It was Shauna who was able to give them permission to survive. To turn a friend into a meal. It was not their place to take that step. To shoulder that guilt. So Shauna did it for them.

The next day they’re devastated. The heavy reality sets in, now the hunger is settled. And Jackie’s carcass is far too real, they can’t change her back into a corpse. Nat tries, bless her heart. But Tai’s screaming reaction at having eaten Jackie’s face is only an externalisation of the grief and horror and agony they’re all going through.

And after Jackie they starve again. Hope and heat and light dwindles further. Every single day they all take another step towards death. That’s what starvation is, it’s the same thing as dying, you die a little bit every day until you can’t die anymore.

Kristen falls. Misty doesn’t even consider that she might bring her back as meat. If she had’ve, she might think, maybe she’d be considered like ... heroic. It doesn’t even occur to her. She’s not going to LET those bitches eat her one and only friend, and she goes out of her way to protect her.

Shauna has her horror show birth. And, no matter WHAT the context is, she produces.... meat. In the most awful, brutal way. And while the fandom made so many jokes and stuff, the reality is that yes... at least to an extent there was real nutrients there. And it was never once even brought up as an option, by these desperate, starving girls.

When Coach tries to kill himself, here’s a ready source of willing meat. And Misty uses it as a threat to stop him. But it’s hollow, she’s just putting on fake fangs to try to keep him safe. She’s not actually that vicious thing that she’s pretending to be, just like she’s not actually homophobic.

When Lottie tells Misty to eat her if she dies, Misty fights her on it. Lottie has to insist. Then when she tells the rest of the team, they are so overwhelmed with the selflessness of the gesture that it inspires them to twist it into their first hunt. That’s what it takes. The hunt is an act of self-sacrifice and love.

And so we get to the hunt. The proto-pit-girl, we’ve come full circle and we start to learn all these answers to questions posed in act 1 scene 1. And they’re not the answers that were assumed.

How do they get to the point of eating each other? They sacrifice themselves willingly, for the sake of each other’s survival.

Why do they hunt the way they do? Because Shauna just can’t stand to murder a friend in cold blood, a friend she cares for and has no reason to hate.

Why the spike pit? Because it keeps the blood off their hands. Because it lets them blame It and preserve a tiny fragment of their innocence.

Why the weird symbols? The ritual itself? Because they need SOMETHING to hold onto, to make it all make sense.

Why so brutal? Is it? We THINK it’s brutal. It’s certainly bloody. But Pit Girl dies almost instantly. Her pain is over fast. She doesn’t have a good time going into it, obviously, none of them want to die. But she chose to run, she could’ve taken the knife instead. And the spike trap was efficient. Yes they drag her through the snow and string her up, but it’s mechanical and just part of the process and she’s dead already. Her pain is over fast, it’s not sadistic.

Why do they chop her up into chunks like that? Because nobody wants to eat her face. Because nobody wants to struggle with her humanity, they want her to look just like any other meat. So that they might be having deer or bear or ... friend. They’re eating because they are biological machines that need to eat, that NEED death to survive. They didn’t ask to be made the way they are, and they’re doing their best to cope. Shauna, probably blindly, takes on that responsibility, to transform their friend into unrecognisable meat to change a corpse into a carcass. She takes that pain for them, holds that sin for them, out of love. So they can eat, so they can survive.

What’s with the creepy horror masks? During the ritual they can’t handle being themselves. They create alternate versions of themselves to hold what must be done. The masks aren’t there to scare anyone, because there IS NO AUDIENCE. The masks are there to hide behind. That’s why Misty takes hers off at the end of the scene. The ritual is over and they can go back to being people again.

Why is Misty fucking Quigley in charge? Because she CAN be. Because she’s strong enough. If Lott/Nat/The AQ is the goddess/queen, Misty is the priestess/handmaiden, tasked with actually carrying out her orders. She interprets the queens words when she’s too weak, she provides counsel when she needs it, she tells the team what they need to hear in the moment, she gives out the micromanagement. Misty’s the power behind the throne, because when she says she’ll do something she fucking follows through. No matter the cost. And what the team NEEDS, whether they choose to admit it or not, is a backbone.

So...

They bring home Javi. The music uses a reference that’s never been done before. It uses the spiritual powerballad that was playing when Laura Lee tried to fly away. It builds the expectation of Great Things, of big, potent ...

And then it just stops. As the girls are faced with the reality of what’s laying on the table. The cold, blue corpse of a soft child who never hurt anyone. No matter what they do, no matter how hard they try they just cannot make him a carcass. But they have made the choice already, and if they turn back now it’s not like it’ll bring him back. They’ll just be starving and regretful as he rots.

So Shauna, blind and shaking, does the best she can. And when she brings in the meat, she - of all people - understands EXACTLY what Travis is going through. She knows what he needs. Because she’s been here. With Jackie. So she brings him Javi’s heart. His core. His love. His soul.

