#old gods and ancient vows

[witchofthesouls]

I just read your seeker bird kiddo (Jack) and Truck dad Optimus adventures and I beg for more content, I adore it all and the spOoky cryptic parts are 👌

👁️👄👁️

Jack accidentally triggers mechs’ protective instincts because he makes baby bird noises to mimic the local corvids. It doesn't help that Jack parks himself at the entrance to the Ark and plays games with the more playful blackbirds. Dadimus is very much used to Jack’s imitations, the rest of the Autobots (and his counterpart) are most definitely not.

The chirping and screes are reminiscent of newsparks’ calls for attention and care, and it drives the resident Seekerkin up the wall because he is the only sparkling in the vicinity and Jack punches the Seekerkin-coding into activity after four million years of dormancy.

There have been a few jokes to take a recording of the sparkling’s noises and play it to the Decepticon Seekers after the Autobots had seen their own Seekerkin with the kid. TFP Optimus is immediately No. Stop. Control, Alt, and Delete that terrible plan. He will take Jack and run into the most remote environments he can find.

No one knows how Jack did it, but the blackbirds got into gambling, and everyone blames Smokescreen. 

He's partly to blame with the cards, but the dice is Bluestreak's fault.

Jack is a polite menace. The kid knows his manners, but that doesn't stop him from skipping up the walls, hanging on the ceiling, and popping into places that he shouldn't have access to. At all.

Mechs were confused why Dadimus pinged out so often but then realized that's the most reliable way to actually tag Jack as he's a slippery little thing. Sometimes the sparkling responds, but usually he doesn't.

Red Alert is on the verge of having an aneurysm since Jack can bypass all the security measures. Mechs have taken to looking up to see if Jack is trapezing on the panels or checking under the tables and desks because of near unfortunate incidents of almost shooting the kid or shock-related delays with time-sensitive chemical reactions that nearly turned the ship into a massive crater.

Dadimus was highly disappointed and upset by the last part as Jack knows better as he had done similar stunts when they were upon research vessels. Not only Jack had to apologize to Skyfire, Wheeljack, and Perceptor, but he wasn't allowed to stray from Dadimus' field for a month. ("Curiosity cannot override safety protocols.")

On one camera, Jack would be at a corner by the entrance with organic birds, and between blinks he would then disappear and reappear across the ship, talking excitedly to a random corner with a different group of birds.

(If anyone catches them at the right second, at the right angle, at the right frame... the raven/crow/jackdaw/jay will ripple. Feathers dripping and flowing like an inky waterfall and eyes splitting into multiple, countless pairs as Jack's shadow expands- And then, the watcher will blink because they have to, and the footage will reset. Devoid of Jack and blackbirds.)

There's talk about new cryptids going around. It's silly Halloween and superstitious nonsense… until it isn't.

Due to Smokescreen, Bluestreak, and the Aerialbots constantly monitoring the perimeter or setting traps that are becoming more elaborate each week, it's becoming a new running joke. It's the Autobot snipe-hunting. All because of Jack's devoted drawings of strange, contorted creatures.

They're adamant that something is outside.

(They’re right).

An eerie thing begins to appear at the nearby dunes by the Ark’s entrance. It’s vaguely canine and its size is constantly changing. They can smell a wildfire in the air and taste ash upon their tongues as it beckons them to follow with a heavy, burning gaze. 

Before anyone follows, a racket of shrieking blackbirds breaks them out of the trance. When the piercing noise fails, then a nasty peck to some skin or exposed protoform is enough to bring them back to their senses.

“It’s looking for something that can’t be regained,” Jack speaks with a keenness beyond his age and a lilting cadence. A flurry of pictures of the same dark canine by a campfire with multiple individuals and groups sitting by it. It remains unchanged, despite the others’ fashions and vehicles it managed to beckon to it. “Don’t be taken by its ancient sorrow. You won’t escape its grasp.”

Between the space of desert and forest, there’s an old barbwire fence and a seemingly endless dusty dirt road that has never been updated to proper asphalt, despite its existence for over a century and all the grumbles and complaints by humans and Cybertronians.

When it rains, a phantom of a massive stag appears. Dark and regal, it gently trods along the path, always towards the forest, never in the opposite direction. Perched upon its twisted antlers is an owl with multiple wings, spread out and spotted with many painted eyes, a feathered and watchful halo with a cry that echoes in everyone’s ears and audials. It leaves no tracks, just deep puddles with flickering shapes in its vast depths that immediately dry when people look away.

The mechs start to understand that the local humans’ grumblings and complaints are half-hearted, and when it starts to drizzle, everyone stays inside. 

“It’s older than all those that vaguely remember its beginnings,” Jack murmurs to a window full of drawings in the condensation, sleepy in the colder weather as he curls in a heated seat. “Dreaming and wandering, yet always returning to the place that crowned it King.”

[novaursa]

A Union of Ice and Fire

- Summary: After your mother, Queen Rhaenyra, approves of the marriage between you and Cregan Stark, you marry under watchful eyes of gods of old. And one week later, a raven arrives carrying dark news.

- Paring: velaryon!reader/Cregan Stark

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is only daughter of Rhaenyra and her second born child. The reader is also a dragonrider. These events happen right after The Dragon and The Wolf. For the full list of my works visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 4 663

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

- A/N: since the last part have gotten more then a hundred likes in less then 24 hours, here is the continuation of it. Your guys are awesome. I have not slept for days as I'm trying to push everything out on schedule, but you are making it all worth it. ❤️

The godswood is still beneath a canopy of winter's fading touch, its ancient weirwood tree standing tall and ominous. The red leaves shift in the cold wind, whispering the secrets of ancient times as you, Y/N Velaryon, stand before it. You can feel the eyes of the old gods upon you, watching from within the carved face, its mouth twisted in a silent scream. The eyes of the heart tree, pools of deep crimson, look upon you with an intensity that sends shivers down your spine.

You are dressed in the finest gown Winterfell could muster—one that suits both a dragon’s daughter and the lady you are to become. Your gown is silver and red, reminiscent of your lineage, shimmering in the dim light of the godswood. Your silver hair, braided with strands of black wool, cascades down your back, and a simple circlet rests on your brow, a mark of your high birth and future station as the Lady of Winterfell. You feel the weight of history and duty pressing down on you, yet within that weight lies a spark of something new—a bond forged with the North and the man who now stands beside you.

Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell, is a figure of rugged strength, his presence commanding yet not overbearing. He wears a heavy black fur cloak over his dark grey tunic, the stark wolf sigil prominent across his broad chest. His dark hair is tied back, exposing the harsh lines of his face—his strong jaw and storm-grey eyes that have a softness only you seem to have unlocked. Though his expression remains solemn, the corners of his mouth twitch as he glances at you, the unspoken warmth between you growing stronger with every passing moment. 

You stand together in front of the weirwood, surrounded by the Northern lords who had pledged their loyalty to your mother. Despite their stern faces, there is respect in their eyes. These are not men given to idle chatter or false pleasantries. They value loyalty, honor, and oaths—things your union represents.

The wind howls softly through the trees as the words are spoken. An elderly man, one of the old greybeards Cregan trusts, steps forward to perform the ceremony. He bears the weight of tradition in his voice as he begins, "Before the eyes of gods and men, here in the presence of the Old Gods, we witness the union of Lord Cregan Stark and Lady Y/N Velaryon."

The words reverberate through the godswood as the old gods bear silent witness to this union. You feel the chill of the North seeping into your bones, but beside you, Cregan’s warmth is a constant presence. He takes your hand, his grip firm yet gentle, a silent vow of protection and partnership. You look up at him, catching his eye, and in that moment, everything else fades away—the whispers of the leaves, the weight of duty, even the biting cold.

He speaks his vow, his voice deep and resonant, “By the laws of gods and men, I take you, Y/N Velaryon, as my wife. In the warmth of summer and the depths of winter, I am yours.” His eyes remain locked on yours, and there is no doubt in his words—only sincerity.

You return the vow, your voice clear and strong despite the flutter of emotions within you. “I take you, Cregan Stark, as my husband. I am yours in joy and sorrow, in strength and weakness, until the last breath leaves my body.”

With those words, you feel a binding, something deeper than mere words can convey—a connection woven with the strength of dragon and wolf, the blood of Targaryen and Stark, old and new. The old gods seem to hum in approval, the wind growing still for just a breath as if the gods themselves acknowledge your vows.

A simple silver ring is placed upon your finger, and you do the same for him with a band of dark steel, forged in the cold depths of the North. The greybeard raises his hands to the sky, sealing your vows. “It is done. By the Old Gods, let this union be blessed.”

Cregan leans in, his breath warm against your cold cheeks, and presses his lips to yours—your first kiss as husband and wife. His kiss is firm and sure, unyielding yet tender, a promise in itself. The lords of the North around you nod in approval, murmuring words of congratulations, and you are aware of the new title you carry now: Lady Stark of Winterfell.

The feast is held in the Great Hall, warmth radiating from the roaring hearths. The long tables are set with rich food—roasted meats, thick stews, and dark bread—simple fare compared to what you’ve known in King’s Landing, but rich in flavor and warmth. The hall echoes with laughter, the booming voices of the North pleased with this rare celebration in the harshest season.

You sit beside Cregan at the high table, your hand resting near his, fingers occasionally brushing as you speak with those who come to offer their congratulations. The conversation flows easily now, the tension of duty replaced with the comfort of companionship. Cregan leans in at one point, speaking low enough that only you can hear. “I never expected that a dragon would bring warmth to Winterfell, but here you are.”

You smile softly, feeling that warmth within you too. “And I never imagined the North could feel like home,” you reply, and there is truth in your words. Despite the cold stone of the castle, there’s a fire kindling here, one that grows every time your gaze meets his.

As the night deepens and the mead flows freely, the toasts begin. The lords raise their cups, shouting their oaths of loyalty to House Stark and to the new Lady of Winterfell. Cregan raises his cup as well, his voice clear over the noise, “To my wife, Y/N, who brings fire to this cold land. May our union stand as strong as the walls of Winterfell and burn as bright as the flames of a dragon.”

The hall erupts in cheers, and you lift your cup in return, the warmth of the mead settling in your chest. Your gaze meets Cregan’s again, and this time, the unspoken promise between you is undeniable.

This is just the beginning—a union of ice and fire, of dragon and wolf. And as you take another sip, the sound of laughter and joy surrounding you, you can’t help but feel that, together, you might just weather whatever storms the gods have yet to send your way.

The Great Hall of Winterfell buzzes with life as the feast reaches its height. The low, flickering light from the blazing hearths casts dancing shadows over stone walls, illuminating the gathering of lords, bannermen, and their kin. The long tables are laden with Northern fare—boar roasted to perfection, trout caught fresh from icy rivers, steaming bowls of mutton stew, and bread so dark and hearty it could sustain a man through the longest winter. Jugs of spiced mead and strong ale are passed freely, filling cups to the brim. The warmth of the hearths contrasts sharply with the cold that clings outside, yet the room feels alive with the camaraderie of the North.

You sit at the high table, beside your new husband, Lord Cregan Stark. The feast is different from the courtly banquets you grew up with. There is little of the polished elegance and courtly games found in King’s Landing—no fine silk hangings or delicate dishes of fruit and honey. Instead, the feast here is raw and primal, filled with the hearty laughter of men and women who understand that life is a harsh, fleeting gift, to be savored when they can.

The Northern customs are as stern as the land itself. Men challenge one another to bouts of strength, arm wrestling contests, and tests of drink—seeing who can down the most ale without falling over. Women engage in singing competitions, their voices strong and clear, carrying the melodies of old Northern ballads. There’s a rugged, unrefined beauty in the festivities, a sense of unity born from shared hardship and deep-rooted traditions.

A few of the Greybeards who pledged to your cause earlier have gathered near the hearth, exchanging old tales of battles and victories. Occasionally, their eyes glance your way, nodding approvingly, as though silently acknowledging the part you now play in their world.

As the night deepens, you feel the weight of more eyes upon you, lords and ladies watching with growing anticipation. The atmosphere shifts subtly, laughter and talk giving way to murmurs. You can almost sense it coming—the bedding.

The first to raise the call is Lord Umber, his face flushed from drink, his booming voice ringing out across the hall. “It’s time!” he bellows, slamming his fist on the table. “Bring out the bride and groom to the bed! Let’s show the lady how it’s done in the North!”

The hall erupts with cheers and laughter, the men pounding their fists on the tables, ready to tear away the finery and see the marriage consummated in the rough, loud tradition of the North. A few women cackle, egging the men on, while others smirk knowingly.

You tense instinctively, your eyes darting to Cregan. You see the storm flash in his grey eyes, a deep frown pulling at his features. He stands, and the hall quiets, expecting him to give in to the custom, to allow the lords their entertainment. Instead, he raises a hand, his voice cutting through the din like a sharp blade. “There will be no bedding tonight.”

A ripple of disbelief courses through the crowd, followed quickly by grumbles of dissatisfaction. Lord Umber, unsteady on his feet, glares at Cregan with drunken indignation. “What’s this, Lord Stark? Denying tradition? Are we to let the lady keep her gown on, untouched and unproven?”

Cregan’s gaze hardens. His voice remains calm, but there is steel beneath the words. “I am Lord of Winterfell, and I will not have my wife paraded like some prize sow for your amusement. The old gods have blessed our union, and that is enough.” His tone brooks no argument, and a dangerous quiet settles over the hall.

Lord Bolton leans forward, his voice dripping with condescension. “It’s not the way things are done, Stark. We’ve had our feast, our drink, and now we demand our right to the bedding ceremony.”

Your heart pounds in your chest as you stand beside Cregan, lifting your chin proudly. “There will be no ceremony, and I stand with my lord husband in this. I am not some maid to be stripped and gawked at for your sport. If any man thinks he can force his will upon us, then he can come forward now and see what the Midnight Fury and Winterfell’s wolves think of it.”

The hall falls utterly silent. Your words, carrying a trace of the Valyrian fire that flows in your blood, hang in the air. The image of your dragon, Thraxata, looms over their thoughts, the Midnight Fury’s violet eyes mirroring yours. Your defiance reminds them that you are no meek Southern bride, but a daughter of House Velaryon, with the blood of Rhaenyra Targaryen in your veins.

Cregan’s hand subtly brushes yours under the table, a silent reassurance. His voice, now low and firm, cuts through the tension. “Any man who wishes to question me can take it up tomorrow in the courtyard. We can settle it with steel if words are not enough. But tonight, I will not have my bride humiliated.”

Several of the lords look away, muttering into their cups. Lord Umber slumps back into his seat, cursing under his breath. None are fool enough to challenge Cregan, not with his hand already resting on the hilt of his sword.

One of the women, Lady Mormont, raises her cup with a grin. “Well spoken, Lady Y/N. I’d wager no man here could match your fire, dragon-born as you are.” Her toast is echoed by a few others, and slowly, the hall returns to its revelry, though the grumbling doesn’t entirely fade.

You share a look with Cregan, a silent understanding passing between you. He inclines his head slightly, a ghost of a smile on his lips, before he stands again, addressing the hall. “The night grows late. My lady and I will take our leave. Enjoy the rest of the feast.” With that, he offers you his arm, and together, you leave the hall.

As you exit the Great Hall, the distant sounds of merriment and music follow you down the stone corridors of Winterfell. The cold air bites at your cheeks, but you feel warmth bloom in your chest as Cregan’s hand covers yours, holding it close. He leads you through the winding halls, the firelight casting long shadows along the ancient stones.

When you reach your chambers, Cregan pauses at the door, turning to face you fully. There’s a softness in his eyes now, the hard edge he wore in the hall melted away. “Thank you,” he says quietly, his voice warm and sincere. “For standing with me back there.”

You squeeze his hand gently, meeting his gaze with a smile. “We stand together now, Cregan. In all things.”

He nods, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips. “Then let’s face whatever comes next together—wolf and dragon, side by side.”

With that, he opens the door, and you step inside, ready to begin the next chapter of your shared life in the North. As the door closes behind you, the echoes of the feast are left behind, and all that remains is the quiet of the night and the warmth of the partnership you’ve begun to forge together.

The chamber is dimly lit by the soft glow of a single hearth fire, shadows dancing across the stone walls. The furs piled atop the bed emit a faint, musky scent of the North. The air is heavy with the lingering warmth of the feast, yet there is a different tension in this room—a tension born not of duty or politics, but of anticipation.

Cregan’s eyes are on you, dark and intense as he moves closer, the depth of his gaze sending a shiver down your spine. There’s no rush in his movements, only a measured patience as he approaches you, one hand gently cupping your face, thumb brushing your cheek. His touch is warm against your cool skin, rough from years of sword work yet unexpectedly tender now. He studies you as if memorizing every detail—the gleam of your violet eyes, the curve of your lips, and the cascade of silver hair that falls around you like moonlight.

"You’re certain?" he murmurs, searching your gaze one last time, his voice a rumble that’s both reassuring and laced with a restrained hunger.

You lift your chin, meeting his eyes with unwavering confidence. “I’m no fragile maiden, Cregan. I won’t break. I know what I want, and I want you.”

There’s no fear in your gaze, only want—raw, unfiltered, and clear as dragonfire. A dark chuckle escapes him, his fingers tracing down the side of your neck, making your breath hitch. “Dragon’s blood runs in your veins. I should’ve known better than to treat you like some delicate thing.” There’s admiration in his voice now, mingling with desire.

He moves behind you, fingers deft as they untie the laces of your gown, the fabric slipping from your shoulders with a whisper. You don’t shy away, holding his gaze in the reflection of the mirror across the room as he lets the gown fall to the floor. The firelight catches the contours of your body, accentuating the smooth planes of your skin. You stand bare before him, unabashed and fierce, a vision of Valyrian beauty—both alien and mesmerizing in this land of cold stone and shadow.

Cregan’s eyes darken as they roam over you, a mix of reverence and primal hunger in his gaze. “You’re a sight to behold, Y/N. Fierce and untamed—a dragon among wolves.” His words are heavy with the desire he’s been holding back, and there’s a certain awe in how he takes you in, as though every curve and line is something to be worshiped.

You reach out, tugging at his tunic, impatient now. “Enough staring, my lord. I need you.”

There’s a flash of amusement in his eyes, quickly followed by understanding. He obliges, undressing with practiced efficiency, discarding his layers until there’s nothing between you but the warmth of your shared desire. His body is strong, every muscle honed from the harsh life of the North, but it’s his eyes—dark, stormy, and focused solely on you—that make your pulse quicken.

When he finally steps forward, he pulls you into a kiss that’s anything but gentle. It’s heated, his lips firm against yours, claiming and giving in equal measure. You answer with equal fervor, fingers threading through his dark hair, pulling him closer, wanting more. The kiss is a battle of wills—passionate, wild, neither of you holding anything back.

His hands move to your hips, lifting you with an ease that speaks of his strength. He carries you to the bed, laying you down on the soft furs as he leans over you, his weight pressing against you in a way that feels comforting, possessive, and thrilling all at once.

His hand trails down your thigh as he settles between your legs, eyes locked onto yours as he positions himself. There’s a pause, a moment where he searches your face for any sign of hesitation, but all he finds is your unwavering gaze, filled with want and a flicker of challenge.

“Hold on to me,” he whispers, his voice rough as he begins to push forward, entering you with a deliberate slowness. There’s a sharp sting as he breaks through your maidenhead, but you bite down on your lip, refusing to flinch. Your legs wrap around his waist, holding him close, adjusting to the sensation as he stills, giving you time to accommodate the fullness.

His forehead rests against yours, breath ragged as he murmurs, “Easy… I don’t want to hurt you.”

The pain gradually subsides, replaced by a deeper ache that burns with need. You move your hips slightly, testing the new feeling, and when you find pleasure laced within the discomfort, you whisper, “Move, Cregan. I can take it.”

He grins, a low, appreciative sound rumbling in his chest as he begins to move, slow at first, letting you guide the rhythm. The first few thrusts are measured, careful, but soon the pace quickens as the heat between you builds. You meet him thrust for thrust, each movement sending a jolt of pleasure through you, until the initial discomfort fades entirely, replaced by a growing intensity that coils in your belly.

You clutch at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as you encourage him to go faster, harder. “More,” you gasp, voice breathy as you ride the wave of sensation. He obliges without hesitation, his control slipping as the primal side of him takes over.

It’s wild and untamed, your bodies moving together in a rhythm as old as time itself. The room is filled with the sounds of your shared passion—breathless moans, the rustle of furs, the slap of skin against skin. There’s no pretense, no holding back. It’s raw, a clash of fire and ice, of dragon and wolf.

Cregan’s grip tightens on your hips as he drives deeper, his breathing harsh and ragged. “Gods, Y/N, you’re—” He breaks off, unable to finish as he loses himself in the pleasure, his focus entirely on you, on your gasps and the way you move beneath him.

You arch against him, chasing the rising tide within you, each thrust bringing you closer to the edge. “Don’t stop,” you pant, your voice a breathless plea.

When your release finally crashes over you, it’s powerful, your entire body tensing as you cry out his name, fingers digging into his back. The sensation is overwhelming, pleasure radiating outwards as you tighten around him. Cregan’s control shatters as he follows you over the edge, a deep groan rumbling from his chest as he spills inside you, his pace faltering, then stilling as he buries himself fully in you.

For a moment, the world is nothing but the sound of your shared breaths, harsh and uneven, as you both come down from the intensity. He collapses beside you, pulling you against him, his chest rising and falling in time with yours.

You’re both silent for a long while, simply savoring the closeness. Eventually, Cregan presses a kiss to your forehead, his voice a low murmur in the quiet room. “You’re everything I didn’t know I needed, Y/N.”

You smile against his chest, content in the afterglow. “And you’re everything I knew I wanted.”

The night stretches out before you, the fire crackling softly, and for now, there’s only warmth—no cold, no politics, no war—just the shared comfort of two souls bound by desire and destiny. As you drift into sleep in his arms, you can’t help but feel that this is just the beginning of something wild and fierce, something that can withstand even the harshest of winters.

The sun hangs low in the sky, casting long shadows across the snow-covered courtyards of Winterfell. The icy air bites at your cheeks as you walk through the godswood, hand in hand with Cregan. The week since your marriage has passed in a blur of quiet moments, shared laughter, and the gradual weaving of your lives together. In those precious days, you’ve come to find comfort in the North’s cold embrace, and in the steady presence of the man who has proven himself to be more than just your husband—he is your equal, your partner, your anchor in this unfamiliar land.

But that newfound warmth shatters with the arrival of the raven.

You’re back in the Great Hall, lingering by the hearth, when the doors creak open. A servant rushes in, holding a sealed scroll. You don’t need to see the wax to know who sent it—your heart tells you. The servant approaches, bowing low as he hands the message to you. The dark wax bears the three-headed dragon of your house, sealing the words of your mother, Queen Rhaenyra.

You break the seal with trembling fingers, your pulse quickening with a nameless dread. Cregan stands beside you, his brow furrowed as he watches your face closely. He knows by the change in your expression that whatever this message holds, it isn’t good. 

The words on the parchment seem to blur as your eyes scan over them, each line a knife driven into your chest:

Lucerys Velaryon is dead. My sweet boy was slain by Aemond Targaryen, along with his dragon, Arrax. He did not survive the fall into the storms of Shipbreaker Bay.

The world tilts beneath you, and it’s as though the breath has been stolen from your lungs. Your vision narrows, the words echoing in your mind until they’re the only thing you can hear. Lucerys is dead. The little brother you helped raise, who smiled so sweetly, who always looked up to you with those wide eyes filled with trust and affection—he’s gone, stolen away by your cousin’s cruelty and Vhagar’s monstrous power.

Your hand loosens, and the letter slips from your grasp, fluttering to the ground. You’re dimly aware of Cregan’s hand on your shoulder, his voice low and steady, calling your name. “Y/N? What is it?” But you can’t form the words. The grief wells up inside you, sharp and overwhelming, until it’s too much to hold back.

Your knees buckle, and suddenly you’re sinking to the floor, your body trembling uncontrollably. Tears blur your vision, hot and relentless, as sobs tear from your throat. It’s not the delicate, quiet grief of a lady; it’s raw and fierce, like the storm you imagine your brother faced in his final moments. The cry that escapes your lips is a mixture of pain and rage, the sound reverberating through the Great Hall, silencing all who might hear.

Cregan is at your side in an instant, dropping to his knees, pulling you into his arms. “Y/N, what happened? Tell me—what did the message say?” His voice is firm, but you can hear the worry in it. He’s never seen you like this, never seen you break. You’ve always been the dragon’s daughter—strong, unyielding. But right now, you feel like nothing more than a shattered, grieving sister.

You choke out the words between sobs, your hands clutching at his tunic as if he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to the world. “My brother… Lucerys… He’s dead. Aemond… Aemond killed him. He’s gone, Cregan. My little brother is gone.”

Cregan’s arms tighten around you as he processes what you’ve said. For a long moment, he’s silent, his jaw clenched, his eyes darkening with anger. When he finally speaks, there’s a steel in his voice that matches the ice in his veins. “The bastard. Aemond will answer for this kinslaying. I swear it.” But even his promise of vengeance can’t reach you through the fog of your grief.

You bury your face in his chest, letting the tears flow freely, uncaring of who might see. You’ve lost people before—friends, kin—but this is different. This is your brother, your sweet Lucerys, who still had so much life ahead of him. He was just a boy, trying to do his duty, and he was cut down for it. The injustice of it burns like acid in your veins.

Cregan doesn’t let go, even as your sobs wrack your body. He holds you through it all, his large hands rubbing soothing circles on your back, his presence a steady rock amidst the storm of your grief. He whispers soft words meant to comfort, though you barely register them, lost in your sorrow. “I’m here,” he murmurs. “I’m here, and I won’t let you face this alone.”

Minutes pass—or maybe it’s hours—before the tears finally subside, leaving you hollow and exhausted. You pull back slightly, looking up at Cregan with tear-streaked eyes. There’s no judgment in his gaze, only unwavering support and a simmering rage on your behalf. His thumb gently wipes away the last of your tears, his expression softening.

“You’re not alone, Y/N,” he says quietly. “I know the North is not your home, but I am. I will stand with you, no matter what comes next. We’ll face it—ice and fire, dragon and wolf. Aemond will pay for what he’s done.”

You swallow hard, nodding, though your voice is barely above a whisper when you finally speak. “We’ll make them pay, Cregan. For Lucerys, for my mother’s grief… for all of it.”

There’s a hardness in your words now, a resolve born from the depths of your pain. You may be grieving, but beneath that grief lies a core of molten steel—a fire that won’t be quenched until justice is done.

Cregan leans forward, pressing his forehead against yours, grounding you in the warmth of his presence. “When the time comes, we’ll fight—together. Until then, rest. You’re stronger than you know, Y/N.”

You nod, though the weariness of grief still clings to you. With Cregan’s help, you rise to your feet, your legs shaky but steady enough to stand. As you take a deep breath, you feel the fire rekindling within you, fueled by the love you have for your family and the support of the man who now stands at your side.

You may have broken in this moment, but you won’t stay broken. You are a daughter of House Velaryon, a granddaughter of House Targaryen. You are forged in fire, and though grief threatens to consume you, it also gives you strength.

The war has only begun, and you’ll see it through. For your brother. For your family. For all those who stand with you.

[damneddamsy]

second sight | cregan stark x oc (part i)

a/n: I suppose this series will be a short one, 4 parts maybe? I just love Claere so much - she's my little unhinged weirdo :')

It was a rather secluded and quiet affair, the marriage between Claere Velaryon and Cregan Stark. There were no great halls crammed with noble witnesses, no bright banners flying high to announce the union of two ancient houses—only the low rustles of the breeze through the pines and the crackle of a distant hearth as the vows were uttered.

The ceremony took place beneath the watchful eyes of the old gods. The holy weirwood tree loomed with its gnarled white bark, etched with time, and ruby leaves swished in the cold Northern breeze. Claere, a priceless dream draped in rare emeralds, silver silks, and white furs akin to seafoam—a nod to her Velaryon heritage—eclipsed against the stark landscape of Winterfell. She made up for the glitz and grandeur that this lifeless gathering lacked.

Cregan Stark, silent and relentless, took her freezing hand with the kind of sworn resilience that marked Northern might—his bold grey eyes sceptical of the bride before him. Though the match had been arranged by the Sea Snake, the union between them was regarded as special—one for the histories. Theirs was not a marriage forged in the fires of splendour but in the subtle rendition of what they each represented: a union between sea and snow, Velaryon and Stark.

No songs were sung, and no cheers erupted, but in that stillness, something more meaningful lingered.

Cregan was first informed of Rhaenyra's second child and only daughter as if she were a fleeting nymph from a fairytale, a cold mystery whispered from beyond the Wall. "She is adrift in dreams," his maester had told him. Claere Velaryon possessed all of her mother’s fabled graces—from her haunting violet eyes and white-gold hair to the sharp, aquiline features that marked her as pure Valyrian. Her skin, fair and translucent as glass, only furthered the ghostly aura that surrounded her.

If summer snow had ever reincarnated in his time, it would have been Claere Velaryon. The rumours spoke of a 'beautiful freak', chiselled like an ice sculpture, who sang like the sweetest lark, whose fingers danced effortlessly over the harp, filling halls with melodies as delicate as her presence. She was drawn more to solitude and the quiet company of the stars than to her brothers, most of her nights spent soaring high above the world on her silvery dragon, Luna—hatched in her cradle and enormous beyond her years.

The whispers had reached him long before he’d ever seen her. She doesn't eat food, prefers the taste of human flesh and blood, they had said, each rumour darker than the last. She once tried to stab her uncle in the heart. She dabbles in blood magic with that wretched dragon of hers. Some claimed her visions could only divine the worst of futures, and that she would cut herself to the bone just to understand pain. It was said everything she touched withered into the gloom.

Cregan swallowed against the rising dread. He had been pragmatic in agreeing to this union, believing the support of the ancient Targaryens would strengthen the North. Yet now, as he stood face to face with the girl cloaked in a bizarre silence, he wondered if he had invited his own destruction. The North had weathered many storms, but this... this felt different. He had faced wildlings, dire winters, wars, and beasts, but Claere Velaryon might be his greatest unknown yet.

Perhaps this alliance, this bond forged for power, would be his ultimate undoing. The Sea Snake must’ve played him for a fool, tying him to a sorceress masked as a Valyrian princess.

As if her touch had stung him, Cregan recoiled and returned his hands to his sides, a flicker of unease settling beneath his skin. The girl’s violet eyes stayed distant at his reaction, focused on some invisible realm beyond the godswood, oblivious to the accusations that swirled around her name like storm clouds. Never meeting anyone’s gaze, she stood perfectly still, frigid as the legends surrounding her, the direwolf sigil on his chest holding her attention.

When the quiet ceremony was over and it was time for goodbyes, the weight of the moment settled heavily on them all. Soft whispers filled the air as hands were clasped, and final glances exchanged. The warmth of shared vows had already begun to fade whilst the mother and daughter, her three brothers and their grandsire traded farewells. Cregan wavered close by, observing his new wife's interactions.

No one cried except the youngest brother, Joffrey, who had refused to let go of the princess. Everyone around her, her own kin, had kept their distance in approaching her.

"Who'll sing to me now, Claerie? The moon song?" Her little brother wept, shedding his tears into her fair silk gown.

Claere’s eyes moved from her tear-streaked brother to the rest of her family. Her voice was glacial, her expression more bored than curious.

"Why does he cry?"

A brief pause passed between the lot of them.

"Because he... we will miss you, sister. We might not see each other for a long time." It was young Lucerys who eventually answered her, his tone painfully understanding. He must be the forbearing one among them.

"Then do not miss me," Claere said to them simply. "It is not my wish to cause you pain till then."

Her certainty unsettled them, a silent dismissal that left her words hovering unanswered. She seemed unaware, perhaps unconcerned, that her family could not comprehend her detachment.

"I love you, Claerie." He buried his face deeper into her gown, as if afraid she might vanish from his arms. Claere remained still as if brooking her brother's overflowing love.

There it was—a twitch in Claere’s blank eyes, a flicker of something almost human. She glanced down at Joffrey, and with visible reluctance, patted his head. The gesture was mechanical, lacking the warmth he sought. A moment later, Jace stepped forward, his hands firm as he pulled Joffrey away, his actions laced with an unspoken fear that any more time in her presence might invite something unwanted.

"Will you stay with me?" Claere asked them, though her voice, usually collected, wobbled just enough to betray the edge of apprehension.

"Not for long, my girl," Rhaenyra said to her, her smile strained, hiding some secret discomfort. "Your home is here now. You will grow to love this place and your husband. I am sure."

"A cage of stone and ice," she murmured, her gaze distant, as if already relinquished to the cold halls of her future.

Rhaenyra's smile faltered, her eyes narrowing slightly. She was unduly firm. "You speak too soon, Claere. You are a Velaryon and a Targaryen—power runs in your blood. You will learn your duty in time."

"And you'll have Luna on your side," Luke appeased her in vain. An unspeaking, fire-breathing beast for a companion. His tender heart did not hold a candle to his blind faith.

But Claere said nothing more, her expression as stony as ever. The distance between her and the life she was meant to embrace felt as vast as the sky beyond.

Cregan watched the exchange in silence, the chill in his chest deepening with each word. His worst fears were confirmed. Claere was a stranger, even to those who should have known her best. They spoke to her as if she were something fragile, something... unnatural.

A freak.

And now, she was his.

X

No one was more reluctant than Cregan to spend his first night with his new bride.

As far as obligations went, he had managed to ban the sickening tradition of a "bedding ceremony" from the occasion, much to the disappointment of some. The thought of parading the princess through a crowd of leering men felt like an abomination, yet even without that outlandish formality, he still felt the burden of duties and expectations ploughing down on him like an axe.

His familiar chambers felt chillier today, the fire crackling weakly in the hearth as Claere stood near the window, her silver hair gleaming in the moonlight. She was silent, as she had been throughout the feast, her face betraying little emotion. She refused to eat, revel in wine, or even speak. She had managed a quiet nod after well-wishes, sometimes pressing her lips tight to pass for a smile.

He recalled, with an involuntary tremble, the black rumours that had plagued him during the dinner. The mention of how his wife’s tastebuds were supposedly tempted not by the fine meats and ales of the North, but by the flesh of those who dared to covet a single glance from the Velaryon beauty. Fattened soldiers who sought her favour and found only their doom.

It was absurd, indeed. And yet, as he glanced at Claere, so still and detached by the firelight, Cregan couldn't shake the disturbing thought. What sort of woman had he brought into his home?

The distance between them felt more than just physical—it was as though she existed in another world entirely, one he had no access to. He didn't know what troubled him more: her silence, or the eerie calmness with which she met her fate.

As Cregan set down his ancestral sword and shrugged off his heavy fur cloaks, Claere moved to him with quiet resignation. Her fingers began to undo the delicate laces of her nightgown, her motions disconnected as if compelled by some unspoken assignment. The fabric slipped, gathering at her shoulders, poised to fall, when Cregan's voice broke the tense stillness.

"There is no need for that," he said sharply, cutting through the air between them, the words coming out quicker than he intended.

He stepped forward, his rough fingers gently, yet firmly, adjusting the cloth back over her bare skin. Every inch of paleness he touched was smoother than the silk she adorned, warmer than the ice-cold fingers he had held in the godswood.

Claere blinked, startled, her violet eyes searching his face for the first time that night. The vigour of that shade disarmed him for a moment before he looked away. Yes, she was his wife, but more than that, she was a mystery. And he was a man who distrusted what he could not comprehend.

"Rest. That is all for now," he added, softer now, the command awkward in his throat.

Claere scrutinized him still, her sharp gaze unrelenting as if she could unearth the truth behind his stoic mask. When she spoke, her voice was flat, devoid of emotion.

"Is there another you hold dear, my lord?"

He sighed, sinking into a cushioned seat by the hearth. "No," he replied, his tone careful, meeting her eyes with conscious composure. "And you?"

A strange smirk flickered across her face, the barest twitch of her lips. "Everything I hold dear gave me away like a pawn on a board."

Her words struck him like a blow, twisting his gut with an uncomfortable pang of pity. He allowed for her loneliness as if somehow, he was responsible for it. Yet, a strange foreboding hung in the air and kept his response locked in his throat.

Instead, he turned his gaze to the flames, fists clenching against the armrests as the fire danced and crackled, its warmth doing little to ease the cold knot of guilt growing in his chest.

"I understand you favour peace and quiet," he began carefully, his words lingering in the space between them. "But would you consider sitting with me tonight?"

Claere, staring at the shadows cast by the firelight, turned her gaze to him. Her eerie eyes, unnervingly calm, gave no indication of her thoughts. For a moment, he regretted speaking.

The pause stretched, and Cregan felt the silence chew at his nerves.

"Why?" she asked finally, her voice as undisturbed as it was empty, as though the idea of companionship was foreign.

He hesitated, searching for words. "I thought it might ease... the strangeness of the night." His eyes flickered to hers. "For both of us."

Claere’s lips barely moved as she gave a soft hum of acknowledgement. The stillness in her made him wonder if she felt anything at all, and a deeper anxiety stirred in him.

Without answering, she crossed the room, her movements as fluid and graceful as a phantom. She sat across from him, her gaze never leaving the flickering flames. Even now, such a short distance felt insurmountable.

"Ask away, my lord," she said quietly, reading into him deftly. "I do owe you many answers."

Cregan’s gaze faltered as Claere contested, and for a moment, the heat of the fire did nothing to chase away the chill crawling up his spine. Something was unnerving about the way she stared at him, something impenetrable, as if her pale eyes held some ancient secret he wasn’t meant to uncover.

"Do you hear them?" His voice was low, almost lost to the sound of the crackling wood. "The whispers about you."

Claere’s expression remained unchanged, her face as still as a porcelain mask. "What do they say?"

"They say that I was a fool to take a girl like you," he said, keeping his emotions hidden. "A girl who walks in dreams, who doesn’t belong to this world. They fear you."

Her gaze did not move an inch, unaffected by his claims. "People fear what they do not understand."

Every rumour, every whispered story of her strange tendencies crept back into his mind, grinding at his resolve. The tales of oddity, rituals, and things best left unspoken—they clung to the air between them.

"Are you afraid of me, my lord?" Her question cut through the silence like a blade.

Cregan swallowed the lump in his throat, his heart lurching in his chest. He wanted to say no, to deny the concern that gripped him, but something in her gaze made him feel exposed, powerless in a way he had not been before. He forced himself to meet her eyes, but the intensity there—the dark, unfeeling stare—made him feel as though he were sinking into a frozen lake.

His jaw clenched for a moment, as though wrestling with the words he ought to say to her. He leaned forward slightly, his voice quieter, but no less intense.

"I will not be made to live in dread of my wife," he countered firmly. "Though, beyond question, those words waver my trust for you. Upon your integrity. Time will tell."

For the first time, a glimmer of something passed over her face—a brief crack in the mask. Hurt? Confusion? Whatever it was, it was fleeting. Claere tilted her head slightly, studying him from head to toe like one might a curious specimen. He shifted back into his chair, unease unfurling in his stomach.

"You should be afraid of me," she said softly. It wasn’t a threat, but a statement, as if she were merely acknowledging a truth he had yet to accept.

Cregan did not sleep a wink that night. His ancient sword, Ice, lingered closer to him than expected, leaning on his bedside. He laid utterly still as Claere slumbered gingerly, uncaring of the shadows that danced around her, like a tarrying chill that would not leave him alone.

As the sun crested over the horizon, spilling its golden light into their chamber, there was one thing he made certain: Cregan understood that his fear was not of Claere herself, but of what she represented—an unknown force that defied everything Winterfell was. Truth and unity.

X

As the days wore on, Cregan Stark found himself perpetually on edge, his mind halved between the secret suspicions that crept through Winterfell and the cold reality of his new wife. Claere moved through the castle like a careless sprite, floating just beyond reach, drifting from room to room, always apart from the people around her. She left a wake of uncertainty in her path, tales trailing behind her like a fog.

Scarcely did she remain grounded; more often than not, she soared into the skies with Luna, her dragon, a creature so tremendous that many in Winterfell whispered it had outgrown the older beasts of war—Vhagar's equal in size and perhaps ferocity. The sight of it, gleaming silver scales slicing through the frozen air, sent shivers through the keep. Claere’s infrequent appearances at suppers left the hall feeling incomplete, her absence punctuated by muttered resentments from the courtiers and smallfolk alike. The duties of a lady to Winterfell—tending to the hearth and home, overseeing the castle’s workings—were not simply ignored but utterly abandoned.

And yet, Cregan could not bring himself to care. As long as Claere caused no disturbance, as long as she kept to the law, she was no hindrance to him.

As it went, Cregan had not slept in her bed since their wedding night. In fact, they had barely spoken. Claere had quietly suggested moving to a nearby chamber, giving him "his breathing space," as she put it, and he hadn’t objected. He offered up the one with arched ceilings, for when she dabbled in her music, and nearest to the enclosure where her dragon was housed.

Her peculiarities deepened with every passing day. In the dead of night, her harp’s haunting refrain would echo through the passageways, its melody weird and hypnotic. At other times, he would hear her soft footsteps racing through the corridor, out into the courtyard, lost in her dreams until dawn. Most of his courtiers noticed her out on the ramparts after nightfall, laying across the roof—how she got there was a mystery—and staring at the sky for hours on end, speaking to herself. But most unsettling of all were the obscure songs she would hum—songs that danced on the edge of his consciousness, unnervingly poignant, yet cruel in the sweet voice they reached. As if she were singing of things far beyond this world.

Blood and shadow, ice and flame, Sing the tune without a name In the frost, their voices hum Of dead unseen, of eyes aglow Of footsteps deep beneath the snow Ice will crack, and winds will wail, Have you seen the end unfold, the secret that never sleeps?

Claere's songs instilled an image of the most unspeakable cold he knew, distant woods beyond the Wall, where horrors awaited, ready to engulf the unwary. Sometimes, the songs became too much, stirring a dread in him so deep he would storm down the hall, ready to confront her. But each time he did, within her room, like a figure of utmost naïveté, she went by weathering her own storm.

This time, she had ensconced herself by the hearthside, rent of her sleeves, weaving dried winter roses across a vine.

"Did I wake you?" she had asked up at him.

His words faltered. Rather a hollow noise whooshed out his lips, his resentment fleeing at the sight of her. How could someone so callow invoke such unease?

"The hour grows late, princess," he would reply stiffly, the reprimand hollow even to his own ears. "It would be wiser to find some sleep before the morn."

"I adore the night," she had said to him. "Without it, you cannot see the stars. There are no shadows, too."

Cregan had expected to hate her. He had expected to find her burdensome, a hardship forced upon him by duty. But he did not. Indeed, he endured her and accommodated her. As unfamiliar as Claere was, there was something fragile beneath the mantle of her mystery. He found himself unable to despise her, though neither could he truly be fond of her. A part of him, born of compassion, wanted to protect her from the world that had turned its back on her. Perhaps, buried beneath her oddities, she yearned for some semblance of a connection she had never known.

It was one of the handmaidens who had come to him, trembling with unease, to speak of her lady’s growing detachment.

"She barely eats, my lord," the young girl had said. "I fear she grows weaker by the day, surviving on little more than water and grain."

"Have you asked the princess what she would prefer? Surely, our larders are rife enough to sustain her... distinct palate," one of the lords from Cregan's council interjected before he could react.

Cregan shot him a sharp, warning glare. He had long since grown weary of the whispers—the looks exchanged behind his back, the way people averted their eyes when his wife entered a room. The court treated her as if she were a curse, a spectre they wished to avoid. It only stoked his resolve to defend her, to ensure she was not devoured by their disdain. Claere was different, but she was not an object to be mocked.

The maid shifted uneasily. "I have spared no effort in this. Though, there is another issue, my lord."

The Stark lord sighed. "Aye, go on."

"Her ladies have dwindled to nought. I am only charged to tend to her meals, if not no one."

Cregan's heart sank at the thought. He wanted to believe that Claere was merely adjusting to her new life, that in time she would settle. But with each passing day, it became harder to ignore the isolation tightening its grip around her.

"And what, pray tell, has come over them to spurn their service to the Lady of Winterfell?" His voice was low but the threat in it was unmistakable.

The handmaiden lowered her head, unwilling to speak the truth aloud, yet the answer was clear enough. Fear. The court, the smallfolk, her own attendants—everyone was frightened of Claere.

When his eyes bore into her, she hesitated whilst wringing her hands. "We see strange things where the dragon sleeps. My lady's songs... people say they hear them echoing in the courtyard when there is no one."

"These slights must cease at once," he hissed, his voice barely above a murmur, but the weight behind it made the girl flinch. "Claere is a princess of the realm, moreover your lady. Any who fail in their duty will answer to me. Am I clear?"

She nodded hurriedly. "Yes, my lord," she stammered, bowing before retreating from the hall.

And when the next issue reached him, it was, once again, centred on the most pressing concern: Claere's dragon.

"We are unable to feed the beast, my lord," a nervous steward reported, his voice trembling as he stood before Cregan. "The men refuse to go near it. Even the bravest among them say they hear odd noises from its holding."

Cregan's brow furrowed deeply. "Are they afraid of a dragon doing what dragons do—eat?"

"It's not just that, my lord," the steward began, his voice shaky. "We simply do not have the numbers to sustain it. We've lost livestock faster than we can replenish, and there is not enough game in the woods this season. Our people will be left with nothing if it continues like this."

Cregan stood from his chair, pacing toward the hearth as the steward’s words sank in. Feeding Claere's dragon was becoming a task fraught with superstition and suspicion—neither of which he could afford in Winterfell. And now that dragon was a looming menace not just for its size, but even for its insatiable appetite. If they couldn't meet its needs, there was no telling what havoc it might wreak.

"I will take her out to hunt on the morrow," a hushed voice spoke up from across the room.

Cregan turned sharply to see Claere standing in the entrance, her pale little figure silhouetted against the dim light of the corridor. No one had even heard her approach.

A rush of murmurs, of "my lady" and "your grace", went across the sparse crowd in the hall.

For the first time, he noticed how discomfited she seemed with the attention on her. She had courteous bows for the little council of lords before she stood before Cregan, silvery hair left dishevelled and her thin lavender silks trailing by her feet. The toll of her attendant's dearth was evident, how she had to cope alone these past days.

“You heard all that?” he muttered to her, trying to mask the unease.

Claere nodded, unruffled. Then she mellowly addressed the rest of the council who was seated and the anxious steward.

"Luna will no longer be a burden to you," she assured. "Thereafter, I will fly her beyond the Wall. There must be plenty of wild herds there that would satisfy her. And it will keep her from Winterfell's rife supply for a time."

While the disparaged lord hung his head, Cregan's breaths began to constrict. The idea of Claere—of anyone—venturing beyond the Wall unsettled him, but the alternative was just as threatening. It was dangerous to let someone so young, so inexperienced roam in the ancient, Northern wilderness. The risks were too great, even for a dragonrider. His argument would be proved right by the last Targaryen who visited the wall, Claere's own great-great-grandmother, the Good Queen Alysanne and her dragon, Silverwing.