(She doesn’t bring him Javi’s head. She cuts that off and puts it aside so nobody has to eat his face... Some things are worth more than pure nutritional survival.)

And Travis, god bless him, does the only thing he can do left to respect Javi. He takes his heart, and he bites it, raw and bloody.

It hurts him to do so. It disgusts him so much, but he manages not to throw up. It disgusts the girls too, but they watch on, horrified. And that’s the POINT. Travis makes sure that before they do this, before they do what they have to... that they all remember this is Javi, this is human, this is a person. And he preserves the horror. For all their sakes. And only then, after he’s given his blessing, after he’s done his human acts, do these starving, ravenous girls allow themselves to reach for their food.

S1E1. Act 1, scene 1. We do not know who Pit Girl is. We do not know the exact circumstances that get us there. But we do know where we started now. What the original meaning is behind each of these little things. And it’s not brutality, not barbarism. It’s love. It’s not lord of the flies, a bunch of monstrous human-shaped creatures giving in to their primal nature and predating on each other. It’s a team of terrified people desperately clutching at their own humanity as hard as they can. Trying SO hard not to let that glass break, to not become the thing that the framing of act 1 scene 1 tried so VERY hard to convince us they were. Context changes everything.

And the proof is in the pudding. After they eat Jackie the shock explodes throughout the cabin. The atmosphere is thick, and horrific. Now with Javi, reduced to simple meat, carefully and lovingly seperated from what made him human, so they can grieve him while they sate their natural needs, the mood post-eating is calm and soft and warm and loving. For once they’re all together, with grateful full stomachs and in a time of peace and plenty. They’ve done the impossible and maintained their humanity and love for each other and their respect for Javi in a nearly impossible situation.

*takes a deep breath*

Which brings us to THIS asshole.

Right from the start, Jackie is only kind of part of the team. She’s the team captain, put up there by Coach Martinez, but not because she’s the best of them but because she can maybe wrangle them into doing better. And they KNOW that she’s not really one of them. They plot around her, and just don’t bring her in on it. They put up with her, more than loving her, she’s just kind of forced upon them. But she does her best, to try to maintain some semblance of order, giving pep talks and the like.

Wait, Jackie? I mean coach. My bad.

Anyway, so Jackie has one friend, Shauna. She SEEMS popular, and everyone talks to her, but Shauna’s the only one who actually likes her. And Shauna’s her connection point to the team. She’s got one foot on each side, and is torn as to where her real loyalties lie.

Sorry I’m talking about Jackie again.... weird.

In S1E9/10 Shauna finally chooses the team, for real. And Jackie tries to pull her back away, but Shauna puts her foot down. No way, she counters, I’m ON the team, you’re the odd one out. Why don’t YOU leave, Jackie? Jackie looks around at the burgeoning cult, she thinks “Look at these evil monstrous bitches, and now Shauna’s one of them TOO?” And instead of finding a compromise, instead of doing introspection, instead of anything like that, Jackie goes and freezes to death because it turns out that sheer rage won’t keep you warm in sub zero temperatures. Because no matter what happens, Jackie’s Right and it’s more important to her to be Right than Included. If she’s not in charge than why is she even THERE?

Hold on, I see my mistake. Let me backtrack.

Right from the start, Coach is only kind of part of the team. He’s trying to hide from his real life, from Paul and the complexities of being genuine in society by taking on the job of coaching the ‘jackets. And they KNOW that he’s not really one of them. He’s just the guy they have to listen to, because society put him there. But he tries his best, giving pep talks and the like.

So Coach has one friend, Natalie. He SEEMS popular, and everyone talks to him, but Nat’s the only one who actually likes him. (Ignore Misty, a schoolgirl comphet crush is not the same thing). And Nat’s his connection point to the team. She’s got one foot on each side, and is torn to where her real loyalties lie. Sometimes she’s on the bench with Coach, complaining about the state of things. Sometimes she’s in the thick of it with them all, and Coach is nowhere to be found.

In S2E9, Nat finally chooses the team, for real. And Coach tries to pull her back, but Nat puts her foot down. No way, she counters, I’m ON the team, I’m worse than them, you’re the odd one out. Go, save yourself, you don’t belong in this place. Coach looks at a table covered in blood and gore, at Nat’s face, at the rest of the team pledging fealty to her. And instead of looking for context, or looking for compromise, or even remotely trying to understand what he’s looking at he thinks

Look at these evil monstrous bitches. They’re eating each other. They’ve all gone mad. They’ve even gotten Nat now. There’s no hope for them, there’s no hope for anyone out here.

And he decides that they’re corrupt. That the way you deal with that is fire. And he’s wrong.