His gaze never left Claere as the lords around them voiced their concern, exclaiming how unwise it was for her to embark beyond Castle Black in such perilous times. Yet, she stood before them as cold and unbothered as ever, her violet eyes betraying no hint of fear or doubt.

"You plan to hunt beyond the Wall alone, as winter draws nigh?" Cregan asked, laced with tension. "You would risk that?"

One of his bannermen, old and discerning to the dangers of the North, came forth with an incredulous look. "A Southerner such as you would have no idea of the true perils beyond Whitetree, my lady. Five hundred years have passed since the last great threat, and still, we are not entirely certain what lurks in the darkness. If it isn't the cold that claims you, it might be wildlings or worse—barbed, spindly creatures, drawn from the blackest legends."

Claere tilted her head slightly as if the lord’s words were of little consequence to her. As if she knew something about the Land of Always Winter that he did not.

"Do not fret, ser," Claere replied, gentle yet astute. "Luna is fearsome when she needs to be. She is not just any dragon—she is the last living relic of Old Valyria, a mere egg when Aenar the Exile first claimed Dragonstone. She will protect me."

Her words should have been reassuring, but they left Cregan with a hollow pit in his stomach. It wasn’t her confidence in the dragon that troubled him—it was her complete lack of concern for the threats she would face. He had seen fear in men’s eyes before, but Claere’s violet gaze was barren, as though no amount of danger or uncertainty could touch her.

"You speak of Luna’s strength as if it is enough," Cregan finally said, his voice low. "But what of your own?"

"You needn’t concern yourself with my safety," she replied, her tone as impassive as her expression.

He studied her closely, weighing his options and her obvious solutions, searching her enchanting face for some flicker of apprehension. There was nothing. It irked him to no extent. Did nothing shake her? Did nothing put her off?

"I am the Warden of the North," he bit out. "Your safety is under my jurisdiction."

She shrugged one side of her shoulder. "Then it appears we have reached an impasse, my lord."

Her words were calm and detached, as though she were discussing the weather. Cregan's patience wore thin, his protective instincts clashing with her indifference.

He strode to her side, towering over her, his imposing figure blocking them from the view of the council. Claere leaned away, her eyes dipping down, her face contorting in disquiet at his proximity. Yet he pressed on, tucking a finger under her chin, forcing her gaze back to him.

"Don't," he tried to protest.

"Look at me," he urged, his grip tightening as frustration bled into his words. "I cannot risk you for something as feckless as a hungry pet. Do you understand me, Claere?"

Her gaze flicked up to meet his. For a brief moment, it was as if she were on the verge of revealing some hidden truth, some implicit fear or vulnerability.

"You do not risk me. 'Tis I who take the risk," she said, her voice painfully even.

Cregan's jaw clenched, his exasperation palpable as he released her chin, stepping back but still glaring at her. He could protect Winterfell, the North, and his people—but her? He was not so convinced anymore.

"Fine. Do as you wish," he surrendered. "Ride past the Wall."

She offered him nothing more than a parting curtsey as if she had already said too much. With that, Claere turned to leave the room but his words stopped her dead in her tracks.

"However, I will ride with you."

For a moment, she remained still, her back to him. Slowly, she turned her head, glancing at him over her shoulder. And finally—there it was.

A flicker of astonishment in her violet eyes. A break in the mask of indifference she so carefully maintained. Her lips parted, but no words came. Something deeper, more vulnerable, flickered in her violet gaze, a shadow of doubt or unease, quickly concealed again behind her calm facade.

"Why?" she asked, her foremost intuition to always suspect goodwill.

"It's not a request," Cregan replied, his tone brooking no arguments. "If you are to face danger, you will not do it alone."

Claere’s gaze lingered on him for a beat longer before she gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. Without another word, she turned once more and left the room, the heavy doors closing behind her with a quiet thud.

Cregan stood still, watching the place where she had just been, and where no one could see him, broke out into a triumphant smirk. This was it then, a game at which two could play. If she was a tempest, then he would be the steadfast mountain, immovable against the storm.

X

thank you for reading! idk how a taglist works but I'd love to hear your thoughts <3

[eileenwdj]

my spidersonas! their names are Hong Zhizhu/Red Spider (real name Hong Huiran) and Zhizhu Dajun/Lord Spider (real name Xu Xia). they are connected with each other!

backstories, doodles, and other versions under the cut

their backstories:

Zhizhu Dajun (蜘蛛大君) / Lord Spider

Real name: Xu Xia (徐侠)

Born from a poor, commoner family, Xu Xia works in a wealthy noble family's home as a servant to the young master (his version of Harry Osborne probably ?) who allows him to tag along and shadow him during his studies

A god/immortal (whom we shall not name bc I can't think) messed around and accidentally cursed a bunch of animals. Some of these animals became monsters, some physically merged with unsuspecting humans, and some others granted powers to creatures they come across, like the spider that bit Xu Xia

Bro became this world's one and only Spiderman (yayy!!!) and lived the rest of his life fighting crime and protecting the innocent (wahoo!!)

A lot of people thought of him as a god or a powerful immortal due to his powers and started to build temples for him and worship him (he's not god, he's just some guy who happened to get bit by a spider)

He inevitably died during a great battle against a powerful enemy. Before he died, he vowed to not rest in peace until he finds a worthy successor to serve as protector and defeat the enemy (that is presumably immortal and can strike again at anytime) and he transfered his consciousness? soul? ghost self? idk tbh? to one of his spiders

Unfortunately bro is So Tired™️ that it took him several thousand years to wake up

Hong Zhizhu (红蜘蛛) / Red Spider

Real name: Hong Huiran (洪惠然)

She's a science & engineering geek but also a History major. She originally wanted to major in STEM but ended up with History because STEM majors are expensive as hell

The mysterious and reclusive Zhizhu Dajun is her thesis topic and she frequently visits the museum to look at his statues and displays

One of the displays is a taxidermed spider

It is also the exact same spider that Xu Xia transfered himself into when he died

Xu Xia has only recently managed to wake up but is still barely able to move his new body (I imagine it must be hard to move if your body is filled with cotton, RIP)

He was intrigued by Huiran when he noticed her visiting multiple times. He deems her worthy to be his successor and with the sheer power of (god and anime on his side) will, he escaped his display and bit her

Huiran becomes her world's (and her time's) one and only Spiderwoman (yayy!!) and lives life fighting crime and protecting the innocent (wahoo!!!)

But you see, the way the spiderbite works is that now Xu Xia is technically in Huiran's body... so... so..... it's like,, Asa and Yoru.........

Several thousand-year-old stoic ancient ghost man becomes mentor and father figure to reluctant 22-year-old history student with a science obsession running on 12 cups of coffee and zero sleep

Shenanigans ensue

another version of Zhizhu Dajun’s design:

these were his original colors before he broke. red seemed too happy a color for his path. he then permanently changed to white, forever mourning the lives he couldn't save. Huiran chose to adopt these colors instead of the white.

extra doodles:

[theragethatisdesire]

perzītsos - bakugou katsuki x afab!reader, 18+!!

uh....surprise! i really love asoiaf, and i've seen so many posts about barbarian!katsuki, but i wasn't really successful in writing him, so here's my take on a fantasy au with katsuki. this takes place pre-fire and blood, really in the "medieval" days of the targaryen dynasty, with a targaryen heir!reader. i took some creative liberties with targaryen marriage customs, but i think they're sorta fun.

this is a beast of a one-shot, but there's lots of lore preceding this (do i smell a prequel?), including that reader asked for katsuki's hand in marriage, and neither of them were really expecting to wind up in a marriage bed together. i normally don't write virginity loss, but i made an exception for these two, i really do love them!!! fair warning, there's lots of high valyrian in here, which i don't speak fluently either, so i'm going to add some translations at the end :)

"perzītsos" - "little flame"

enjoy <3

pairing: bakugou katsuki x fem!reader

wc: 13.5k (told ya it's a beast)

DISCLAIMER: this post contains MATURE CONTENT that is intended only for those over 18. if you are a minor, please do not read below the cut. bakugou is roughly twenty-eight in this fic.

cws: virginity loss, aged-up characters, fingering, oral sex (fem!receiving, male!receiving mentioned), reader has female anatomy, smut, pretentious amounts of high valyrian pet names

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Leaving the raucous merriment of the great hall behind, its stone walls bursting at the seams with the raunchy, jeering calls of Bakugou’s soldiers and the titters of the ladies of the court, only seems to emphasize the echoing silence of your chambers. The servants had completed the arduous job of transferring your things into your new apartments today; you recognize the tapestries that had decorated your walls since you were a child, now dwarfed by the massive dimensions of your new quarters, and the candelabra you’d been gifted by a nobleman at your seventh name day sits upon a newly constructed ebony desk.

Nearly every hard surface in the room—desks, tables, even small areas of the floor—has been covered in the fat, yellow beeswax candles crafted in the kitchens many stories below your feet, flames dancing and casting shadows this way and that over the stone walls. Many a night have you forgone sleep in favor of losing yourself in the waltz of a small fire on a wick, the sometimes-frantic, sometimes-untroubled rhythm of the flame in the breeze of an open window. Tonight, though, not even the hundreds of flames, these little extensions of the hot, ancient blood that flows through your veins, can distract you from your fate.

“I remember these rooms,” you say offhandedly, bringing one hand to the fine curtains that hang around the tapestry bed, “they were my mother’s.”

Bakugou stays stock still where he stands, letting you examine the marriage bed. The wood was brought into these chambers several weeks ago, alongside a handful of master carpenters. The bed is enormous, easily large enough for three people to get a full night’s sleep without touching each other. It had been built inside of the room so that the intended dimensions could be fulfilled without the worry of actually fitting it through the door, which it would not. The sight of it makes an apprehensive shiver rock through your frame.

“You were born here,” Bakugou says gruffly, catching you by surprise. “I remember.”

You turn to face him, eyebrows raised cautiously at his decision to speak. Considering what lies before you both, the breach in his silence is appreciated, if unexpected. He’s hardly said two words to you all night; two words besides the lengthy wedding vows you’d exchanged before gods and men alike, speaking them practically into each other’s mouths in the purring, labyrinthine cadence of the Old Tongue. The metallic taste of his blood, brushed onto your tongue by his own thumb, is still nestled between your teeth, worryingly permanent.

“You remember?”

“Hardly.” Bakugou diverts his gaze from you to where your marriage bed lies, squinting his eyes as if he’s trying to remember what it had looked like more than twenty years past. “I was three.”

It shouldn’t be as much of a surprise as it is, given that you’d practically been raised alongside Bakugou, taken your first steps, tasted your first victories, had your first stumbles under his watchful crimson gaze. The required distance had been there, as you’d always been more of an heir than a little girl, and Bakugou had been busy with his training anyhow, but he was a steadfast part of your memories, even if he had been mostly in the blurry peripherals until the most recent years. This confession, that he had stood in the same room as your howling, bloodied form had been brought into the world, makes you feel more exposed than you already do in your thin gown.

Bakugou must take notice of how your shoulders unintentionally tense up, because his lips pull into a small frown, not one of anger, but seemingly guilt. You sigh, rolling your shoulders back and squaring yourself to face him, trying not to let your cheeks burn hot as your nipples peak under the singular layer of fabric hiding the finer details of your body from him. He’s intimidating, and both of you know it, but considering that you’re the reason you two find yourselves in this room, you think that maybe you should be the one to guide him along.

Bakugou approaches you slowly, making a noticeable effort to dull down the soldier’s swagger he normally walks with, holding your gaze with what you surmise is his best attempt to look open and mild-tempered. You notice how he pointedly avoids looking at your body, how it’s silhouetted by the candlelight and showing itself as a dark, shapely shadow in the white fabric of your gown. He’s close enough to touch now, toes only inches from yours. You’re reminded of how close you stood during the ceremony, how he had sworn to give his life for you, to you. Ānogar ānograro.

“They’re waiting,” you say quietly, eyes darting to the four servants in each corner of the room. Bakugou follows your gaze, and his frown grows deeper.

“May I speak freely?” It’s a laughable question coming from him, but it’s a kindhearted gesture, so you bite into your lip and nod your acquiesce.

“You’re my husband,” you say, trying not to feel discouraged at the pink tinge that rises to his cheeks, “I always want you to speak freely.”

Through a stiff nod of understanding, Bakugou lets a deep breath exhale through his nose before pinning you in place with a scrutinizing gaze. “Have you been…kissed, before?”

“Of course I have, Bakugou.” You can’t hide the breathless chuckle that comes fluttering from your lips, the dangerous hint of a relieved smile that begins to carve into your cheeks.

“Katsuki,” he says, the corner of his own mouth curling when his simple request for familiarity wipes the glimmer of smugness straight away from your face. “Your husband, remember?”

“Katsuki,” you repeat, letting the letters make a home for themselves on your tongue. Something flashes in his eyes, and he clears his throat. You can’t make out the shape of what’s flickered across his face, but you can feel the heat thrumming from his eyes to yours.

“What else?”

“What do you mean?” Your nose wrinkles in confusion, entirely lost on what point he’s trying to make. Katsuki narrows his eyes, clears his throat uncomfortably.

“What else do you have…experience with?”

Oh. He wants to know if you’ve been touched, where you’ve been touched, possibly even by whom. It’s your turn to shuffle your bare feet on the cold stone floor, to look solidly ahead at the v in the collar of his loose tunic, the slope of his neck, anywhere but his eyes. Your stomach begins to roil at the implication of this, of baring yourself to him wholly. It won’t be the first time you do it tonight, and certainly not the last.

“I’ve– um, done most things.” You somehow summon the courage to meet his gaze again, staring up defiantly. “I hope that’s not a disappointment to you.”

“You had no obligation to me before today.” Katsuki shakes his head, as if to dispel the very notion that you even have something to refuse to apologize for. It brings a spark of warmth to your heart, a hum of satisfaction pulsing through you that you’d chosen your husband well, at least in this regard. “But you are a virgin?”

You can’t control the way your eyes go wide, blinking hurriedly at him when he asks the question. Your fingertips grow hot, and you aren’t sure which potential answer would be the least mortifying, so you opt to stick with the truth.

“Yes,” you say, so lowly it’s near a whisper, “I’m a virgin.”

Katsuki swears quietly in the Old Tongue, and though you’re more focused on your feet than his face, you can see the awkward repositioning of his feet, how his hands clench and unclench at your confession. He’s your husband, you scold yourself, you have no need for fear. You jerk your head up to look unflinchingly at his face, unapologetic in your stance. Despite the way he had voiced his indifference to your prior experiences, you can see some strange mixture of relief, nerves, and that same undefinable heat rising to his face, coloring his features and darkening his eyes.

His eyes run over your consummation gown, long, loose, and traditional as they come, lovingly hand-stitched by your longest serving lady-in-waiting. Your handmaidens had taken the liberty of freshening you up after the feast, scrubbing most of the heavy, ash-black ceremony makeup from the bridge of your nose, wiping the kohl from your eyes until you were bare. Your elaborate wedding hairstyle had been let down and reworked into a long, singular braid down your back, loosely secured by a knot of cowhide. That, amongst other things, is for him, and only him.

“After this,” Katsuki wets his lips with his tongue, “we won’t share a bed again–”

“Katsuki–”

“Not until you’re ready,” he amends. His fingers twitch by his sides, a boyish gesture for a man of his massive stature.

“I’m your wife,” you say, puzzled and looking up at him, “I may be a virgin now, but I’m no stranger to what that entails.”

A heavy breath shakes through Katsuki’s frame, and his brows knit together in an expression of comfortingly familiar exasperation. You almost want to smile back at him.

“I expected as much,” he says, one hand reaching forward ever so slowly to brush tentatively through your fingers dangling at your side, to pinch at the thin fabric of your gown and rub it between his fingers, “but that’s a matter for the morning.”

You catch the implication in his tone, in the way he’s holding the sheet separating you from him. There’s something to be taken care of. Your palms turn clammy, fingers beginning to tremble by your sides. It takes everything in you to set your jaw and look up at him, shoulders rolled back and expression carefully schooled into something that you can only pray approaches a warm neutrality.

“Would you like to take it off?” Your eyes flit from your gown to his face.

Katsuki considers you, dragging his eyes over your frame at an agonizingly slow rate, still maddeningly rubbing that fabric between his fingers. Suddenly, his face crumples into a scowl.

“You’re shaking,” he says matter-of-factly. Your cheeks warm, wishing he wouldn’t have brought it up. “Are you nervous?”

“Not of you,” you answer him truthfully, willing the tension in your spine to melt into pleasurable anticipation. Katsuki catches your meaning instantly, the concern in his eyes glittering into something more akin to the anger that settles so comfortably into the frown lines on his face, that strikes his sharp features so suddenly and beautifully you almost gasp.

“Turn around,” he barks suddenly, his posture straightening into that of the formidable general you’ve known him as all your life, not the surprisingly gentle husband he’s shown himself to be in the last few minutes. You start in his arms, beginning to spin on your heels to follow his command when his hands catch you by the shoulders, an apology writing its way into the fine features of his face.

“But you said–”

“Them.” Katsuki jerks his head towards the servants posted in each corner who are, miraculously, turned away from the two of you, heads down and poised towards the corner. You look up to Katsuki in amazement, and his eyes soften. “I wouldn’t speak to you that way.”

“Oh.” It’s light and not enough when it falls from your mouth, and you want to apologize, but Katsuki’s already loosening his grip on your shoulders, urging you to spin.

“Now you,” he says gently, “turn around.”

Too stunned by the duality of him to argue, the whetted and wartorn angles of him contrasting with this unbearable softness, you turn your back to him, urging yourself to relax under the weight of his hands. Katsuki’s hands subtly squeeze your shoulders, as if to warn you of their departure, and the next time you feel his touch, it’s on the end of your long braid, his scarred fingers fumbling with the cowhide tie.

You hold your breath as you feel the tension along your scalp go slack; he’s gotten the tie off of your braid. Katsuki’s fingers begin to methodically comb through your long hair, starting at the bottom and working his way up, deftly avoiding knots and keeping the lightly-oiled strands from tangling themselves as he undoes your braid. He’s surprisingly good at it, and an unexpected pang of pain accompanies your curious thought as to whether he’s had much practice undoing a woman’s hair, something so sacred. Before you can ruminate on the hurt beginning to come to a simmer in your chest, Katsuki’s spinning you back around, causing the calming perfume of your hair oil to cloud around your head as your hair fans out. It centers you, gives you the wherewithal to look up into his eyes.

Katsuki’s face is candid, beautifully so, in the way he regards you. Crimson eyes dart over every feature you have to offer him, now so wild and unbidden compared to your usual state of being, and he reaches a tentative hand towards your hair, before flinching and pulling back. You shake your head, bringing a hand out to catch his and pull it back towards the part of you he so clearly wants to touch before you can think better of it. Katsuki’s eyes widen, only momentarily, before his face settles into an expression of quiet approval, and he runs his fingers through your hair again, less purposeful this time and more for the simple pleasure of memorizing the feel of you under his hands. You blink up at him, waiting.

“Gevie,” he mumbles under his breath, watching how his fingers card through your unruly hair. He mistakenly brushes your nipple, still peaked under your consummation gown, and realizes what he’s done when you gasp lightly. 

“It’s okay,” you say hurriedly, surprising yourself when you realize that you mean it. Your back has already begun to arch unwittingly towards him, as if your body has accepted him as your husband while your mind is still trying to wrap itself around the idea. “Touch me.”

You can see the thought cross Katsuki’s face before he even reaches for your gown, pinching it at the hips on either side of you.

“Do you want to take it off, or would you like me to?” Katsuki says, hardly louder than a whisper. You blink, still trying to marry this man with the outspoken, ruthless general you’d invited to the altar with you.

“Traditionally, the man–”

“I know,” Katsuki says, a bit of an agonized bite behind his words. You bite your lip, worried that you’ve finally overstepped, but he sighs, heavy and surrendered. “I know what happens traditionally. I don’t care. We’re doing this on your terms.”

“My terms,” you repeat slowly, trying to gather his meaning.

“Yes,” Katsuki affirms, “your terms. Now, do you want to take your gown off, or do you want me to?”

You want to run to the washroom to realign your expectations, is what you want to do. This is supposed to be quick, you remember your handmaidens preparing you with monstrous stories of being unceremoniously bent over the bed, gown ripped to shreds or simply shoved above your hips instead of carefully pulled between a considerate thumb and finger. You study him, study that freshly sincere affection on his face, his willingness to bring you through this unscathed and…dare you say it, satisfied. Your hand, which, so lost in your thoughts, you hadn’t even noticed drifting, comes up to cup his sharp jaw, plush palm giving against the angle of his face.

“I want you to,” you say, nodding when his eyebrows raise in surprise. “I want you to take it off of me, please.”

Katsuki only answers you with a curt nod of his own, schooling his momentarily bewildered expression back into one of careful concentration, more for your benefit than his, you think. You can feel a slight tremor in his hands when he brings them to the strings that suffice for your gown’s sleeves, little more than strips of fabric tied in loose bows over your shoulder. Despite the painstakingly beautiful embroidery in the stiff linen, curling flames and stars rising from the hem of your gown, everything else about the design of the garment reveals its purpose: to be removed.

You hold your breath while he works at the tied strings, partly because you feel like you should and partly because the slightest brush of his fingers over your skin feels so climactic that you feel that it should make a sound, maybe that of pottery breaking or lightning clapping across a dark sky. It’s silent, the slip of the linen through itself, three cautious pulls and your gown is sagging on one side, the collar falling until your nipple is almost exposed. You gulp and try to look up to Katsuki, but his jaw is set, even grinding a bit in concentration as he keeps his gaze centered firmly on the bow he’s set upon on your right shoulder. You study him, looking for any indication that he’s anxious, or pleased, or disinterested, but he’s an unreadable mask of focus as his large fingers tug on the bow. It slides loose as easily as the first one had, and your gown slips from your body and crumples around your feet on the floor.

Katsuki sucks in a sharp inhale, forced to take in the sight of your naked body now that he’s finished his task. You watch intently as his eyes drag over every part of you, slow and savory, nostrils flaring and pupils dilating. You’re so exhilarated by his wild eyes taking you in, you almost forget to be insecure, to be nervous. This is something you might grow to enjoy, you think; Katsuki’s carefully concealed appetite.

“Am I alright?” You feel your mouth form the words, hear them float into the charged air. You don’t think you meant to ask, but once it’s out, you’re glad you did. It may be a politically-made marriage bed, but as fate would have it, your crown sits upon the head of a young woman, a young woman looking into the eyes of the man that would have her for his own, wanting to be thought of as a thing to be admired. Katsuki’s eyes flicker back to yours, and his brows knit together.

“Alright?” Katsuki’s eyes leave yours once more, and he meets his own gaze with a bold hand on your hip, thumb rubbing circles over your hipbone. “You’re more than alright, but you already know that.”

You feel so small, so silly when you tell him: “I was hoping you’d be the one to remind me.”

Katsuki understands then, meets your fixed look upon his face and lets that molten desire cool into something more digestible, easier to hold, and then he speaks. “Iksā gevie, ñuha ābrazȳrys.”

When you’d learned the Old Tongue as a child, you’d been taught to purr the sounds, to run them together like the slow, controlled flow of ink from the end of a feather. You learned to curl the consonants behind your teeth and let them breathe the same air for a beat, to birth the sounds into the world off of your tongue instead of simply pushing the air out. But when Katsuki speaks the Old Tongue it’s…a growl, forceful and quaking with restrained power. Raw and godlike, the words sound like they were written with his low rasp in mind.

Wife. His beautiful wife. Your breath hitches in your throat at the same time as a vicious swell of desire rips through you, mouth beginning to hang ajar. Katsuki frowns slightly, tilts his head.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“Take me, then,” you say, breathless from your own courage. Katsuki’s eyes widen, and if you could see clearly through your own sudden lust, you’d see the corner of his mouth twitching. “Make me your wife.”

“I will,” Katsuki comes closer, speaking not smugly, but matter-of-factly. He slides one hand around your waist, thumbs at your chin with the other. “But there’s an order to these things.”

No sooner have you opened your mouth to protest Katsuki’s condescension than he’s closing the wide gap between his height and your plush, open lips, pressing his mouth to yours, and your mind goes quiet. You’ve been kissed upwards of a dozen times at this point, something you were proud to remind your ladies-in-waiting of this morning while they giggled and squealed about your big night with the general. A few princes, a handful of noblemen’s sons, the expected suspects. All your ladies had said in return was “Those are boys. The general is a man. You’ll see the difference.”

There’s nothing demanding or unkind in the way his fingers are pressing into the plush curve of your hip, but it’s firm, steady in a way you’ve never dreamed about being held. His hand spreads across your jawline, keeping you tilted up and open for him to move his mouth against. There’s none of the hurried pecking, no errant tongue forcing its way between your teeth before you can even offer– Katsuki’s a man. You understand now, understand your handmaidens’ flushed cheeks and the way they fanned themselves theorizing about whether your new husband was as ruthless in bed as he was on the battlefield. Katsuki makes a fire catch behind your ribs, a desperate urge to impress, to keep your now horrifyingly-apparent lack of experience under wraps.

You bring a hand to the back of his neck, willing yourself not to tremble, and card your fingers through the close-cropped hair, smiling when Katsuki’s lips stutter against your own. His grip on you tightens, one big hand slipping to the nape of your neck and pulling you flush against him. His tongue slips into your mouth, tasting like ceremonial wine and something mannish and mature; you’re hardly able to swallow the gasp that threatens to reveal how the pit of your stomach is beginning to curl in on itself. Your breasts are pressed tight against his chest, only separated from his skin by his linen tunic. The fabric kisses your sensitive nipples, brushing against the untouched skin, and despite yourself, you whimper pathetically into his waiting mouth, cheeks warming.

Katsuki pulls back, to your disappointment, and you begin to chew at your lip, frantically thinking through the last several minutes to wonder what you’ve done wrong. Had you been too forward, touching him back so quickly? Your fretting dies down quickly when you see that Katsuki’s only stepped back to finger the hem of his tunic, ripping it over his head. You only have a moment to catch a blurry flash of honed muscle and scarred skin before he’s back on you, calloused hands wrapping around your hips. It only takes a few moments of him kissing you, of your fingers dragging absentmindedly up his veiny forearm, before you ask him for what you want, palms pressed flat against his chest and pushing lightly.

His brows knit together, and his eyes flicker over your face, searching for any sign of discomfort. You take a deep inhale, hoping to hide how rapidly you’ve lost your breath to him, steeling yourself to look him in the eye.

“I want to see you.”

Katsuki’s face screws up almost comically, and he tilts his head.

“See me?”

“See you.”

You take a step back, keeping your hands on his arms, holding him just where you want him and– is it a sight. He’s sharper than you would have imagined, deep grooves carving into his skin where his muscles bulge beneath it. You suck in a sharp breath as you let your eyes move slowly from his hardened stomach to his broad chest, little nicks dotting his skin where a stray swordtip had punctured armor, and a particularly nasty gash cutting across his front, stretching from his shoulder to his ribcage. It looks like it should have been fatal. Katsuki crosses his arms over his chest, maybe in an attempt to stop you from ogling him like you are, but it’s counterproductive; all he’s done is give you a golden opportunity to watch the skin of his arms stretch to accommodate the way his biceps swell and shrink with the movement, the twitching and flexing of each individual muscle laid bare for you to see clearly.

When your gaze finally returns to his face, you almost want to snort at his expression: pink cheeks, a scrunched nose, and eyebrows lifted to indicate just how entirely unimpressed he is with your drooling.

“Done ‘seeing’ me?” Katsuki asks, mouth lifting in just the smallest hint at a smile. Your heart flutters lightly in your chest; it’s the first attempt either of you have made at humor since your betrothal, and it’s hugely relieving to have something to smile about.

“It was only fair that I take my turn,” you say, gesturing down at your bare skin. Katsuki’s lips lift a little more until his gaze lowers; his eyes darken as he lets himself take you in. You can see the same thought crossing his mind just as it occurs to you: you belong to each other now, every bit of skin, muscle, heart that you’re bearing to each other isn’t just your own anymore. That scrunch in his nose, the scar across his chest, the way he narrows his eyes to study you. It all belongs to you now.

Katsuki steps forward, letting his hand interlace with yours, fingers hanging in the spaces between your own.

“Are you ready?” His question is no more than a puff of air against your forehead, both of you mercifully standing so close that you aren’t forced to look in his eyes when he asks.

“Yes.” Your voice shakes despite your attempt to be resolute in your answer, and you tighten your fingers around his in apology. It’s all new.

Katsuki kisses you again, slower and warmer than last time. It’s not desperate or hurried, but it is sensual, a promise of what awaits you when he lays you down on your bed. You sigh into his mouth, growing comfortable now with the feel of him on you; so comfortable, even, that you don’t notice he’s been backing you up until your back hits the poster of the bed, effectively pinning you between the hard, ebony wood, and Katsuki’s strong chest.

Your confinement does something to him. It’s immeasurably minute, the way his breath seems to puff out a bit heavier, the sudden jerk of his fingers into your hips, but it’s there.

“When you said you had experience…” Katsuki says, voice gravelly and dangerously close to a pant, “what did you mean by that?”

“I–” you pause, swallowing thickly around the growing lump in your throat, “I’ve been kissed, and I’ve…been touched.” You settle on that, hoping he grasps what you’re suddenly too shy to say.

“Did he make you cum?” He asks it so quietly, you almost wonder if you’ve heard him correctly, but you do hear him, and your chest caves in on itself as the breath leaves your lungs. You’ve snickered over such things with trusted girl friends, your ladies in waiting, but to hear it so gruffly, from the lips of a man—your new husband, no less—is a shock to your system.

“I think so,” you murmur, hardly able to form the words. You can’t see him, his head hunched over your shoulder and his lips ghosting over the shell of your ear, but you can practically feel him frown.

“If he had, you would know so.” Katsuki presses a soft kiss on the cartilage of your ear, travels down to bring your earlobe between his lips. He moves farther down, kissing gently down the slope of your neck, so slowly as if not to scare you.

“How would I know?” You can’t believe you’ve even dared to ask the question, not entirely sure you’ve prepared yourself well enough to hear his answer. Katsuki sucks in a sharp breath against your collarbone, pausing his ministrations where he’d begun to lick and suckle at the prominent angle of it. Your face warms as you realize how deeply his faint touches have begun to affect you, how your chest is beginning to swell and sink with heavy breaths, how your skin tingles and sparks in anticipation of the next absentminded swipe of his knuckles, of the light pressure of his mouth.

“I can show you,” he whispers, and the world stops turning for a moment, “if you’d like.”

“Yes,” you breathe out before you can think better of yourself. You trust his hands, the steady way that they graze the curve of your hip and splay out against the small of your back. He’s stable and unwavering, keeping you afloat.

Katsuki nods against your shoulder, almost imperceptibly, and brings one of those strong hands up between your shoulderblades. He spreads his fingers out, forcing your back to arch for him, and brings his free hand up to your chest, pausing when he’s only a hair’s breadth from your breast. His eyes meet yours, a concentrated divot appearing between his eyebrows as he searches your face for any signs of discomfort. You arch into his touch, surprising even yourself with your boldness, and your jaw drops a bit at the sensation of his rough palms on your soft, supple breast.

Your eagerness spurs him to action, and he bends at the waist, scattering a litter of kisses across the top of your chest. You hold your breath as he dips lower, but your attempt to remain silent fails entirely when he closes his lips around your peaked nipple. A horribly broken whimper slips from your lips, and you squirm, though whether your body’s trying to push you into or away from the wet heat of his mouth you can’t tell.

Katsuki’s mouth stretches into a ghost of a smile around your flesh, or so you think, until his teeth graze your nipple properly and a quiet cry bursts from you. He smiles fully with your breast still between his teeth. His hand holds your back firmly in its bowed position as he moves to your other breast, twisting his tongue around your nipple there and kissing gently along the fat curve of the underside. He continues his descent, grazing his lips over your stomach, and you don’t realize he’s on his knees until he’s suckling softly on your hipbone, one hand now sprawled over your stomach. Katsuki rubs his thumb over the top of the thatch of hair between your legs, almost reverently, and it makes you regain your bearings, gulping.

“W-what are you doing?” You nearly cringe at the sound of your own voice, words syrupy and thick on your tongue.

Katsuki raises a cautious eyebrow, pulling back from the slight bruise he’s begun to place upon your hipbone. He’s still moving carefully, ghosting over where he wants to touch you as a warning before pressing his skin fully to yours, unwilling to spook you just yet, but something’s quickly changing in him. His jaw ticks as he considers you, looking down on where he kneels between your legs with wide eyes.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Katsuki asks back, looking genuinely confused. Your cheeks are aflame.

“You’re on your knees.” It sounds too simple as it leaves your mouth, an insult to your own intelligence, and you scowl in frustration, looking off to the side. The quiet chuckle between your legs snaps your attention back to Katsuki.

“I’m on my knees,” Katsuki agrees, leaning in and brushing his lips against your inner thigh, sending a full-body shudder racking through you, “for you. Do you…not like it?”

Your mind, foggy in the places you’re accustomed to using and glaringly sharp in useless departments like, for example, the way Katsuki’s eyes are glinting dangerously in the low light, struggles to find an answer for his question. You do like it, seeing this hulking, powerful man kneeling before you, tucking his chin up to the supple flesh of your thigh and blinking up at you curiously, but not for any reason that you can put your finger on.

“I didn’t say that,” you say carefully, willing your senses to come back to you. “I just…you look like you’re planning something.”

Another cutting half-smirk flashes across his face, gone as soon as it appears. “You’ve never been tasted before, have you?”

“Tasted?” You try to keep your face from showing your shock and confusion; surely he’s not about to do what you think he is. Katsuki hums an affirmative, placing another kiss to the clammy crease of your thigh and your cunt, a gasp ripping from your throat before you can stop it.

“Do you not want me to?” Katsuki tilts his head, expressionless. You try to find the answer to his question on his face, but he’s blank, leaving the decision entirely up to you. “It’ll help with the pain.”

The pain, that’s right. Soon, he would be taking you for his own, stretching your body in a new way that you’d heard the whispers about: bloody bedsheets, sore between the legs, pleading for the end. You chew into your bottom lip, considering your options.

“Do you want to?”

“I do,” Katsuki says, eyes dark and unreadable, “I want to make you feel good. But we’re doing this on–”

“My terms,” you finish for him, nodding, “I remember.”

“Good.” Katsuki nods, and you try desperately to ignore the heat that thrums through you. “So, if you don’t want it, I won’t. Simple as that.”

You think for a brief moment. Katsuki’s admitted to wanting something of you, of your body, perhaps for the first time since you’d gotten him wrapped up with you. You repeat his words over and over in your head, trying to make sense of them. I want to make you feel good.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Katsuki knits his brows.

“I want to try it,” you say, and add with a shaky exhale, “being tasted.”

If you’re not mistaken, Katsuki’s shoulders shiver between your legs, his eyes glazing over a little at your words. You feel pride ringing in your chest, seeing him uncoil, even if it’s only the slightest bit. You’d chosen correctly. Much as he did when you asked him to undress you, Katsuki nods tensely, and he moves deeper between your legs, nudging your knees apart for himself.

“It’ll feel good,” he murmurs quietly, picking up one of your legs and draping it over his shoulder, “but if you want me to stop, tell me, alright?”

You nod down at him, knowing that every bit of your nerves at being so exposed is showing all over your face. Katsuki flits his gaze down to your cunt, glistening in the candlelight and humiliatingly wet from his touch, and you can see him bite into the inside of his cheek, see his eyes flutter closed. Despite your embarrassment, you’re keen on watching, learning from him. Katsuki leans in, and his tongue slides between your wet folds, but even over your choked noise of surprise, one thing rings clear in your mind at the startling new sensation.

Katsuki groans, louder than you’ve ever heard, languid and gratified, face pressed so firmly into your center that you can already feel his shadow of stubble scratching the insides of your thighs. His hand, wrapped around the thigh over his shoulder, suddenly tightens, fingers digging into the meat of your leg much harder than he’s touched you yet. You focus on the muscles of his jaw, tensing and straining on the side of his face, while he licks into you like a man starved.

The way he eats you is such a deviation from his feather-light touches that you almost can’t believe it’s the same man, lewd noises echoing throughout the room as he suckles on something between your legs that you hadn’t even discovered properly for yourself, only swiping at it blindly in the darkest hours in your chambers. Your back curves viciously, breathy moans spilling from your lips, fingernails clawing into the ornately-carved posts of your marriage bed. Katsuki holds you tight against him, eyes hooded in bliss and mouth moving ceaselessly against you.

You’ve snuck a hand down between your legs before, rubbed shyly at the growing wetness, at the swollen skin, and experienced maybe a glimmer of the feeling that’s now glowing hot in the pit of your stomach. You would almost feel panicked at the spiraling, swooping sensation; that is, if you weren’t so wholly consumed by the white-hot pleasure coursing through your veins.

“Katsuki– I, it’s so– oh,” you trail off, losing your words as Katsuki establishes a rhythm of flicking his tongue between your legs right on that damned spot that you wish you’d known about before, maybe you could have prepared– “Oh, Katsuki, it’s– so good.”

Katsuki elicits a sound that’s closer to a snarl than anything else you can think of, tightening his iron grip into your skin. One of your hands absentmindedly fists in his hair, and before you can find the presence of mind to rip it away, he moans, openly and unashamedly, eyes screwing shut. He likes it, your foggy mind realizes, and you dig your fingers in harder, anchoring what’s left of you to the earth using the straight, sandy locks.

The heat, the sparks that are flying around every nerve ending in your body, begins to pick up an overwhelming speed, and all of the sudden, you feel like you need to kick out, to curl in on yourself, to scream so loud the windows blow out.

“Katsuki,” you say desperately, making watery, scared eyes at him. Katsuki’s brow furrows, and he only holds his pace, red eyes glaring into yours. You’re trying to warn him, but no words will form, and you can’t catch your breath, panting and clawing at his hair and almost sobbing until–

Everything peaks. A broken cry comes shooting out of your throat, your standing leg threatening to give out under you, and you writhe and twitch on Katsuki’s face, shamelessly surrendering to the most intense tidal wave of pleasure you’ve experienced in your life. From the fuzzy peripherals of your consciousness, you can hear Katsuki groaning encouragingly into your wet cunt, still dutifully moving his tongue against you and smearing the evidence of your arousal all over his cheeks. When the world comes back into focus, it’s dazzlingly harsh, your muscles weakening as soon as Katsuki’s face clears into its typical arrangement of sharp angles and hard lines.

“Oh–” you gasp, your one good knee finally buckling underneath you. Luckily, Katsuki has already begun to stand, and one of his strong arms darts out, catching you around the waist. You wish he wouldn’t look so smug.

“How do you feel?” Katsuki asks innocently enough, but even in the aftermath of that,  you don’t miss the twitching at the corner of his shining mouth, the expectant arch of his eyebrow.

“Good,” you pant, willing your cheeks to lose even a portion of their heat, “it was– fine.”

“Fine?” Katsuki’s eyebrow raises fully, disbelievingly.

“It was good,” you reaffirm, glaring at him. Katsuki grins brightly, the most light you think you’ve ever seen enter his face. It makes you blush almost as hard as the orgasm he dragged you through. Something wild and wicked flickers in your mind, and you look up at him curiously. “Do you…do you want me to do that to you?”

Katsuki’s smile drops as quickly as it came, and his cheekbones darken, a deep flush spreading over his face. You almost wonder if you’ve misstepped, upset him in some way, until you catch him palming over his pants. Your throat tightens.

“No,” he says, all the mirth drained from his face, “no, you don’t have to– no.”

“Alright,” you acquiesce, transferring your weight from Katsuki’s firm grip around your waist back to your feet, finding your legs weak and shaky beneath you. Your gaze floats over your shoulder, back to the plush sheets of your marriage bed, and Katsuki clears his throat, backing away a step so you have the room to climb into the bed, lay yourself down.

You’d expected to feel shyer, but there’s surprisingly no urge to curl in on yourself, not even Katsuki’s eyes take you in, darkening in the candlelight. The aftershocks of pleasure— white-hot, addictive pleasure he’d introduced you to— are still echoing through your limbs, and you’re just curious enough to bite back your initial trepidation. You want to know what else he has to teach you.

Katsuki begins tugging at the laces keeping his pants snug around his waist, loosening them and shooting you one final look, one last assurance. His eyebrow is cocked questioningly, and if you didn’t know better, you’d think he looks a little nervous. You nod, holding a breath deep enough in your lungs that it aches, and his pants hit the floor.

You’ve seen naked men, here and there, over the course of your life, and your ladies had described enough of the act before you that you can’t find yourself shocked at the sight, but more so at the wanton aching that ricochets through your limbs, chill bumps erupting over your arms and shoulders rolling of their own accord. You don’t have much to go by, but you’re fairly sure he’s big comparatively, so hard that the tip is an angry shade of red. Katsuki climbs over you before you have much chance to look further, but the damage is done; a fresh wave of arousal courses through you, and you widen your knees to let him situate himself.

“I’m going to get you ready,” Katsuki says between chaste kisses to your lips. “Is that alright?”

“But you already–,” you feel frustrated at your own inexperience, knitting your brow at him, “I’m ready.”

“You’re not,” Katsuki assures you, and before you can bite back another retort, his battle-scarred fingers are rubbing softly through the mess between your legs, and your jaw falls slack. Katsuki’s monitoring you for any signs of unease, eyes bright and focused on your face. You’re wet enough that he’s sliding through your folds easily, meeting little resistance as he rubs tight, concentrated circles into that spot that he’d used to make you see stars earlier. “Do you trust me?”

“Mhm.” It’s all you can manage to hum an affirmative, biting back the breathy noises trying to break free of your throat. It’s a wonder, how so little effort from him has your blood molten in your veins, limbs pliant and muscles twitching.

Katsuki’s fierce gaze doesn’t let up, but you understand why when you feel it: a finger, presumably, stretching you in a new, uncomfortable way. You’re unable to contain the gasp that bleats out of you, eyes flying wide, and Katsuki’s hand stills, eyes squinting as he tries to determine the nuances of your reaction. It’s novel, and admittedly, makes you a bit restless, but it isn’t unpleasant, and embarrassingly, your hips cant up into his hand, answering for you. Katsuki works slowly, never ceasing the small circles he’s rubbing into you, letting the discomfort align with the deliberate, savory pleasure that’s now ever-present in your core. When he begins to move his finger in and out of you, working you open, you realize it feels good, more than good, even.

“Alright?” Katsuki asks, distrusting of the whimpers and shaky moans beginning to fall from your lips. “Talk to me.”

“It’s strange,” you admit, words fragile and breathy in the space between your lips, “but I like it, it feels good. Really good.”

Katsuki hums approvingly, teases your entrance with the rough pad of a second finger. He arches his eyebrow at you, the question hanging silent, but clear between you. The prospect is daunting, but you welcome it; he’s already shown you so much, made you feel so much. You trust him, nodding eagerly.

“Please.”

Katsuki works his second finger in, grinding his jaw when you choke on a moan, rolling your hips into his palm. He nods, letting you wriggle your hips around as you need to, to ease the stretch of him inside of you. You can feel the power behind the lightness of his touch, eyes flitting down to the strained, corded muscle of his forearm as he pumps his fingers in and out of you. He’s holding back, and when you think wildly of what might happen the day he doesn’t have to anymore, your body clenches around him.

Katsuki pulls a face at you, amused. “What is it?”

“What?” You pant, feeling that knot begin to tie in on itself tighter and tighter behind your bellybutton.

“Y’liked something, thought of something,” Katsuki studies you, mouth quirking up into a little half-smile, “I could feel it.”

If you were any more present, you’d be mortified, but all you can do is reach a hand to stroke along the bulge of his bicep, dig your teeth into your bottom lip.

“Was thinking about you,” you admit shyly, trying to force your words to come out a little less broken than you know you sound, “you’re strong.”

“I am strong,” Katsuki agrees, curling his fingers against something inside of you that makes you jerk, makes him smirk at you.

“You’re holding back on me.”

“I am,” he says, placing a kiss to your shoulder, “you’re not ready for it. Need to go slow this time.”

“One day you won’t,” you say, mustering all the strength your hazy mind has to offer to look him squarely in the eye, watch his reaction. Katsuki inhales sharply, eyes widening at your boldness, only to narrow at you, predatory and curious. His fingers have stilled momentarily, and you pull your stomach muscles, jerking your hips up against his hand, frustrated. Katsuki only glares down at you, jaw ticking.

“One day I won’t,” he finally answers you, pulling his fingers from where you’re throbbing and needy. You almost whine, but bite into your lip before the admission of desperation flies from you. “If that’s what you want.”

You don’t have the chance to answer before Katsuki’s sucking his own fingers into his mouth, sucking you off of them. Your jaw stutters, and you gape at him as his eyelids flutter, a low groan rumbling in his strong chest.

“Taste good,” Katsuki says, as if it’s the most casual thing in the world, “sweet.”

“Can I try?” The question flies from your lips before you can even think to contain it, and your eyes grow even larger, shocked at your own debauchery. You’re seconds away from stuttering out an apology when Katsuki’s massive hand appears in front of your face, fingers glistening in the candlelight.

“Here.” Katsuki offers his fingers to you, eyes dark and hungry. You only stare at him for a moment, trying to discern if you’ve done something horribly wrong, but he’s completely sincere, brushing his wet fingers along your bottom lip. You open your mouth, suck him in. It’s more viscous than you would have imagined, sticky and thick on your tongue, but it’s pleasantly gamey; a little bitter, a little sweet. You don’t realize that you’re suckling on Katsuki’s fingers until he groans again, deep in his throat, gritting his teeth.

“Sorry,” you say sheepishly, pulling his hand free from your lips.

“What’d you think?” Katsuki regains his composure quickly, tilting his head at you with something impish sparkling in his eye.

You’d chosen your new husband due to his unwavering dedication to the kingdom that he’d sworn his life to protect, his kingly attributes that had set him so far apart from your other, softer suitors. You hadn’t even thought to consider what other sides to him might be lurking beneath the formidable exterior of decorated general; could it be so that the red-cheeked, boyish creature above you, so intent on helping you explore your body, was the fierce warrior that had supposedly cut down over a hundred enemy soldiers entirely on his own?

“I liked it,” you say, biting into the smile starting to grow on your face. The way his eyes light up makes you feel like a vixen, like somehow, you can be a woman after all. “Everything is…it feels good.”

Something virile glints in Katsuki’s eyes, but you don’t shy away, holding his gaze. “Good.”

“I want to…I want you to have me. I want to have you.” You’re not even sure if you’re making sense, tongue heavy and useless in your mouth. Katsuki’s hand has wandered back down between your legs, rubbing lazily at the wetness there, and it’s got that steady heat creeping back through your limbs, setting your nerves on fire.