(I have a theory that he’s gone and jumped off the cliff, that he set the fire to clear the corruption, and now like Jackie, unable to live in this situation any longer, he’s decided to die himself. I’d not be surprised to find him in s3e1 that way)

Jackie was a frustrating, difficult person. Because no matter how things went she just COULDN’T let go of the fact that she was trying to fit a mold that just didn’t suit her. She was raised with super high expectations, when she was really just kind of mid. And that’s fine, honestly, most people ARE mid, that’s why it’s mid. But she refused to see that those around her were shedding their social pressures, were adapting to the wilderness. They weren’t having a good time, they weren’t hunting and foraging because they were out there, camping for fun. Nobody wanted to be there. They were just trying not to complain about it, because they were all in the same boat.

Coach is similar. He simply won’t adapt. Refuses to. I mean this is a guy who’s STILL trying to live in the closet when there’s open lesbians making out in public around him. Who thinks of others as inherently monstrous when he himself, as a gay man, should know better. Because that’s what trying to fit your society-assigned role does to you.

It’s no accident that he and Jackie both spend a long time in the woods and neither of them can do something as basic as start a fucking campfire. Javi, a little kid, survived for MONTHS on his own in that cave. Coach couldn’t make it a day alone. Jackie couldn’t get through a night. They both rely so heavily on the team without ever once recognising it. Because SOMEONE was keeping the fires going. They both just ... refused to engage.

And just like Jackie can’t see that they’re not having fun out there in the woods, on the knifes edge of survival, Coach can’t see that they’re not having fun when they are so desperate they feel it’s warranted to sacrifice one of their own. He always thought of them as monsters, and he just sees what he expects to: a bunch of stupid useless teenage girls, finally doing what he always expected they would.

At any point... At ANY point he could’ve come in from the cold. He could’ve just accepted reality as they have. He could’ve taken some meat and accepted the price, as they have, joined them in their GRIEF about it, shared their humanity, and survived. Just as Jackie could’ve come in from the cold, and become part of the whole. But instead, they sit in the cold, consumed by their bitter hate, and decide that no, it’s everyone ELSE who’s wrong.

And who emerges from the burning cabin? A bunch of scared kids. Shauna, the FIRST cannibal, who saves Jackie’s prom dress before anything else. Travis, who grabs Javi’s wolf. Nat who grabs the ammunition - that they NEVER use on each other - because if they lost that they’d get SERIOUSLY desperate. And they protect each other, they make sure everyone makes it out. These supposed monsters who are so far gone they don’t even care about eating each other go out of their way to save each other, not just themselves.

Because Coach is wrong. Just like Jackie was wrong. Just like WE were wrong, in s1e1. Which brings me to my actual point.

This question is asked so many times in S1 it’s almost a mantra. And the ‘jackets’ oath of silence really builds up that it must’ve been something REALLY bad, right? But S2E9 has really made me recognise that fundamentally... Act 1 Scene 1 is entirely what everyone who asks this question is expecting.

Imagine they DID know what really happened out there. With that bloodthirsty fucking look in their eyes...

They’re not looking for an answer. They’re looking for a story. For an exciting spooky nightmare they didn’t take part in, so they can get a shiver and a thrill they didn’t earn.

They’re not looking for a love story. They’re not looking to hear how HARD these scared, tragic, broken people fought to hold onto their morals and their humanity and their sanity even against their own survival. They’re not interested in Shauna blinding herself just to try to stop her hands from shaking. They’re not looking to hear about Travis choking down the blood of his brother just to make sure that he can really FEEL it. So he can share the guilt, and never ever pretend like it’s Just Meat. The look in his eye when he can’t think of any good response to Van’s arguments that he needs to let Javi save him. What they want is...

They don’t want the context. And if the ‘jackets ever did try to tell anybody what actually DID happen out there, all they would see is ... Episode 1, Act 1, Scene 1. A bunch of monsters. Eating each other. Just like Jackie. Just like Coach. Just like we did, on first glance.

I’ve been saying this whole time that Yellowjackets is doing something really special. That it’s letting us see behind the curtain, that while everyone’s asking this big question, “what really happened?”, we’re the ones who get to know. Because it can’t be told. It can’t be spoken. It can only be seen. Experienced. I think that S2 has finally finished the first major arc in the teen timeline, that we now have the context to understand what comes next. And I do believe that it will get messy, it will devolve. Into fighting and screaming and battles. It’s tragic, but it looks like that’s the downward spiral, spiraling. As Travis and Nat deal with the guilt of what they did with Javi for each other. As Shauna and Nat butt heads and people pick sides. As Misty Mistys. As resources get even more desperate now their shelter is gone. As potentially new people (hikers? other cabin people?) get brought into conflict with them (I believe the cabin is a smoke signal, personally).

But don’t ever forget that we got here with love. Expect that the downward spiral will be lubricated with toxic, broken, codependant, self-destructive love as well. Watch them love each other to death... they’ve already begun.

#yellowjackets #spoilers #theories #Long post #no really long post

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