“You’re sure?” Katsuki asks, raising his eyebrow at you. All the mischief has drained from his face as he examines you, and while you appreciate his caution, the craving for something more is growing uncomfortable.

“Please,” you say, tilting your chin up to press your lips gently to his in reassurance. Katsuki is finally convinced, it seems, because he rolls off of you and settles his back against the headboard, reaching an errant arm over to tug you on top of him.

You hadn’t anticipated this; Katsuki’s set you right on top of his hips, your dripping cunt placed firmly against his hard cock, back ramrod straight from the sudden exposure, nipples peaked in the charged air. The feel of him pressing insistently against where your body needs him most makes your head spin; you hadn’t expected it to be so distinct, hard and thick beneath you.

“What are you–”

“It’ll be easier this way,” Katsuki says, looking very much like he’s putting all his effort into appearing unaffected, but only a moment ago, you felt his hips twitch upwards into yours, “you can control it.”

“I don’t– I don’t know how to do it. Not the right way, I mean.” You’re burning in your humiliation, hot in so many different ways now you aren’t sure if you could even count them, but you’re bared completely to him, and you figure your dignity was left somewhere crumpled on the floor with your consummation gown.

“Don’t worry about that,” Katsuki says sternly, looking so unbelievably flustered that if you were any less preoccupied, it would make you giggle, “not yet. You need to get used to having something inside you, first.”

Something inside you; him, thick and hard and drooling wetness onto his bellybutton. That’s right. You take a deep breath to steady yourself, doing everything in your power to ride the wave of exhilaration going through you. You roll your hips experimentally, once, twice, swallowing the gasp that aches to leave your jaw.

“Just like that,” Katsuki mumbles, so quietly you almost think you hadn’t heard him, “take your time.”

You take his advice, bracing your clammy hands on his neck. You grind down on him again, feeling sparks of pleasure shoot up your body. With each swipe of your hips, you can feel your cunt grow wetter, feel that bottomless want in your stomach open a little more. The growing hunger in you is primordial, some hidden part of your mind directing you. The urge to have something inside of you, to feel full in a way you can’t begin to imagine, is causing you to grow restless, fingers drumming anxiously on Katsuki’s shoulders. When you meet his eyes, a muscle feathers in his jaw, but he stays silent, hands placed gently on your hips as he watches you grow accustomed to his girth, the weight of him between your legs.

“I think I’m ready. Can I?”

Katsuki stays silent, only nods sagely in assent. His grip on your hips grows tighter as you lift yourself up, reaching down blindly to grip him. He sucks in a breath when your fingers wrap around the length of him, and your eyes flit to his in alarm, but he only shakes his head, brow furrowing.

“Go ahead.”

You nod back, wincing at the anticipatory trembling of your thighs on either side of his hips, pulling his cock up from his stomach. You rather like the smooth feel of the skin in your hands, and you think briefly that maybe this will be something to revisit later, having him needy and in the palm of your hand. The swollen head catches, and you almost gasp at the surprise of it, how a dull thud of satisfaction rings through your body. You inhale deeply, and begin to sink down.

Katsuki’s fingers dig into your hips even harder, but you hardly feel it over the incomparable stretch between your legs. You’re sure now that he’s big; he has to be, the way it feels like your very insides are moving to accommodate him. You’re trying not to huff at the feeling, but a whine escapes you, and Katsuki’s tight grip stops you just as you’re nearing the halfway point.

“Okay?” He’s tense, coiled like a snake, all the muscles in his strong body locked, but his eyes are concerned.

“Uh huh,” you manage, wiggling your hips around and dropping yourself down a couple more inches, making you both gasp, “s’just big.”

“Fuck,” Katsuki hisses, throwing his head back. You pause, body contracting around him in your attempt to take him wholly, only a short distance from the blonde hair at the base of his cock.

“Is everything alright?”

“Can’t say shit like that,” Katsuki grits out, voice hoarse. You realize with a slow, muggy blink that you haven’t yet heard him swear, not in the Common Tongue, haven’t yet seen him become so unraveled and yet, at the same time, so rigid. It’s affecting him, that instinctual part of your brain supplies, it feels good for him.

If you were any less dazed, you’d smile. Katsuki Bakugou, High Commander of the fiercest army the world has seen in over a century, famed warrior an ocean over, is practically twitching trying to bite back his own pleasure as you take him inside of you. The rush of adrenaline that thought sends through you gives you the motivation to let yourself go, nestling the entirety of him deep inside yourself and meeting his hips. You choke on a moan, eyes prickling with tears.

“Oh,” you pant, lifting yourself just a bit, trying to squirm away from the discomfort.

“Does it hurt?” Katsuki grunts, eyes running over every bit of your body.

“No, it’s just,” you keen again, interrupting yourself with breathy, whiny little noises, “full.”

Katuski makes a noise that you think was meant to be a hum of agreement, but only comes out as a growl. If the white in his knuckles and the sharp, tense bone of his jaw is anything to go by, his arousal is only barely being held back, restricted to a tight leash. You’re not his first, not the only wet warmth he’s buried himself in, and this isn’t at all the first time he’s experienced this white-hot, carnal pleasure that’s licking up your veins. You find the strength to blink back the budding tears in your eyes, to really look at him.

He’s holding it together well, fingers grounded where they dig into your fleshy hips, crimson eyes looking you up and down, taking you in, but like the quiet snap of embers in the background, ruining the illusion of the room’s heat emanating from you and Katsuki, his body betrays him. His muscles are jumping under his skin, twitching involuntarily like the hide of one of the cavalry’s prize stallions, ready to run. Katsuki’s fucking a princess in his mind, you think, a future queen, and he’s proceeding accordingly, trying to keep his caresses light and his infamous temper in check.

You blink at him, vision watery, and realize suddenly that, for the first time in your life,  you want to be a hot-blooded, wild, mortal. You want only to be a woman with a man inside of her, and you want to be regarded as such.

“Still doin’ alri–” Katsuki cuts himself off with a grunt when you roll your hips, biting back a wince at the unfathomable pressure in your stomach, the depth of him snug inside you. “Wait–”

“I’m fine,” you say, surprising even yourself at your sharpness. Confidence swells in your chest as he squirms under you, kissing away the burn of how he’s worked you open.

“But–”

“Eminna skoros iksis ñuhon,” you say down to him, looking upon your new husband with hooded eyes as you grind your hips down into him, adjusting to the strange stretch that accompanies his body inside of yours. Each movement of your hips into his makes it easier, soothes the slow throb of your body trying to make room for him. Pleasure begins to ignite again along your fingertips, and when you scoot forward a bit, pushing your hips back, his cock nudges something inside of you that makes your jaw drop.

Katsuki’s eyes widen momentarily, but you can see the moment he loosens the leash, succumbs to his baser instincts. His grip on your hips loosens, shoulders slackening, and his eyes darken, lids dropping a bit just to cover the tops of those crimson irises. He’s beautiful, godlike even, planes of hardened muscle at your command, the flames from the candles reflected in his eyes. Katsuki drags his gaze over you, nostrils flaring, bringing one hand up to the back of your neck and pulling you to him, pressing your foreheads together. The shift in him makes you gasp; the calm force with which he chooses to exert his strength.

“Lo emilā nyke, emagon nyke,” Katsuki says against your lips, all trepidation gone. You shudder in his arms, letting pleasure wrack down your spine like fire catching. “Yn eminna ao, hae sȳrī, dārilaros.”

Your blood sings at the low purr of the Old Tongue, poured into your mouth like a fine wine, but you curdle at Dārilaros. Princess. “Eman daor pāletilla skori iksā iemnȳ yno. Iksan iā ābra, iksan aōha ābrazȳrys.”

Katsuki nearly snarls, swears under his breath. “What did I tell you about saying shit like that?”

“You call me your wife,” you say, thoroughly pleased with yourself at his rapid unraveling. It’s never been like you not to have the upper hand. “Treat me as your wife.”

Even a hair’s breadth away from his face, you can see Katsuki’s last shreds of honor, that warrior’s heart, dying out. His eyes flicker over your face as you fruitlessly roll your hips, not able to get to the full extent of your pleasure with him gripping you so tightly. For the first time, you can feel his hands tremble against your skin. He’s only steps away from joining you in your damning mortality, finding the raw, primal humanity deep down inside of him. You rut your hips at him again, useless against his resolute grasp.

“Please,” you sigh against him, not even thinking to be ashamed of the breathy, needy plea you let out, not even wholly sure of what you’re begging him for, “make me feel good again.”

Katsuki groans, low in his chest, and nods, a covenant you’re building in the hot air between your mouths. His hands grab into your hips more fully, and he lifts you, only part of the way, before sliding you back down the length of him. You gasp into his mouth, caught off guard by the punch of him back up into the space he’s carved out for himself. It feels like he’s in your lungs, your breath coming out labored and pinched.

“Move,” Katsuki commands, settling back a bit and forcing you to sit up straight, hands on your ribcage. You’re bared completely to him again, and it’s still horrible, but the arousal dims any humiliation that threatens to rise. “Move.”

You wiggle your hips again, moving shakily along his cock, but Katsuki’s not pleased, evidently, as he digs his hands back into your hips.

“Like this,” he says, using his iron grip on you to correct your movements. Katsuki drags you up and down his cock in smooth, fluid motions, and despite the slowly-easing discomfort, your nerve endings come alight, the molten want finding a new peak as he rips a moan out of your throat.

“Oh–”

“Better?” Katsuki huffs, a vicious grin cutting across his face. Your arms flail a bit as he moves you, rolling you along his length as if you’re nothing more than a doll to him. Katsuki notices your awkwardness, takes one of your hands and places it firmly on your breast. You follow his lead, thumbing gently over one hard nipple, and, at the jolt of pleasure, you quickly bring your free hand to match on the other side, letting your head fall back.

“Katsuki,” you pant, quickly losing your composure and falling victim to the sensations devouring you, “it’s– that’s so good.”

“I know,” Katsuki breathes, still pulling you this way and that, “you’re perfect, so soft around me.”

You’ve never gotten to be soft; iron princess on the iron throne, made of embers and scalding steam, but for him? You bloom, pretty as a petal, letting your body meld into his like it was always supposed to be here. You’re not soft like silk, you let yourself be soft like candlelight, like magma, like the crashing of the ocean when you’re far enough away that the waves won’t get you, drag you under. Soft like doom.

“I feel– fuck, I think I– I need more.”

Katsuki’s lips twist at the breathless curse that flies from your lips, so foreign and funny-sounding in your regal mouth. You want to tease him right back, but he slides you off of him, and the loss is so devastating, your bottom lip nearly juts out as it did when you were a child. Before you can protest too much, Katsuki’s laying you on your back, hands sliding along your thighs, and you follow your instincts and bring your legs up to wrap around his waist.

“If it’s too much…” Katsuki trails off, losing his words when he goes to brush your bottom lip with his thumb and you suck him in voraciously, nibbling on his finger.

“I’ll tell you,” you promise, spitting him out and letting your own hand flutter across his cheekbone. He’s almost glaring down at you; so intense is the desire in his eyes that a small part of you wants to shy away, but you don’t. You wiggle your legs that much wider, arch your back, lean into the burn of him. You were born for the heat.

Katuski’s mouth quirks up in a little smile, already so fond it makes your chest ache, and he slides back into you, groaning when your cunt sucks him in greedily. You try to embrace the novelty of it, the dull throb of his cock splitting you wide, digging your nails into his arm by mistake. Katsuki swears in surprise, and you jerk your hand away, until he looks down at you admonishingly.

“Go ahead, perzītsos,” he hums, leaning down and pressing a kiss to your hairline, “I won’t break.”

He pulls back and thrusts back into you, harder than you’d expected, and your nails return to his wrist beside your head, digging half-moons into the pale skin. He’s different from this angle, not so agonizingly deep in you, but nudging against something inside you that renders you incapacitated, fuzzy-minded and pliant in his arms. Katsuki’s not faring any better than you, eyes hooded and little grunts slipping from his lips each time his hips connect with yours.

“What does it feel like?” Katsuki asks, beginning to look out of his mind with need. “Ivestragon nyke.”

“Deep,” you choke out, letting your jaw drop when he leans down to lick into your mouth, “full, I feel– full.”

“Good,” Katsuki mumbles, “good. Doesn’t hurt?”

“No.”

In answer, Katsuki moves his hips faster, snapping them against you with brute force. He’s keeping that ever-cognizant eye on you, monitoring you for any indication of pain or panic, but even through the haze of the tightening knot in the pit of your stomach, you can see him tumbling over the same edge that you have, lost to your baser instincts. You’re soft to him, your warm walls hugging him snug as he chases an end for you both, but sharp in the way your fingers claw into his skin, your teeth nip into his shoulder. Mine. Mine. Ñuhon.

“Katsuki,” you warn him, the balloon of pressure welling in your belly, growing so large you feel as though you might choke on it.

“I know,” he says, leaning down to press his forehead to yours. His voice is broken and ragged and tastes like hot coals, like copper and bronze and prophecy. You drink him down eagerly, so out of your mind with want that you’ve transformed. You’d entered the room as a blushing virgin of the highest, most noble bloodline, and here you are, twisting and keening under him, all molten limbs and whorish pants. Sweat dapples your forehead, drool smeared over your chin, and you’ve never felt more beautiful.

“I’m so– it’s the, the same,” you gasp, familiar words devolving into nonsense, “but it’s not enough, I don’t, I–”

“Here,” Katsuki growls, closing one strong fist around your wrist and sliding your arm between your writhing bodies, “just like I did it, remember?”

You find the same sensitive spot that Katsuki had shown you quickly, swollen and raw with pleasure, and try rubbing shaky circles over it, try to maintain some semblance of a rhythm and imitate his earlier movements. It’s uneven and inconsistent, but the added stimulation rockets through you, and your back pulls taut as a bow, arching off the featherbed.

“Close?”

“Yes,” you gasp, still not grasping what you’re close to, but feeling very much as though you’re teetering on the edge of a cliff, that same rushing building in your ears. You somehow had the presence of mind to register that what’s building inside of you now is different than it was with his mouth between your legs; it’s faster, wetter, fuller, and it feels like it’s choking you.

“Come on,” Katsuki urges you, bordering on a snarl as he pants desperately into your mouth, “want to feel you cum around me, feel this little cunt milkin’ my cock.”

“Kat–” you try to call out for him, so overwhelmed the edges of your vision are going dark. He’s grinding his hips into you forcefully, pinning your fingers to the apex of your cunt, forcing you to rub yourself harder. 

“You can do it, raqiarzy, come on–”

You cut him off with a loud sob of his name, thighs caging him in and the innermost walls of your body clamping down on him. Light bursts behind your eyelids, the white-hot flames of dragonfire and the embers of a burning forest exploding as your body is racked with wave after wave of bliss. Katsuki’s skin breaks under your fingernails, the slight dampness of tearing flesh familiar even in the haze of your orgasm. He works you through it, driving his hips into you despite the vicious tightening of your cunt around him, whispering affirmations into the pallid skin of your shoulder. Every muscle in your body contracts painfully, and you’d feel ashamed of the sounds escaping you if you could find enough wherewithal to care.

“Close,” Katsuki grits out, rolling his hips into your still-contracting cunt as your high begins to dwindle, “you ready for me?”

“Uh-huh, please, I– yes,” you babble nonsensically, interlocked ankles bouncing at the small of his back. As your orgasm drains from your veins, your muscles go lax, zapped of the fervent energy that had overtaken you. You find your body to be pliant and receptive, but your mind solely focused on watching that same ethereal pleasure that had possessed you wash over Katsuki. “Yes, I w-want you to cum.”

“Fuck,” Katsuki swears, hips stuttering, “take it, take it all–”

A guttural groan accompanies a sticky warmth flooding your insides; you squirm in his tight grip and moan at the sensation of being filled, feeling a fresh rush of arousal flow through you as you feel his cock twitching inside of you. You bite deep into his shoulder to muffle the pathetic mewls slipping from you at the feel of both his and your cum leaking out of your body, pooling in a little puddle underneath you. Everything is so earthy and musky; Katsuki’s salty skin between your teeth, his bruising grip into your hips, the stink of sex and sweat permeating the bedsheets.

Katsuki’s chest heaves against yours as his hips rock into you one last time, the thatch of blond hair at the base of him pressing against where you’re swollen and achy hard enough to make you whimper. When you wriggle around underneath him, he seems to snap back into himself, propping his upper body up on his elbows and bringing a hand to your face, thumbing over the arch of your cheekbone.

“Y’alright?” His carmine eyes are still glazed over, words gummy between his teeth, but the tenderness of his hand as he strokes your cheek lets you know he’s there.

“I’m alright,” you say, and you mean it. Something so deep in you that you don’t even have a name for is throbbing, and your body is still clenching and fluttering around where he’s softening inside of you, but your limbs are heavy and your head is in the clouds.

He’s a sight to see, a sight you commit to memory; sweat glistens on his pale skin, his eyes are hooded and sleepy, and a contented, lazy grin is starting to tug at the corner of his mouth. Katsuki pulls his hips back, pressing his lips to your temple in apology when you murmur something unintelligible, but hinting at discontent. You feel empty in a way you had never known you were supposed to, not until you’d learned what it meant to be fulfilled.

“Anything hurt?”

You shake your head, not sure how to verbalize that you’re not feeling any pain, but a deep-seated satiation that hints to the fact that you might never be able to lift yourself from the bed again. Katsuki’s still caging you in, heavy body crushing yours, when a jarringly unwelcome sound floats over his shoulder.

“Ah, um– Princess? I need to confirm–”

“I know,” Katsuki, sliding back into the skin of a general with ease, growls over his shoulder, “that you’re not daring to speak to my wife while she’s naked underneath me.”

Even given everything, your cheeks flare, and you shove at Katsuki weakly, making apologetic eyes at the attendant despite your humiliation. “It’s his job, Katsuki–”

“They can’t send a woman for this shit?” Katsuki cages you in even further, glaring at the servant who’s nearly shaking in his slippers. “Well?”

“I–I can fetch a female servant to confirm the consummation of the–”

“Do that, then.” The attendant’s soft footsteps as he scuttles away are hardly overshadowed by your breathy, tired giggles.

“You didn’t have to terrorize the poor man,” you swat lightly at Katsuki’s chest, “it’s his duty to confirm that the marriage has been consummated. The priests won’t have it any other way.”

“I’m sure he heard enough,” Katsuki grumbles, flopping onto his back beside you. He opens one eye, notices the sheet dragging dangerously close to your nipple, and tugs it up to your chin, closing his eye again and humming contentedly. His arm pauses for a moment, like he wants to stretch it over your shoulders, but he pulls it back by his own side, thinking better of it. You aren’t sure if you want to be held, if the intimacy outside of your duty as his new wife will be too grating against your already-raw nerves.

“My ladies will be here soon,” you say quietly, “to bathe me and help me prepare for bed.”

“Figured,” Katsuki grumbles, sounding entirely displeased at more people disrupting your peace. Something about it warms your heart, some small part of your mind hoping that his displeasure is rooted in a desire to keep you all to himself, hidden beneath the sheets.

“Your own attendants shouldn’t be far behind.”

“My what?” Katsuki sits up on one elbow again, looks down at you disbelievingly. “I don’t need any…ladies.”

“You’ll get used to them,” you tell him offhandedly, wondering if you’re being truthful. You’re just beginning to get acquainted with the intricacies of the man behind the title, but the general seems fiercely independent to you, and the image of him getting his hair scrubbed by a flock of servants is enough to make you chuckle to yourself.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you assure him, “I’m sure you’ll be a perfect royal specimen.”

Katsuki’s eyes narrow in irritation. “You didn’t inform me that ladies would be a part of my duties.”

“We can get men!”

“That’s worse.” Katsuki’s face screws up in an ugly scowl that makes you laugh outright. The lightness of your laughter makes his face fall a little, the hardened exterior giving way to the same man that had kissed reverently up the inside of your thigh, had been so achingly gentle with you when you weren’t sure what you would need to get through the night. A man you think you could love.

You look into each other’s eyes, something like starlight, like candlelight, like true, gods-given warmth buzzing between you, when the door creaks open, a gaggle of ladies and one priestess entering the room. Katsuki groans, tugs the blankets even further up your chests, the moment broken.

Ignoring his grumbles of protest, you pull yourself from the blankets with ease, baring your nude body to your ladies. There’s no shame in front of these women who have raised you, much to Katsuki’s astonishment. You don’t miss the way their eyes catch on the purple blooms on your hipbones, the way they squeal with excitement when you lay back and spread your legs for the priestess, displaying the thin trickle of Katsuki’s seed still steadily leaking from you. The priestess nods solemnly and leaves in the same manner; at least that’s done.

Your ladies do an absolutely dismal job of trying to appear subtle as they stare at Katsuki’s still-heaving chest, his narrowed eyes darting around the room suspiciously, his round biceps– your closest lady, Alanna, whisper-squeals in your ear about how huge your new husband’s arms are, and you have to pinch her cheek harshly to get her to stop, sensing Katsuki’s tangible discomfort from across the room. He behaves well as they bathe you, sitting up in bed and watching silently as you’re preened and fawned over, as your tangled hair has a brush torn through it and is twisted neatly into your nighttime braid.

A group of women hovering silently by the door, eyeing Katsuki nervously, appear to be his newly-appointed handmaids. You do both Katsuki and the women the favor of dismissing them for the night, unsure of how Katsuki, who is still gripping the sheets to his chest like a young, blushing maiden, will react to being pampered and scrubbed by foreign hands. 

“You can dismiss those serving girls for good,” Katsuki says gruffly, clean and ambling over to a looking glass to swipe a brush through his hair. “‘M not a boy, I don’t need any help getting myself to bed.”

You conveniently slide past the omission on the tip of your tongue– before Katsuki’s anxious staff had left, you had requested them to bring a hot bath, all of Katsuki’s bathing things from his old chamber, a freshly-dried sponge from the Narrow Sea for him to wash himself with. It’s enough to keep it to yourself, seeing how content he is in his new living space now, that you could do something for him amongst the chaos you’ve now thrown his life into.

“We’ll see,” you hum, picking at a stray cuticle over the covers and trying not to ogle him too obviously.

He’s still blessedly nude, unabashed in his swagger around the room as he dries himself with the strips of soft, woven cloth your ladies had left behind per your request. When he approaches the bed you’re laying in, you stiffen, unaccustomed still to these small intimacies. Royalty has proven to be a lengthy and lonely existence in your experience, and sharing it with someone is foreign to your solitary nature. Your own parents had had their own separate chambers, as every monarch before them. It was Katsuki’s one condition to accepting your proposal; you were to share bedchambers, like a common husband and wife.

“Princess?” Katsuki is hesitant when he approaches you, as if he already senses your trepidation. You will yourself to unclench your muscles, to relax your shoulders. You have no right to make him feel unwelcome in his own bed– the bed you now share.

“I told you I don’t want you to call me that.” You try to offer him a playful smile, but it only glimmers across your face. This is yet another bridge you need his guidance over.

“You did,” Katsuki nods sagely, the corner of his mouth twitching as he remembers the circumstance of that particular conversation, “I’m sorry, perzītsos.”

“Come to bed.”

“Are you sure?” Katsuki cocks an eyebrow at you, looking down at the huge bed warily.

“It was what you wanted.”

“Only if you want it.” Katsuki sighs deeply at your look of not-quite-belief and sits on the bed a respectable distance away from you. He reaches for your hand, a question, not a demand, and you slide your fingers into his calloused palm, humming contentedly when he runs his large thumb over your knuckles. He stays like that for a moment, contemplative and looking at your hand, bare of all of its usual finery and rings. “What did I say earlier?”

“When?”

“Before.” Katsuki raises his eyebrows enough that you catch his meaning.

“That we were doing things on my terms.” Something in your chest, warm and wet and laden with flowers, swells big and tight enough to pop.

“That didn’t just apply to, ah, earlier,” Katsuki coughs uncomfortably, flicking his eyes up to you, “that’s for all of this. Our…our lives are…the same now, and I don’t want you to think I need you– seven hells, that’s not what I meant–”

“You’re not very good at this, are you?” You interrupt him suddenly, a saccharine smile curling the corner of your lips. Katsuki flushes a vicious red, frowns and shakes his head in confirmation. “Neither am I.”

“No?”

“I haven’t suddenly found myself married before, so no.” It feels silly, all of the sudden, to have guarded yourself at all. Katsuki is many things, but above all, he is steady, a resolute rock against an angry ocean. “But while I feel many things about our…unexpected union, one thing I do not feel is alone. We can do this on our terms, not just mine.”

Katsuki nods again, looks back down to your hand in his, and cracks a wry smile. “This is why you’re the politician.”

“I’m a princess,” you deadpan, “not a politician.”

“But I can’t call you that,” Katsuki scoffs, rolling his eyes. The lightheartedness lifts the atmosphere in your bedchamber, oppressive with marital expectations and the stuffy heat of candles left burning too long, and it gives you the needed weightlessness to have your eyes slowly blinking closed.

“Exactly,” you agree matter-of-factly, stifling a yawn. “Will you call someone in to dispose of the candles?”

Katsuki snorts, pushing himself off the bed without answer. Before you can protest or feel hurt by his sudden abandonment, he crosses the room and bends at the waist, blowing out one of over two dozen candles. You can only watch in growing fondness and amusement as he huffs at each little flame, the room growing darker by the moment. By the time he’s finished, your eyes are hardly open, drifting shut as you sink into the pillows. A satisfied throb echoes through your body as you wriggle down beneath the sheets, the lingering evidence of Katsuki’s presence on and in you bringing a warmth to your cheeks even in the now-dark room.

The last thing you register as you slip into the beginnings of a heavy sleep is the dip of the bed behind you, and a thick, muscled forearm creeping stealthily over your waist.

“This alright?”

All you can muster is a tired mumble of acquiesce, nuzzling into the firm chest behind you. Katsuki chuckles quietly into your hair, a dark, soothing sound that has your mind careening towards sleep, eager to melt into this world of warmth and comfort in his arms.

“Ēdrū sȳrī, ñuha perzītsos.”

───── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ─────

as promised, high valyrian translations here :)

Ānogar ānograro = "Blood of my blood."

Gevie = "Beautiful"

Iksā gevie, ñuha ābrazȳrys. = "You are beautiful, my wife."

Eminna skoros iksis ñuhon. = "I will have what is mine."

Lo emilā nyke, emagon nyke, yn eminna ao, hae sȳrī, dārilaros. = "If you will have me, then have me, but I will have you as well, princess."

Eman daor pāletilla skori iksā iemnȳ yno. Iksan iā ābra, iksan aōha ābrazȳrys. = "I have no crown when you are inside me. I am a woman, I am your wife."

Perzītsos = "Little flame"

Ivestragon nyke. = "Tell me."

Raqiarzy = "Beloved"

Ēdrū sȳrī, ñuha perzītsos. = "Sleep tight, my little flame."

[vidavalor]

The Ok Sign's historical ties to Vavooming

When Crowley describes his "hypothetical" (😉) Vavoom scenario in S2, he gesticulates a moving version of the OK hand sign to Aziraphale. The history of this particular gesture is rather interesting... especially when you consider what Crowley is saying when he is choosing to use it.

In modern times, the initial, vertical part of what Crowley is doing while talking about canopies is a sign known as "the OK sign" and, in most places, it is seen as signaling a positive response to something. Even though something that is "okay" is seen as sort of middling-- more "not terrible" than "good"-- the OK hand gesture has a much more positive connotation than the word itself does and generally means that something is excellent. It came to mean that in the United States and many other countries through American political campaigns of the early 19th century. The gesture itself, though, is much, much older than that and can be traced back to ancient Rome and ancient Greece... where it has ties to romantic love.

When painted on vases and the like, the gesture was meant to evoke a kiss through the touching of the tips of the thumb and the index finger. Interesting considering the topic of a vavoomy first kiss in the scene while Crowley is making this gesture, no?

In first century Rome-- a time and place we know to be significant to Crowley and Aziraphale's history-- it was a gesture of assent and if a person made the gesture towards another person in the Greco-Roman world? It was a way of professing romantic love for that person.

While describing a hypothetical scenario for Maggie and Nina that many of us suspect is really a recounting of his and Aziraphale's first kiss, Crowley is gesturing "I love you" to Aziraphale by the social customs of classical antiquity.

There's also a bit of fish, food and Jesus in this as well... so, very Ineffable Husbands. In the modern era, the OK sign is also the gesture used universally by scuba divers to signal that they are feeling good while on a dive. It is also a version of the "chef's kiss"-- the one that is more of an OK sign near the face than kissing the tips of your fingers. In the original version of 'The Prisoner,' the watched prisoners use the OK sign to communicate with each other, which was famously inspired by use of The Sign of the Fish/Jesus Fish as a secret symbol used by early Christians.

The gesture is also used in another unspoken language: Christian monks who took a vow of silence would also use the gesture as a base to indicate other things to communicate-- forming the index finger and thumb into a ring and holding it in front of one's self as Crowley does in this scene would indicate in that language an oblation, or offering, to God.

Crowley then keeps his fingers in the OK position and tips his hand down when he says "together", turning it all into a second gesture-- one that is known as gyan/jnana mudra, which is a hand sign used most frequently in meditation and sometimes in yoga. It is known as the knowledge mudra. Crowley also used it during the Gabriel miracle while Aziraphale used its pair at the same time-- chin mudra-- which is the same gesture, just with the palm facing up, and focuses on similar things.

Both focus on knowledge gained and the calming effects of the unification of the individual soul/ego (represented by the index finger) with the thumb (the supreme soul/paramatman-- the more actualized individual soul made boundless by light and wisdom.) The gesture is done as part of meditation to create a circuit that redirects the prana-- life force/energy-- through the body, alleviating anxiety and calming the mind through a grounding sense of connection, calm and peace.

By connecting the two gestures into one while talking about this canopy scenario, Crowley seems to be connecting the erotic and the spiritual and referencing his millennia-old romantic passion for Aziraphale to Aziraphale by using a gesture for love from antiquity... and that's somehow all before this shows up:

Who knew Richard Curtis films were this hot?

[touratoura]

TV Show idea: A Christian woman named Juliet moves into a new neighborhood, hoping to find a husband and have a child. After moving into her new home, she goes to meet her next-door neighbors - and is horrified to find out it’s a loud, party-girl, dirty mouthed black lesbian named Maggie Dalene and her smart, CEO girlfriend Mary (played by Laverne Cox). Juliet does everything she can to try and turn them to Christ. She does it both forward and subtle. While she does this, she also meets and falls in love with a man named Paul, and starts visiting the local orphanage to bring the kids there to faith.

The main plot points of the first season:

Juliet’s (failed) attempts to convert Mary and Maggie. They keep running into each other. Maggie goes the opposite way and tries to get Juliet to relax a little. Juliet is especially concerned when Christmas comes around and they bring out the Menorah.

Juliet meets three triplets at the orphanage named Jesus, Emmy, and Susej. Susej is the only girl. Juliet tries to get the three Jewish kids to convert, but they refuse. She also tries to get Emmy to go by his full name, Emmanuel - but he finds it stupid.

Lucifer and Abbadon (Lucy and Abby) are a gay gender-unconforming couple who have extremely random jobs everywhere. They seem to be working everywhere. Cashiers, fake-Gucci boot sellers, librarians, janitors, shelf restockers, anything. They’re there. No one else mentions it. It drives Juliet insane. She finds the idea of them being feminine men disturbing, but she can’t call them anything but Lucy and Abby as she refuses to say the Devil’s name. She also finds Abby being black disturbing.

It’s often hinted at that Susej is the Antichrist. And by hinted at I mean she’s always staring piercingly into empty space, whispering threateningly, and is always there when things go wrong. Also her eyes occasionally go black and she starts floating and speaking ancient curses. Juliet is terrified. No one else notices.

Jesus is friends with a group of 12 boys from the orphanage, named Peter, James, John, Andrew, Phillip, Judas I, Matthew, Thomas, James A, Bart, Judas T, and Simon. Jesus goes by Jeezy-boi. The others go by Peezy, Jazzy, Jozzy, Azzy, Pheezy, Jewzy, Meezy, Teezy, Jameezy, Beezy, Yeezy, and Seezy. They’re all played by 12-year-olds, except Yeezy, who’s played by a Kanye West-lookalike. It’s never remarked upon. He talks like Kanye.

Juliet tries to get Mary to turn to God. She will often compare her to her “namesake”, Mary of Jesus fame, to show her the “right side”. Mary takes none of it and points out that Mary and Jesus were Jewish. Mary is very no-nonsense when it comes to these things. Mary is heavily implied to actually BE Mother Mary as she knows things the church doesn’t.

Paul keeps accidentally calling Juliet Jennifer. She doesn’t notice. He’s often drunk and rude to waiters and retail workers. Juliet is too, mind you. He hides his phone and yells a lot. He complains about Juliet’s decision to “wait until marriage”, but doesn’t mind her being anti birth control.

At the end of season 1, Juliet gets married to Paul. He barely gets the vows right at the wedding. Mary and Maggie go out for an unknown trip. There’s a time skip of a few months. Maggie and Mary are celebrating outside of their house, because Maggie just won a Noble Prize in Chemistry. Maggie is yelling “I won! I won!” Juliet smiles and says, “No. I won.” She’s holding a baby in her arms. Maggie paused for a moment and responds “No baby, I won. Paul’s gonna leave yo ass in 3 seconds. You gon have to raise that baby alone. And who says we ain’t got kids?”

Jesus skates by on a skateboard with a cowboy hat. He tips his hat to them as he passed. Emmy is running behind him in a pink skirt. Juliet places her baby down momentarily to talk with them, as Susej comes up and starts whispering to the baby. It nods, and she smiles, before disappearing in a cloud of black smoke. She reappears behind Mary. End of Season 1.

This isn’t a prompt but I would gladly accept criticism and more ideas. And characters. I’m open.

[deathmetalunicorn1]

Hello & also how are you?

If its okay to request, RoR x Pokemon?

Romantic & Platonic W/: Thor, Loki, Ares, Apollo, Buddha, Hercules, Lu bu, Huang, Jack, Leonidas, Adam, Odin, Susano, and Okita

(You can change the scenes if you want)

Human Reader as human historical figure or hero in Pokemon

She lives in Ancient times of Galar w/ her brother and they're (Pokemon) Partners, the Hero Duo (Zacian & Zamazenta). Reader's partner, Zacian & the brother's Partner, Zamazenta

(or Reader's Zamazenta and Brother's Zacian, whichever, You can change Reader's and her brother's partners and titles and some related to Hero Duo, if you want Ex. Their Crowned forms, and it's crowned forms' signature moves Zacian: Crowned sword, Behemoth Blade Zamazenta: Crowned shield, Behemoth Bash)

If you remember the storyline in the game/anime, about the story/history of the 1st Darkest Day, and the heroes who stop it

In the Darkest Day happens, Reader and her brother as the heroes and they partnered with Hero Duo, to go on the journey to stop/fight the Darkest Day

Reader, her brother, Zacian, and Zamazenta are very close to each other like a family. They train, help, learn, and care for/love each other. Zacian and Zamazenta are willing to fight/help their Partner along the way

They met Eternatus and they fought it together, and defeated Eternatus and the Darkest Day ended

After days of their victory, they humbly earned the titles (as heroes or crowned), Reader/Zacian as the 'Fairy King's Sword' and Her brother/Zamazenta as the 'Fighting Master's Shield', as they traveled/explored new places together and save/help others in need

As they grew, until, Reader and her brother are about to die (in old age or other), they say thanks, vows, and goodbyes to others (who're humans & pokemon who're are close to them) and their Pokemon partners for everything, they died, while Zacian's & Zamazenta's sad/mourn their human partners' death. They went to Slumbering Weald, where they (Reader, her brother, Zacian, & Zamazenta) possibly 1st met, and became statues and waited when there's danger arrived…

So is it okay to make a scenario where they're in Vahalla and how would Reader interact w/ ROR characters, as her Brother and also the hero duo can be overprotective to Reader

-For as long as you can remember, even when you arrived in Valhalla alongside your brother, your partner Pokemon Zamazenta, and his partner Zacian, the four of you had been inseparable.

-You and your brother met the two legendary Pokemon many years ago, when the Darkest Day threatened to wipe out Galar, going to the Slumbering Weald and you each became partners to the legendary Sword and Shield Pokemon with the shared goal in mind of saving Galar and stopping the Darkest Day.

-You became a hero alongside your brother and Pokemon, saving the nation, and you became co-ruler with him, but after you both died, living out your lives into old age, the true legend was lost, morphing into one single hero with a sword and shield, who stopped the Darkest Day, not the two of you and the two Pokemon.

-In Valhalla, you were amazed to be around other warriors of history, ones who did great and bad things, and the gods as well, many who admired the hard work your brother and you had put into saving the world all those years ago.

-When your partner Pokemon arrived in Valhalla alongside you both, you were grateful, as you had seen how they had mourned your deaths, returning to the Slumbering Weald and turning themselves into statues until the world needed them again, and came to you in Valhalla to stand by your sides again.

-You had befriended many warriors, those who admired you, much to your brother’s annoyance, as he didn’t like seeing men around you, not wanting you to get hurt, but Zamazenta was a good deterrent for those wanting to try anything funny.

-Lately your brother had been seeing you hanging out a lot with (Love) and at first it seemed like you were just friends, but as time went on you seemed to be growing closer and closer, but Zamazenta wasn’t doing anything, silently telling your brother that the Pokemon trusted (Love), at least to a point.

-When Zamazenta would get jealous, when he felt like you weren’t giving him enough attention, he would squeeze between you and (Love), pushing (Love) away and making you dote on him instead, much to (Love’s) annoyance and just a bit of amusement.

-It was when the skies turned unnaturally dark suddenly on just a normal day in Valhalla that a siren sounded out, sounding a threat.

-Your brother and you had seen this before, knowing what this is as in the sky, from behind the dark clouds, came something you never thought you would see again, Eternatus, looking more powerful than ever and was now putting the lives of gods, humans, and Pokemon alike at stake.

-(Love) was preparing to fight, to protect you, telling to you run to safety as he headed to battle, but you turned when you heard your brother, “Y/N! Let’s go!” you turned and saw your brother riding Zacian, charging toward Eternatus, and you quickly turned to Zamazenta who nodded and you got on him, charging towards the fighting.

-You saw many gods and warriors were injured were injured when you arrived and you froze, seeing (Love) trying to pick himself up as you stood by your brother, your Pokemon on either side of you.

-A bright flash of light surrounded the four of you, as the two Pokemon performed a Volundr with you and your brother, putting you both in powerful armor, him with a massive sword and you with a massive shield and you both charged into battle.

-Eternatus recognized you both as the one who defeated him all those years ago, screeching out loudly, preparing an attack but you and your brother were prepared.

-As the attack was launched you leapt up first, lifting your shield and you blocked the blow, protecting everyone behind you as the energy played on all sides.

-Your brother leapt up from behind you, charging in with a war cry and stabbed Eternatus deep in his chest, much like when you first fought the massive Pokemon.

-The Pokemon screeched as it was defeated once again, fading away as the sky returned to normal and you and your brother drifted back down to the ground where everyone was waiting and cheering for the two of you.

-You separated from your Pokemon partners and instantly (Love) had you in his arms, hugging you close and you beamed, your arms around his neck, “I’m fine (Love)- this wasn’t our first fight with Eternatus.”

-He smiled softly, relaxing before he lowered his head to kiss you, relieved to see that you were okay before your brother grabbed you, “Not happening!!” you whined at your brother as he glared at (Love) who was amused, seeing your brother so protective as the two Pokemon growled at him, trying to keep him away from you.

-(Love) knew that it was because they cared, just smiling and walking away, as he knew that he would see you later, which you also knew, hiding your smile behind your hand as you realized this before you scolded the Pokemon and your brother, telling them that you were allowed to date, but your brother didn’t seem to think so- while Zamazenta knew what was up, but kept silent, wondering how this was going to all turn out.

[ameagrice]

Capsize

percy jackson x f!reader

chapter thirty-three: run, girl, run!

That night, you sneak up to the Big House again, when all is quiet across camp. The balls of light floating around the camp store allow you to sneak past without falling down the hill, grateful to see the lights of the house still on.

He must have been expecting that you couldn’t just get in bed and fall asleep with so many things on your mind. You climb the steps of the porch, and slide in slowly through the open doorway. It’s warm again tonight, the air is hot and humid, but inside the Big House it feels homely as ever, cool. Chiron stands, reading through an old and tattered book in his hands. He looks up when you walk in.

“Hi,” you say.

“It’s very late,” he replies, snapping the book shut. “You want to know if I’ve considered what you asked, don’t you?”

You nod. It’s not like you’d asked anything else. “But I want to know what happened to Chris Rodriguez, too. How Clarisse found him. Why he went down there.”

Chiron sighs, like he’s tired, and waves a hand to the couch. You don’t hesitate in taking a seat.

“It started after you left with Percy for the summer…”

You spend the remainder of the night flicking through all the books in the house, on Ancient Greece, the gods, Daedalus mainly. Chiron talks as you read, of how Clarisse blew up an entrance to the maze somewhere in the country, of how it simply moved a few yards away. He talks of Chris going insane from what he saw down there, from what Luke’s men had him do. Chris currently resides in the basement, the only place he feels safe enough without panicking to high heaven. He refuses to come out, but at least nothing can hurt him down there. Clarisse was scarred from the maze itself, and vowed never to step foot in there again. It makes sense—the few hours you were down there with Percy were creepy enough.

“I dreamed of Nico, and Percy did too. He’s trying to raise the dead, and someone is guiding or helping him or something,” you offer over a cup of hot tea and The Odyssey. You close the chapter on your mother. “He misses Bianca. Makes sense, but…he needs help.”

“The boy is troubled,” he agrees. “He has been led astray.”

“We can get him back. He doesn’t have to end up in trouble. You thought Percy was the only child of the Big Three who would make a mess of things. Then Thalia turned up, and left. But now there’s Nico; do you really want him running loose, led astray?” Chiron tilts his head. “We all heard about the ‘dangers’ of the children of those three. Although I really doubt Percy could wreak havoc. He misses his mouth when he eats pizza.”

Chiron laughs, but it’s missing something. Does he think of all your failures in the past? Is that why he doesn’t want you to go on this quest? You wouldn’t blame him, because all you’ve done so far is evade your own death and cause other people’s. Not directly, but your choices spurred theirs. At least that’s how it feels.

“I know you think I’m not right for this, but I need you to trust me.”

“It isn’t that you’re not right for this,” he deflects. “It’s that things in our world are getting worse, and sending heroes off to fight these battles have more risks than before. You know what happened to Chris and Clarisse. I’d like to avoid that from happening to anybody else.”

“Well, sometimes we can’t change fate. What’s meant to be is meant to be.”

It’s like you’ve shot him. He stills, blanching. Chiron recovers his expression quickly, and gives you a tense smile. “You should go, now. It’s been a long day for you.”

After breakfast, Chiron called a council meeting. You and Percy headed down together, chatting about what it could be. A distraction, obviously—you both knew what it would be about. You met up with everyone in the training arena, compared to the usual meeting at the ping pong table. Mrs O’Leary chewed on a giant dog toy, bounding around the arena as you discussed the fate of everything.

Juniper the tree nymph accompanied Grover, Travis and Connor sat beside each other, Charles Beckendorf and Silena, and Lee Fletcher, a son of Apollo. Quintus and Chiron, by the sword racks, led the meeting at first, passing over to Clarisse and Beckendorf for input.

Finally, they turned it on you. Clarisse, addressing you properly for the first time, demanded your thoughts. “What do you think about this?”

You inhaled, sitting up straighter on the bench. All eyes turn to you, listening intently. “I think Luke knows about the entrance to the Labyrinth, and he’s probably known for a while. Think back years ago to when Percy was poisoned; the monster came out of nowhere, and so did Luke. The maze moves—maybe he lost it for a while, hasn’t used it since. But he’s definitely trying to get back inside camp, now, using the maze. He was here longer than anyone, wasn’t he? He probably knows it like the back of his hand.”

“The cave entrance has been there a long time. Luke used to use it.”

You raise an unimpressed brow to Juniper. “You knew about this? And haven’t said anything?!”

Juniper’s youthful face turned green in embarrassment. “I didn’t know it was important. Just a yucky old cave.”

You see Chiron rub his hand over his forehead in stress, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing—Luke’s been doing this under his nose for years it sounds like.

“She has good taste,” Grover defends.

“I wouldn’t have paid any attention, except…it was Luke,” she blushes further. You wave your hand in her direction, somewhat agreeing. Luke might have been good-looking, but he’s still a psycho.

Grover huffs. “Forget what I said about good taste.”

Quintus polished his sword as he spoke. “Interesting. And you believe this young man, Luke, would use the Labyrinth as an invasion route?” He raised his eyes to you.

“Definitely,” Clarisse came to your defence. “If he could get an army of monsters inside Camp Half-Blood, just have ‘em pop up in the middle of the woods without having to worry about the camp’s boundaries, we don’t stand a chance. He could wipe the place out easy. Probably been planning it for a while. He’s been sending scouts into the maze. We found one. You know…”

“Chris Rodriguez,” you mumble.

“Ah, the one in the…”

“The one in the what?” Asks Percy.

Clarisse glared at him. “The point is, Luke has been searching for a way to navigate the maze. He’s looking for something.”

You don’t miss a beat. “Probably Daedalus’s workshop.”

Percy shifted beside you. “The guy who created the maze.”

You hum in response. “He’s considered the greatest architect of all time. If the legends are actually true, his workshop should be in the centre of the maze. Except…the maze always changes so…where’s the centre meant to be. If Luke managed to find it, he could easily convince Daedalus to help him navigate his own creation.”

“The thing is,” adds Clarisse. “He wouldn’t have to stumble around watching for people or traps. He could navigate and go anywhere he wants safely. First to Camp, and then—well, Olympus.”

The arena turned very silent. Mrs O’Leary even grew quiet. Beckendorf straightened up on the bench, running a strong over his face. “Hold up. You said convince Daedalus. I thought Luke was—kicked off a cliff? Isn’t Daedalus dead? Shouldn’t Luke, in theory, be very dead?”

Your jaw drops. How stupid can you be? You chide yourself, looking at Chiron for some guidance. He’s watching you too, but doesn’t offer any sort of help.

“In theory, they both should be dead. Extremely, extremely dead. Uh—but Luke is not. Definitely not. And Daedalus…well, nobody really knows. People have said that towards the end of his life, he went down into his maze and stayed there. Others have said different. There are a lot of uh, disturbing rumours, stories. But long story short, he might still be down there.”

You’re aware of Travis staring at you from the other side, but you can’t bring yourself to look. You’ve barely spoke to him thus far, for being so caught up in everything. “We have to go into the maze. We have to find this workshop before Luke does. If Daedalus is alive, we can convince him to help us, not Luke. If, for some miracle Ariadne’s string still exists too, we make sure it doesn’t fall into Luke’s hands.”

“Why don’t we just blow up the maze?” Came Percy. “Block Luke off from the outside?”

You give him a gentle look. “Clarisse tried. The maze just moved.”

“It’s not so easy, stupid,” Clarisse snapped. “We tried in Phoenix. The best thing to do is to stop Luke from navigating it. Which means, we get down there first.”

“We could fight,” Lee said. “We know where the entrance is now. We can set up a line of defence and wait for the army to come through. We’ll be ready, waiting.”

“We will certainly set up a defence,” agrees Chiron. “But Clarisse is right. The best thing to do is for our side to move first. If they come through here…we won’t have enough to defeat them.”

You stand. “We have to get to Daedalus’s workshop first, then. Find Ariadne’s string, stop Luke from getting it.”

“But if nobody can navigate it,” Percy reached for your elbow, getting your attention. “What chance do we have down there?”

“I’ve been reading about it. I know more than we did before. We’ll be fine.”

“From reading about it?”

You clenched your teeth. “Yes.”

“That’s not gonna be enough.”

“It’s gonna have to be.”

“It isn’t!”

“Are you gonna help me or not?” You exclaim. You’re suddenly aware of everyone watching, listening to you argue. Mrs O’Leary violently ripped the head off her toy—EEEEEK.

Chiron cleared his throat. “First thing’s first. We need a quest.” Your heart stopped. “Someone must enter the Labyrinth, find the workshop of Daedalus, and prevent Luke from using the maze to invade.”

“Well,” Clarisse waved a hand in your direction. “We all know who should lead this. She’s got my vote.”

Much to your surprise, there was a murmur of agreement. Under the watchful eyes, you shift on your feet, hip to hip, uncomfortable, edging back to near Percy. “But you’ve done loads for this, too. You should be a part of it.”

Clarisse shook her head. “I’m not going back in there.”

Travis barked a laugh. “Chicken, Clarisse? Don’t tell me you’re scared.”

She got to her feet, cheeks aflame, and visibly shaking. She pointed in Travis’s face. “You don’t understand anything, you hear me? I’m never going in there again.” She stormed out of the arena.

Travis sheepishly voiced, “I didn’t mean to—”

Chiron raised his hand. “The poor girl has had a difficult time. Now, do we all agree who should lead this quest?” Everyone nodded, every hand went up. You scarcely believed your eyes. Travis offered you a tiny hint of a smile, albeit a nervous one. Chiron, at last, turned to you directly. “Very well. My dear, it’s time you visit the Oracle. Assuming you return to us in one whole piece, we will discuss what will happen next.”

You’ve been up in the attic before. You spent the whole month before the summer break trying to get the mummy to talk to you. You don’t stop to offer assistance to Clarisse in calming down a frantic Chris in the basement, crying his heart out. Instead, you place your hand on the banister and trail up the four flights, to the attic where the Oracle sits waiting. You wind up the narrow set all the way to the top, an attic full of relics of years passed from heroes who passed through the same walls.

You walk slowly over the dusty floorboards, to the window behind the Oracle, and you watch for a little while the figures in the distant training arena, one figure in particular pacing nervously. Percy, pacing up and down the arena. You absentmindedly pull on the ends of your hair, before moving back and turning to the mummified girl, who seems to know what you want before you open your mouth. The room grew darker, and dark green fog spilled from the Oracle’s mouth. She came to life in a way you’ve seen only once before, this time just as scary as the last when she’d wandered out of the house. Her eyes open, dark, broken holes, and she spills the prophecy you’ve waited so long for.

You shall delve in the darkness of the endless maze,

The Traitor, the Dead and the Lost one raise.

You shall rise or fall by the Ghost King’s hand,

The child of Athena’s final stand.

Destroy with a hero’s final breath,

And may lose a love to worse than death.

Cheery.

You want to grab the nearest baseball bat and scream. The child of Athena’s final stand? Worse than death? Why, oh why, did nothing work out for you? Frustrated tears burn your eyes. You’re unable to stop them, a sudden fear at your line, undoubtedly. You find yourself lowering to the floor, where you sit for a while, trying to think. You can’t make anything positive out of this one. Somewhere downstairs, the floorboards creak, and you jump to your feet, dust scattering in the air. You wipe your hands across your cheeks ridding them of tears and give yourself a minute to calm down before you tear out of the attic, back down to the arena. You must look a little out of touch, or something.

“My dear,” Chiron says. “You made it!”

You find your spot next to Percy on the bench, collapsing heavily and stare at the floor.

“Well?” Asked Quintus.

Turning your head ever so, you look at your best friend, who sits wide-eyed and waiting for you to say anything. “I got the prophecy. So…I’ll lead the quest to find Daedalus’s workshop.”

Chiron scraped a hoof against the floor. “What exactly did the prophecy say, my dear? The wording is important.”

Taking a deep breath, “Uh…well—it said you shall delve in the darkness of the endless maze…the dead, the traitor and the lost one raise—”

Grover perked up. “That’s Pan!” He proclaimed. “It has to be!”

“With the dead and traitor,” Percy, ankle touched yours. “Not so much.” I’m here, his touch said. I’m listening.

“And? What is the rest?”

“You shall rise or fall by the ghost king’s hand, the child of Athena’s final stand.”

The murmur of excitement dropped. Everyone looked uncomfortable. Because you are the daughter of Athena attending.

“Hey, we shouldn’t jump to conclusions!” Silena urged sweetly. “You’re not the only child of Athena, it could be anybody!”

“But who’s this ghost king?” Beckendorf asked.

You had your suspicions, alright.

“Are there more lines?” Asked Chiron. “It doesn’t sound complete.”

That’s because it’s not. “Um, something about destroy with a hero’s final breath.”

“And?”

Feeling suddenly tired, you stand to make your point. “Look, I have to go in. I’ll find the workshop and I’ll stop Luke. I need help, though…” He must have expected it. Was that not why he was pacing, earlier? Percy’s bright eyes did not waver, set on your own. “Will you help me?” The last line worried you, but doing this without Percy worried you more. You didn’t think you could do it without him.

He didn’t even hesitate. “I’m in.”

You smiled. “And Grover. You, too. You need to find Pan, and we’ll need your help.”

“I’ll pack extra recyclables for snacks!”

“Two companions,” assured Chiron. “Are you sure on your final choice?”

You nod. You want to take Annabeth, too, but you’re not risking more than three ever again. Not this time. Not when the prophecy talks of a child of Athena’s last stand. You won’t do it to her. “Mhm.”

“Very well. Let us adjourn. The members of the quest must prepare themselves. Tomorrow at dawn, you will enter the Labyrinth.”

You tried not to cry again, you really did. But the lines were going round and round in your head, and the sudden hurry to go make a new weapon was nagging, and you couldn’t find your spare flashlight, and packing your things made you doubt you could do this. Which was why when he called out from the doorway, you melted. You paused looking through the wall of books for anything that could help you along the way.

“Knock knock?” He tapped on wood.

You turn to him, putting down the books on the side. “Oh, hey. Didn’t hear you.”

“You okay?”

“Just trying to do some more research, find something useful. Just in case. But, uh, nothing can seem to agree on anything. So…yeah. I know a bit but I just feel like we need more.”

He closed the door with a small thud, coming closer. “We’ll figure it out. Don’t worry so much.”

It’s all you ever do. Does he know you’re always on high-alert? Does he know you’re overthinking?

You shift on your hip, rubbing your hand over your arm. “I wanted this so badly.”

Percy’s bright green eyes keep you balanced, and he smiles reassuringly. “I know. You’re gonna do great.”

You’re so grateful to him. “I’m just worried I’ve made the wrong decision. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked you to do this. Or Grover.”

“Hey, we’re your friends. We trust you. We wouldn’t want to miss this.”

You shakily exhale, throat closing up. Uh oh. “It’s just…” you almost gag as the words get stuck. Percy’s smile fades, replaced with a concerned frown.

“What is it? Is it the prophecy?”

You gulp. “I’m sure it’s fine,” you utter quietly.

“What was the last line?”

You squeeze your eyes shut before the tears can hurt anymore, and without any thought, you hold your arms out to him. And he comes right to you, just holding you. He’s warm and a solid figure in a shaky world. Percy’s hand awkwardly pats your back, and you can’t help the way you squeeze your arms around him.

“Hey,” he mumbles. “It’s—it’s okay.”

You’re shivering. He smells soapy, and cotton fresh, yet distinctly boyish. You shove your face into his shoulder and hope he doesn’t feel the tears soak in his shirt.

“It sounds weird,” you muffle into his shirt. “But I know this is right. I need you and Grover with me. It feels right.”

“Then don’t worry about it,” he sighs. “We’ve had plenty of problems before and we solved them all, right? We can do it this time too.”

“This is different. I don’t want anything happening to you.” You slip up. “Or to Grover. Or me.”

“Try not to worry so much,” he pats your back a final time. “We’re gonna be alright. We’ve got each other.”

When you finally part, Percy avoids your gaze, trailing his fingers across the maps laid out across the table you stand beside. “About your prophecy…the line about a hero’s last breath—”

You wipe your nose. “You want to know which one of us. I don’t know, Percy.”

“No, something else. You didn’t give us the last line, earlier. Hero’s breath should rhyme with the last line. Was it something like—did it end in death?”

You stare with hot eyes at the book on the table. “You should go, Percy. Pack your things. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

He stands quietly for a moment, before putting his hands in his pockets. “Okay,” he says. “Just…try to sleep. See you tomorrow.” And he leaves you standing there to think about what you’ve done.

It’s easier said than done. You manage archery that afternoon, and news spreads pretty quickly of what’s coming tomorrow. Annabeth brings you back some food from dinner, and helps you pack your bag. Your siblings wish you good luck, Malcolm saying he’ll pray for you. Annabeth provides you with an extra flashlight, and then Clarissa, which makes three. You don’t know how long you’ll be down there, she says. It makes your stomach churn even more. You set out your outfit for tomorrow and pack a good few. The brief time in the maze the other evening was cold, so you lay out a pair of jeans, a tee and a jacket.

You lay in bed that night and raise your hand to pull back the curtain above your head, watching the stars. It might be the last time you ever see them.

When morning comes, you find yourself gearing up to go, after breakfast, backpack over your shoulders, accompanied by Annabeth past the cabins and into the woods, where the entrance last was. People had set up tents and would take it in turns to watch over the entrance, should anyone come through. Percy and Grover already stood waiting when you turned up, Chiron and Quintus standing with terse smiles.

“Good morning!” Chiron tried to be upbeat, but you couldn’t help the nerves. You couldn’t even smile. “You’re all here, at last.”

You want to tell him you’re shaking to your very core with nerves. You don’t.

“Take care,” Chiron offered. “And good hunting.”

“You too,” Percy nodded.

You follow after Percy and, after a few brief words from Chiron, a goodbye from your friends, and a last look at the woodlands, you find yourself facing the darkness.

“Goodbye sunshine,” said Grover miserably. You trudged forward after Percy, dropping down into the eery space that was the uninviting maze. “Hello rocks…”

It’s not unfamiliar in feel, only in…sight. Where the walls were brick last time, and cool to the touch, they’ve changed to smooth stone, dewy and threaded with hanging vines. Under your feet, tough ropes of them tangle and lead down the pathway.

Beside you, Percy breathes out slowly. You hear Grover’s teeth chattering, and your flashlight provides a good look at your billowing breath in the cold hall. You’ve inside, now, fully—the opening above has disappeared, closed up, and your friends are gone. You’re alone in here, the three of you, and already the claustrophobia is suffocating.

“Alright,” you start, sounding more positive than you feel. “Anyone have any suggestions, first, or can I just lead the way?”

“Lead the way!” Grover prompted. “Because I haven’t any idea what we’re doing.”

“That’s lovely, Grover, thank you for that.” You take the first step in the darkness, voice echoing. You shine your flashlight around, doing a quick circle of your surroundings.

“Oh, damn, it’s like something from a horror movie.”

“And thank you for that, Percy,” you smile sardonically. “Keep your eyes peeled for any clues.”

“This isn’t the crystal maze,” he laughs.

“I think I’ll give you over to the monsters personally.”

You really tried to keep your place in the maze. Left, left, straight on, down the slope, left again…you only got about a hundred or so metres before you were hopelessly, completely lost. Nothing looked at all as it had last time, as if you’d entered a completely different part of the maze. You backtracked following your memorised turnings, but stopped at a dead-end; the maze had changed completely in such a short amount of time. It was scary, and you could feel anxiety threatening to swallow you up, suffocating with every turn. Because not only were you terribly lost with a jittery Grover humming a tune every five minutes, but you’d forgotten about the threat of monsters around every corner, and the possibility of getting split up down here.

“So, new idea,” you voiced. The three of you stopped for rehydration, the tunnel growing warmer the further you walked. “I say we stick to the left wall. That way we aren’t getting split up, and we’re not losing contact with the wall itself, so it cant physically change.”

Percy nodded, raising his hand to your head and dunking you in light spirits. “Good idea.” He quickly lost his sense of humour when, shortly after voicing the brilliant idea, the left wall literally fell away, the bricks disappearing as if they were never there. “Well then.”

You kept walking the long hallway, changing from that of a metal container to a red-brick chamber, with holes in the ground every few steps. It was like playing a dangerous game of hopscotch, except you really didn’t want to relax. At the end of it you entered a round room, with eight different tunnels open and looming branching off the main circle you found yourselves in. Behind you, you watched with your own eyes as the entrance changed from red brick to yellowing, floral wallpaper and rotting wainscoting groaning quietly. Queasiness irritated you. You ran your hands through your hair with a stressful sigh.

“Which way did we even come in?” Grover hummed uneasily.

“Just go back. Turn around the way we came.”

Except, now it had changed, everything blended into one, a huge confusing mess, and nobody could decide on what to do or where to go. You swept your flashlight over the eight tunnel archways, like train tunnels, but none of them offered any differences…at first glance, anyway. Finally, you closed your eyes and stopped the flashlight—opening your eyes, you’d stopped the light on the left-middle tunnel. “That one.”

Percy entered your line of sight, looking unsure. “How can you be so sure?”

You shrugged. “Deductive reasoning.”

He gagged on a laugh. “So you’re guessing?”

Readjusting your backpack, you nodded to the tunnel and took off. “Just come on.”

You’d never do anything by chance again. The tunnel soon got so low and cramped that the concrete walls pressed against your shoulders your hips, bent over and trying not to hyperventilate. Unfortunately, Grover wasn’t doing the same thing. His erratic breathing happened to be the loudest thing in the tunnel.

“I can’t stand it anymore,” he whispered. “Are we nearly there yet?”

You had to admit that you were getting fed up with it as well. Percy remained quiet and composed—once, he smacked his head on the ceiling and bit back a series of words.

“We’ve been down here, like, five minutes,” you offered. “Calm down.”

“Why would Pan even be down here anyway?” He rambled. “I mean, look how dark it is! This is disgusting. What does the god of nature want with a place this dank? This is the opposite of wild!”

Just when the tunnel became so narrow you were about to call it quits, it spilled open into a huge room full of old mosaic tiles in golds, reds and blues, like something from an old Greek book in the Big House. And it was Greek—upon closer inspection with the tiles closest to you, they showed a myriad of images of the gods: Aphrodite in a white chiffon, all done up pretty; your mother in battle, wearing all gold; Ares in feast, at a table drinking dark wine. You leaned in closer, running your fingertip along the pictures.

“This is beautiful.” You straightened up. The ceiling, though dirty and dark, glittered in gold and silver, and an ornate three-tier fountain sat empty in the middle of the room.

“What is this place?” Asked Percy, tilting his head back to look up. “Ancient Greek?”

“Looks like it. Kinda reminds me of Olympus, the last time we were up there.”

“Before you guys came to camp,” Grover joined you, looking around. “We went up to Olympus in winter, before the solstice. Only the grounds but…it was amazing. Looked a lot like this.”

“How can it be here, though?” Asked Percy, “it’s so…out of the blue.”

“The labyrinth is like a patchwork blanket. It grows itself, decorates itself—it doesn’t end.”

“You’re making it sound like it’s alive.”

“It basically is, Percy. Look around.”

“Can we stop talking about it being alive, please?” Begged Grover. A groaning noise came from the tunnel before you. “Oh no,” he moaned.

“Alright,” you said, “onward.”

“Down that way with the noise?” Grover grimaced.

“Exactly that way. Things are looking older so…maybe that’s the way to Daedalus’s workshop. Since he’s old and…whatever. Shouldn’t the workshop be in the oldest part of the maze?”

Logically, it made sense. Literally, it didn’t. The maze didn’t abide by any rules of thumb. The maze soon went back to playing with you (and your sanity) as it turned into modern caves decorated in spray paint, and then a restaurant-esque room full of gleaming mirrors. Every few feet, the maze changed, the tunnels shifted, and the floor beneath your feet turned from cement to metal and back to cement again. Through a wine cellar Dionysus would adore and out into a basement, you were slowly losing your mind. It didn’t matter how much you backtracked or memorised, the maze just didn’t care, and kept changing, changing, changing. At one point, standing in a wooden warehouse, you could have sworn you heard voices on the floor above, but then again, you’d been down here for far too long.

The first skeleton you found appeared far too quickly for your liking.

“Oh, man!” You waved a hand in its direction. “Should we consider this a marker? We’re so far into the maze we’ve got dead bodies?”

Grover gagged. “Milkman!”

“What?”

“A milkman,” he reiterated. “They used to deliver milk.”

“Thank you, Mister. Obvious,” Percy smirked. “But that was like…a million years ago. What’s he doing down here?”

You shrug. “Some people just wander in and get lost. Like us, I guess. Some probably come exploring on purpose and never make it back. In fact, like a bazillion years ago the Cretans sent people in here as sacrifices.”

Grover gulped. “He’s been down here a loooong time.” The skeleton’s hands were frozen clawing at the wall, like he’d died being dragged. “And it smells of monsters down here, too.”

“Well, they’re probably everywhere down here.”

“Yeah…sure smells close, though.”

“We can’t just abandon ship, guys,” you try, “we need to head deeper into the maze. There’s definitely a way to the centre, we’re just going about it the wrong way.”

Percy cleared his throat, prompting your attention. “Maybe there isn’t a right way,” he suggested with a shrug. “I mean, it is a maze, and you said it’s always changing. Maybe the workshop moves with it?”

You hum, and try hard not to think that he might be right. “Nah. We’ll find it. We’re close to something; I can feel it.”

You could, in actual fact, feel the upcoming challenge the way your demigodly instincts always helped you to, like a weird feeling up your spine, a lingering over your shoulders. Your stomach was tightening just as you crawled through a metal air shaft, and came out…

In the tile room. Again.

Getting to your feet with a groan, aching from the constant ducking and diving, you almost yelled in anger.

“We’re just going ‘round in circles!” You yelled and span in one to get your point across. Percy came up after you, casually at first, and then Grover. Percy paled. Grover shrieked.

Spinning on your heels, you weren’t the only ones in this room anymore. You screamed, scrambling to shove yourself behind Percy, back-to-back. You fumbled around for your dagger.

A Greek hero, or what was left of him, sat at the fountain. He wore old armour, bronze and gold, only it was rusted with something you didn’t want to think about. His gold-blond hair lay messed and thick, like he couldn’t stop pulling on it. He lacked an eye, a wound, and looked like he’d been in agony for a very long time. The stuff of nightmares, honestly. A Greek horror.

The personification of struggle.

Percy stiffened at your back. His hand raised and caught your forearm, fingers tight around you, shaking.

“Come on!” A voice like honey drawled, though it was thick with sadness and triumph together. “You guys…what are you doing? You’re going through wrong way, you know. Turn back.”

You couldn’t turn back. You’d already made that mistake. He was trying to confuse you, that’s all. His voice grew louder and more aggressive, more persuasive, and got closer. You tried to block him out, and slow your heart rate. In your mind, you thought of all the songs you loved, humming the lyrics.

“Hey!” You heard Percy. “Leave her alone. Leave us alone.”

Out of the corner of your eye, Riptide was drawn. You really hoped you didn’t have to fight this guy. Though he was obviously an old spirit, or an old and minor god, you didn’t doubt he was powerful. Being down here was a nightmare enough without having to fight.

“Poor thing,” he drawled, like you would a hurt puppy. “Weak, bitter. But persistent. Only hurt lies ahead, you know? You can turn around, now,” he called your name. Percy’s fingers danced along your arm, a distraction. Being under fire made your skin crawl, and the aggression in the hero’s tone had brought on an anxious stomach ache.

Percy raised Riptide. Just when you thought you were done for, a scalding light filled the room, like a floodlight had suddenly appeared. Your heart skipped way too many beats; Grover raised his hand to shield his eyes. When the light died off, you kept your eyes shut.

“Are you causing trouble for these heroes?” A woman’s voice called into the terrible scene. You slowly unclenched your jaw, opened your eyes slowly, and shifted to peek around Percy’s shoulder, ever so slightly inching so you didn’t see the bloodied Greek. She stood tall and proud, beautiful brown curls the colour of chocolate dancing down her spine in a long braid threaded with gold ribbon. The plain, white dress she wore turned to rainbow when she moved, and you thought of oil on a river, the way it moves under sunlight, shimmering. Her milky skin was flawless, and you had the sudden feeling that you knew this woman, somehow.

His voice, mellowed now, shook. “No, milady!”

Liar. You exhaled shakily.

“I see,” she crooned. “Well, you’ll let them be on their way then, yes? You’ll leave them be, from now on? Leave these heroes to me. You’re creating unease.”

The woman turned to face you, Grover and Percy, and made direct eye contact with you first. She smiled, and it was like taking a chill pill, a strange and sleepy calm that washed over you. Whether the boys felt it too, you couldn’t say, but you were glad of it. The anxiety fell away, your heart slowed, and you became aware of the grip you had taken on Percy’s jacket, at the base of his spine, scrunched between your fingers.

“You must be hungry,” she nodded. “Come. Sit with me, let’s talk.” She waved a perfect hand, and the room came to life. Candelabra chandeliers lit in warm yellow, and the dirt fell away from the room. The fountain sprung to life, trickling water, and a pretty table and chairs set appeared waiting, the length of the table filled to the brim with sweet sandwiches cut in small triangles, and tiny plates holding delicately decorated chocolates.

You didn’t realise you’d gotten so hungry. How long hadn’t you eaten for? Time passed so different here, it could have been a whole day, or two. Grover got right to pouring the lemonade, adorned with fresh strawberries, gulping it down like he’d never taken a sip of it before. Understandable, in your eyes.

Gradually, you unclenched your stiff fingers from Percy’s jacket, hand falling away. “Who are you?” He asked, approaching the table.

You didn’t sit like the boys, but instead reached for a sandwich, and then another, and another, and another. Standing opposite each other, you blinked as she spoke with pretty, gentle eyes.

“I am Hera,” she smiled. “Queen of Heaven.”

Ah. That’d be the familiarity, then. Godly hierarchy. You didn’t feel unnerved up close to her, but so much more relaxed than before. She took the pitcher of lemonade from your still-shaking hands with the gentleness of a mother, and you didn’t even stop her from pouring you a glass. You thanked her quietly, and she reached out to tuck your hair behind your ear.

“What are you doing in here?” You asked, lacking formality. Hera hummed softly, before snapping her fingers out of the blue. Instantly, you got cleaned up—your hair fixed itself without effort, feeling cleaner and less sweaty, tied back in a low bun. The dirt abandoned your clothes. The sweat and dirt cleaned off of your face.

“I came to see you, naturally,” she replied. The boys at the table shared a look.

You frown heavily. “I thought—I didn’t think you really liked heroes. At least that’s what I’ve been told.”

Something changed about her, but you struggled to place it. She waved a perfect hand. “Oh, water under the bridge! Because of the little…spat, with Hercules? Goodness, so long ago. I had so much bad press because of one little argument!”

You wouldn’t call attempted murder an argument, but hey-ho. You can’t stop the words flowing out of your mouth. “Didn’t you try to kill him, though?”

Hera laughed, though it wasn’t funny at all. She flicked an imaginary piece of dust from her dress. “Oh, dear, no. Greek myths, am I right? Hercules was my husband’s son by another woman; my patience ran thin, I’ll admit. But Zeus and I have come out the other side, we have an understanding. Especially since that last incident.”

Percy choked on his sandwich, red in the cheeks. You bug-eyed him, a warning. Hera dropped her hand from your hair where she’d been, dare you say it, admiring you. It wasn’t uncommon—your family’s friends and even strangers commented on your luckiness. You wanted to call it more of a curse.

“You mean when Thalia came into the picture?” Percy just couldn’t help himself. Hera’s eyes turned frostily on him.

“Ah, Percy Jackson, isn’t it? One of Poseidon’s…children. As I recall, I voted to let you live at the Winter Solstice. I hope I chose correctly.”

She turned away, like Percy wasn’t worth her time, and her eyes shone like she’d hit diamonds on you. It wouldn’t be a good idea to shy away from a goddess, any of them, never mind Hera, so though you didn’t particularly like the attention or extra care that she wasn’t providing the boys, you didn’t move away. Who knew what dire consequences she’d send your way? Grover spied you looks every few seconds, like making sure you were alright.

A sunny smile plagued her. “Anyway, I bear you no ill will, my girl. I appreciate the difficulty of your quest. Especially when you have old Greek troublemakers to deal with. Brave girl.” Brave, though you hid like a child.

“Why was he here?” You shoved a chocolate in your mouth. “I felt like I was dying.”

“Hmm, he likes to do that. The minor gods…they enjoy causing trouble, scaring young heroes. The minor gods, you three must understand, have always despised the very small roles they play. Some I fear have little love for our Olympus, and can easily be swayed to support the rise of my father.”

Kronos. Luke’s new best friend.

“We have to watch the minor gods. They give lip to Olympus, and yet—”

“That’s where Dionysus went!” Exclaimed Percy. “He was checking on the minor gods.”

“Indeed.” Hera stared at the fountain. “You see, in times of trouble such as these, even gods lose faith. They put their trust in the wrong things. Petty things, should I say. They stop looking at the bigger picture and turn selfish. But I’m the goddess of marriage; I’m into persistence and perseverance. You have to rise above the arguing and chaos. You have to keep your goals in mind, demigods.” Spoken like a proud soccer mom.

“What are your goals?”

“To keep my family together, of course! The Olympians. Right now, the best way to do that is by helping you—the ringleader of the quest! Zeus does not allow me to interfere too much I’m afraid, but once every century or so for a quest I care deeply about, he allows me to grant a wish.”

Like something from a Disney movie. You’re Cinderella, and she’s the fairy godmother.

“A wish?”

“Before you ask it, darling, let me give you some advice. I know you seek Daedalus. His labyrinth is as much a mystery to me as it is to you! But if you wish to know his fate, you should visit my son at his forge. Daedalus was a brilliant inventor, there has never been a mortal Hephaestus admired more. If anyone would know about Daedalus’s whereabouts, it’s Hephaestus.”

You consider this carefully. For anything, you could wish anything at all. But…

“How do we get there, then?” You ask. “That’s what I wish for. I want a way to navigate this maze.”

Hera’s shoulders drooped, and she looked disappointed. “So be it. But you ask for something that has already been given, I’m afraid.”

You blanch. “Huh?”

“The means is already within your grasp!” She spared a look over her shoulder…at Percy. “With him. Percy knows the answer.”

This time, you run cold. Unimpressed, you offer another, “What?” Percy sits up straighter in his seat, fumbling like a fish out of water.

“I do?” He panics.

“But you’re not telling us what it is,” you pry, being careful. “That’s not fair.”

Hera shook her head of pretty hair. “Getting something and having the wits to use it are two different things, darling. I’m sure your mother would agree.”

The floor vibrated as thunder rumbled from high above, reverberating all the way through. “That would be my cue,” Hera beamed. “Zeus is very impatient. Think on what I have told you,” she aimed at you, “locate Hephaestus, and the rest is smooth sailing! You’ll have to pass through the ranch I think, but don’t stop, and use all the means at your disposal…however common they seem.”

She pointed across the room, where two doors had appeared. They flung open, revealing two dark corridors.

“And one last thing,” she clasped her hands together. “Try not to run into any more troublemakers. The minor gods are unlikely to give you an easy time, and, well, I won’t be back. Farewell, my heroes. And good hunting, as they say!”

She waved a hand, and turned into a puff of white smoke. The food and the table disappeared, Grover and Percy falling off of imaginary chairs. The fountain stopped running, the walls turned grimy, and the room became dark again.

All that aside, you were pretty mad.

“What sort of help?…”

“Well,” said Grover. “She said Percy knows the way. That’s something at least.”

You round on your friend, whose cheeks are pink. “But I don’t!” He protests. “I don’t know what she’s talking about. Honest.”

You sigh deeply. “Alright. Whatever. Which way now, then?”

“Left,” said Grover, getting to his feet and hurrying along to the entry. “Because I hear something big coming from the right.”

Percy caught your wrist in his hand. “Left sounds good. I vote left.”

Together, you disappeared into the dark corridor.

AYO what do we think of this one then? Honestly I got a bit stuck, but I think it turned out alright. I had to replace Janus with my imagination (though after the day I’ve had it’s LACKING) because he creepy fucker scares me as much as the cat in the hat does.

taglist:

@bl6o6dy @embersparklz @lilyevanswhore @rottenstyx

@rory-cakes @i-am-scared-and-useless-bisexual @marshmallow12435 @lantsovheiress

@distinguishedmakerpandapatrol @twsssmlmaa @gayandfairycore @padsfirewhisky

@emu281 @charlesswife @jessiegerl @tojismassivemantiddies

@xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx @nothankyou138 @i-love-books-and-the-bible @obxstiles @mxltifxnd0m

[northlt03]

NO BUT imagine being Luke Castellan, meeting and losing the only friend you found that was like you at the age of fourteen, having to be strong for the seven year old you just found that ran away from home, whom you see a lot of yourself in, Seeing a demigod like Halcyon Green who got cursed just for trying to help someone, vowing to never let the gods treat you that badly, despite all that, being desperate to prove yourself only for your dad to patronise you and send you on a meaningless quest, In all your bitterness, you manage to fail that quest too, and then all quests get banned just bc of your failure, two years later, a random twelve year old shows up at camp who has been shielded from the ugly parts of being a demigod (mostly), you don't realise you're being used as a tool by an ancient deity until it's too late, you try to make your younger sister see your point of view, but you're so blinded by rage you can't see her pov, And in the end, just when you realise how everything you've done has gone too far, you stab yourself with the knife Halcyon Green gave you, a knife you thought of as a reminder of the mistreatment of demigods, a knife he promised would keep its user safe, Except Annabeth is the user, your little sister and she gives you the knife because she needs protection from YOU, from what YOU'VE become-

[lunarlianna]

Vesta in signs/houses

In ancient times the New Year was started with the celebration of the Spring Equinox, originally 1st of March in ancient Rome was the day that the Vestals (also known as priestess of the goddess Vesta) will relight the Roman fire at her temple which was considerate the fire (the heart) of Rome. AS goddess she symbolizes the heart, home and family.

Her priestess where virgins and had to take a chastity vow for 30 years, if the broke the vow it would have been considered infidelity and sealed alive in a room with little food and water, where the god where to decide her faith.

In astrology she is one of the biggest and more important asteroids on Astro.com you can find her by adding her number 4 in the extended chart selection section. She represents our internal flame that’s in our hearts, our sexuality, how we feel about home and family, she also symbolizes our dedication and devotion.

Aries: you need to keep your individuality at all cost, you are the kind of person that is committed towards your goals and you are bold when you truly desire something. It’s best to work alone or have a leadership position. You can make a lot of sacrifice in your way of success. Sexually will be a good idea to let go of old ideas and explore outside of your comfort zone. You need to learn how to better communicate your boundaries. There can be a tendency in selfishness, impulsiveness and no patience when it comes to work.

1st house: vesta here it’s show you the importance of the relationship with yourself is and that even if it’s in a more peaceful sign you’ll still feel the need of independence even in close relationships.

Taurus: when you are grounded you can do anything in order to fulfil your goals. Usually, you tend to be committed towards yourself and your stability, you have feelings of responsibility over the loved one but that doesn’t mean automatically that you’ll trust them with your finances. Sexually it will be a good idea to be intone with your body and understand what works for your and what doesn’t, tape into your sensuality, you may have the tendency to use sex as a form of payment in order to obtaining affection or intimacy. You also have the tendency to be quite stubborn in your commitments and dedications.

2nd house financial security is very import to you and you are good at managing your resource, don’t shy way when someone close to you comes asking for help. Careful in overworking yourself, take breaks when you need them.

Gemini: unlike Aries, you are meant to work with others, usually you should be pretty good at communicating your ideas and probably you are highly intelligent and good at connecting people. The difficulty with this placement it’s that it can be hard for you to commit to a specific interest. Sexually you may be interested in anything new sometimes without thinking about it to much. The advice in your situation is to listen to your body and mind in order to make the good decisions, also you need to communicate clearly when something is not right for you.

3rd house: you can help others by expressing your ideas and thoughts, you can have a close relationship with your relatives, you may need to take breaks from socializing in order to clear your thoughts.

Cancer: vesta here has a very nurturing behaviour; you need a safe environment in order to pursue your goals. You have a high emotional intelligent and you are able to give to everyone the emotional support that they need, just be careful in not sacrificing your own emotional needs for the benefit of others. Sexually you need to feel safe in order to enjoy your sexuality, learn what it means a safe partner for you and to feel safe in your own body. You need to heal the maternal wound and work on your trust issues.

4th house: this placement can indicate that growing up you had a lot of responsibilities but now you like to create your home environment safe and lovely. People may come to you and feel as if they are finally at home, you can help them rebalance the chaotic energy that they come in with.

Leo: you are highly creative and need space in order to express yourself fully. You may have artistic qualities or simply you may like to entertain and play a lot of group games. You will need to follow your heart and be truth to yourself and order to shine. Don’t let others define you and restrain your creativity. Sexually you may need to learn how to express your emotions in a non-dramatic way  and hold space for them. You’ll need to learn self-acceptance and self-love in order to be able to choose partners that make you feel love and wanted.

5th house: vesta here can indicate that you put all your heart when it comes to your work and you need to enjoy truly that task in order to feel fulfilled, you may also be a dedicated parent to your children or work great with children

Virgo: you are a dedicated person towards your work and you need organization and structure in order to be productive. You tend to be over critical and perfectionist which sometimes may be in your disadvantage. When you feel overworked it’s a good idea to take breaks and don’t push yourself. You can be a great healer. Sexually you need to understand that sex is not an obligation or a competition and you should listen only to what your body needs and feels. You will be able to enjoy it once you heal your mind.

6th house: you may need to be careful with your health and take care of you first before taking care of others, you have a good job ethic that your proud of, you can be good at working as a healer or with animals

Libra: you work best when you are teamed up with someone else and need that in order to stay focused and dedicated. Your romantic relationships are important and you require equality in them above everything else. You are the type of person that can get along quite easy with others. Sexually, you may have the tendency to not speak when something is bothering you or not working for you, boundaries is an important theme that you must learn. 

7th house: with vesta here, the most important lesson it’s to have a balance between what you give in partnerships versus what you take, it’s ok to put your need first.

Scorpio: this is a very powerful placement, you can go though a lot of difficulties in order to obtain what you want. You may need to learn how to not be extremely possessive and to have a lighter approach towards life and your partners. Sexuality it’s very important with vesta here and you may have a deep fear of being cheated on. You can be very intense and may see sex as something sacred. You may also have quite a few kinks. With this placement you can be extremely loyal to the partner you thing deserves it.

8th house: with this placement you may need a lot of intensity and soul merging like sex, since sex will be quite important for you as well with vesta here. You may also have an interest in the occult and the mind-spirit connection.

Sagittarius: you need freedom to pursue  your goal as you see fit, in a work place you may need constant mental stimulation. If in negative aspects this placement can create anxiety and a feeling that you are without purpose or having troubles in find your purpose. Sexually you may be very fluid and understanding once you evolve past shame, vesta here can empower you to explore the world through embracing your sexuality.

9th house: with this placement you may need to learn how to tap into your wisdom also wisdom plays an important part in your life. People may come to you in order to offer them clarity.

Capricorn: vesta here can be great at being disciplined and focused when it come to their goals. You can take a while to set a goal because you are very careful and you analysed it from different perspective but once you decided nothing can stop you. Sexually you may be a late boomer and you may not understand why people hurry up. You need to learn that it’s ok to let yourself go completely once you find the right partner.

10th house: vesta here can mean that other people may want to worship you or to treat you as the most precious thing.  This placement indicates also the need to have a cause that has meaning and importance to you.

Aquarius: with this placement you may be interested in technology and humanitarian causes. You may not feel comfortable in a corporate work environment and an entrepreneurial career will be better suited for you. You are high individualistic but in the same time you care deeply about your friends. Sexually you may need a partner that it’s open to try everything but do your research before trying something. You may be prone to multiple partners and also need a lot of freedom in your sex life.  

11th house: this is a placement for people that usually do a lot of volunteer work, you may enjoy bringing people together for a greater cause.

Pisces: there is a lot of emphasis on spiritual work with vesta here, you are highly intuitive and creative. When you commit to someone or something they become part of you. Usually, you show people that they need to believe in themselves first. Sexually, you are highly empathetic and you can get easily manipulated by others ( especially people with Pisces moon). You need to respect your body and learn to but very hard boundaries, see the red flags, you don’t take sex just for the sake of it you feel it all.

12th house: vesta here can put a lot of emphasis into your mental health, you may have an interest into everything that it’s mystical and hidden. You may need to be careful in not confusing spirituality with mental health. You may need a lot of time for self-care and that’s it totally ok.

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[cherrycola27]

false god

Series Warnings: Mythology!AU. Language, alcohol, drinking. Military inaccuracies. Mutual pining, unrequited love. Allusions to and eventual smut. Slow burn. Minors DNI. 18+. Individual chapter warnings will come as needed. Banner Credit @thedroneranger

Masterlist Next Part

...........................................

Chapter 1: Villain Era

For generations, people have said that the gods from mythology weren't just myths, that they were real. Some even believed they walked amongst the mortals of the world.

Many people might brush it off, say it was the stuff of legends. That the Gods didn't exist. At least not the ones in the stories from ancient times, but that's a whole different conversation for another day.

Sure, people have claimed that the Gods of the days of old were real, and people have called them crazy. But those nay sayers are wrong.

The Gods are real.

And they do walk among the mortals. You know that without a shadow of a doubt.

Why?

Because you're one of them.

A millennia ago, you and the other Gods that once ruled over Earth from your perch on Mount Olympus were cast off by the Titans.

Angered by Zeus' taunting bravado, all of you were doomed to walk the Earth until each of you proved yourself worthy of your title.

One by one, the twelve of you earned your place back on the summit. Well—almost all of you.

It seemed that you were the only one of the bunch that hadn't been deemed worthy enough to have your seat on the high court given back to you, along with having your full powers restored.

You had tried for centuries to prove yourself worthy. Completing quest after quest and defeating enemy after enemy. Yet, none of them were good enough, hard enough, righteous enough.

Simply put, you were not enough.

So, you accepted your fate. That you would never have your seat back on Olympus. You gave up on trying to be worthy enough.

You spent centuries trotting the globe, doing what you pleased. However, even without your seat on Olympus, you were still forced expected to watch and govern over your realm.

Of course, you were still expected to do that. No one else wanted to. The Olympians all sat upon their mountain top and looked down upon you, literally and figuratively.

You spent three thousand years trying to prove that you are their equal. After yet another fail attempt to earn your rightful place, you decided you didn't need their approval. Who were they to tell you that you weren't good enough? They all thought you were a monster. Their minds were made up. So why try to change it? You vowed that you would no longer spend your life trying to prove your worth to the other Gods. You decided to do what you wanted, honor be damned.

After generations of trying to find yourself, you discovered that you loved flying, so, you chose a career where you could do just that.

You had traveled all over the world and eventually settled in America. You joined their Navy and became an aviator. A very good one at that. One of the best.

And the best part about it is that you could go by your real name, not one of the silly ones the humans insited on having.

After spending almost a decade in the Navy, you'd made quiet a name for yourself. And not in a good way. You had drifted from squadron to squadron. Each one more different than the last.

And yet, each one knew what it meant when you showed up. It meant a mission that would surely end in tragedy was coming. But, somehow, each time you cheated death, it was almost like you were untouchable—immortal even.

No one had ever seen a pilot like you. You were smart, clever, quick, deadly.

And the kicker of it all, you were a woman.

After a particularly sketchy mission overseas, where you somehow survived a total engine failure and heavy enemy fire, and crashing into the ocean due to a parachute failure, and then almost drowning, the Navy offered you the chance to have a more permanent duty station. To be part of the most elite squadron in the history of the program.

So, you packed your things and moved across the country to take on a role as the newest member of the Dagger Squadron on the North Island in San Diego.

Today was your first day. This would be your once chance to establish yourself, to assert your dominance. If you went in there friendly and smiling, they would think you're weak. You refused to let that happen.

So, you slicked back your bun, laced your boots, pinned your medals, and put on your game face. The metaphorical mask you wore to protect yourself and them. You weren't here to be best friends with the Daggers. You were here to train with them, fly a mission in a few months, and leave.

Making friends made the last item on the list harder. So, you would come in cold and calculated, team build enough to keep up appearances and earn their trust.

After giving yourself a once over in the mirror of your apartment, you grabbed your things and headed towards base.

.............

The first days were always the hardest. Just like in school, everyone always wanted a piece of the new kid. You could tell that the other aviators in the room were used to being the best of the best. Today, you took that title from them. You out ranked all of them and had more confirmed kills than the whole lot combined. You had thirteen. You'd personally sent thirteen souls to the Underwold.

You would think that being surrounded by death your whole life would make killing easier. It doesn't.

You remember the ache in your heart after your first confirmed air to air kill. People congratulated you, slapped you on the back, and applauded your accomplishments. You got a medal for it.

Everyone around you made it seem like it was a good thing, but it troubled you deeply. You remember sitting on the floor of your tiny rental downing bottle after bottle of whiskey and tequila, trying to ease the pain, but the relief never came. Finally, you broke down and cried out to Dinoysus. He'd answered your call and provided you with some lotus flower. You swallowed them quickly and let the numbness wash over you.

After coming down from the high, you swore you would never do it again. But you did. Each time making you feel worse than the last.

You prayed that your thirteen kill would be your last one.

You sucked in a breath and wiped your sweat palms against your uniform pants before quietly opening the heavy metal door and entering the hanger that was currently being used as a briefing room.

You stay quiet at the back of the room, taking a few deep breaths to calm yourself. The last thing you needed was to flame out and hurt someone. You're vaugly aware of your commanding officer introducing you to the group.

Though you didn't need much of an introduction, your reputation proceeded you.

You took a deep breath and walked to the front of the room. Just like clock work, the lifetime counters appeared for you over the heads of each of the new aviators that you were meeting for the first time. All of them still had decades left. You'd make sure it stayed that way.

One by one, you made eye contact with each of them. Everything was fine until your eyes met his.

You could see a spark in them that was oh so familiar. You felt a heat creepy over you. You had to squeeze your palms to keep them from bursting into literal flames.

Don't lose control

Don't let them see what you really are

You swallowed thickly before speaking.

"Good morning all. My name is Commander Y/N Kolasi. Call sign: Hades."

Twelve sets of eyes stared back at you. Each one of them wearing a different expression. Some were shocked, others surprised, and a few looked intimidated. One looked at you like you were his next meal, a challenge for him.

Keep it together

Each one came to introduce themselves. And shake your hand. Harvard. Yale. Halo. Fritz. Omaha. Payback. Fanboy. Coyote. Phoenix. Bob. Hangman. Each one telling you their call sign and welcoming you to the group.

Finally, after waiting his turn, he came up to introduce himself. He was tall and sun kissed. Golden brown curls and honey colored eyes with a thick mustache that he made work. He wore a smile on his face, but you could feel the lifetime of pain and the burden of the world that he carried with him.

"Good morning, Commander. My name is Lieutenant Commander Bradley Bradshaw. But you can call me Rooster." He told you before giving you a firm handshake.

You prayed that he wouldn't notice how hot your hands were from the flames that threatened to creep out of them.

You could feel the desire burning inside you. Something you hadn't let yourself feel for a very long time. You couldn't risk it. You couldn't allow yourself to lose control. Not again.

No, you can't do this again

You'll only hurt him

You could already tell that you would have to keep as much space between the two of you as possible. You wouldn't let yourself fall for him.

"'Rooster is going to be your wingman for the time being. He'll help you get acquainted with everyone while you're getting settled." Your commanding officer, Maverick, told you.

Great. So much for keeping your distance.

...............

After a day of training and flying and fending off the flirty remarks from Hangman, you headed to the locker rooms to take a long hot shower. The water wasn't nearly as hot as you wanted it to be, so you gave it a little extra assistance.

After spending some time soothing your aching muscles, because yeah, even the Gods get tired, you finished getting ready. You slid on a black sports bra and black v-neck shirt. You slipped on a pair of jeans and sighed as you pulled them up to cover the inked words and images across your hips and thighs.

You left your hair loose and swiped some mascara and a dark red lip on before leaving. You thought you might ask your new coworkers about the best place to get a drink around here. You couldn't actually get drunk, but you needed to keep up appearances and earn their trust. You've found that mortals are more apt to let their guard down and show their true selves after a few social drinks.

You grabbed your things and slipped your sunglasses over your eyes as you exited the building to walk to your car.

You fished your keys out of your bag. And you were just about to unlock your SUV when you noticed some of the boys crowded around your car.

"Excuse me?" You said as you unlocked your blacked out Land Rover Defender.

"Hades? This is your car?" Hangman asked you with wide-eyed amazement.

"Yes. It is." You deadpanned.

"Damn. This is fine as hell, darlin. Custom paint job?" He asked as he leaned against the hood and traced his finger down the electric blue pin stripping that ran down it.

"Yes, along with custom black chrome wheels and a custom sound system and custom interior." You tell him.

"So if you could back the fuck off and not lean on it, that would be great." You say sarcastically.

Good, don't let them think you're weak

"Sorry, honey." He smirked before standing up.

You rolled your eyes before looking over at the car parked next to you. It was a vintage blue Bronco.

"Whose Bronco is that?" You asks, looking at the group of men whose eyes went back and forth between ogling you and your SUV.

"It's mine." You hear Rooster's voice cut through them.

Of course it was

"I like it. I'm a big fan of the classics." You tell him.

"Thanks." He smiled. "Is this the Bond edition?" Bradley asks as he gestures to your car. "Yeah." You shrugged.

Don't smile back

Don't lose control

"So, Hades, how many drinks would I have to buy you at the Hard Deck for you to let me take this beauty for a spin?" Hangman asks you.

"Seresin, there isn't enough alcohol in the world for me to ever agree to that." You shoot back. Coyote laughs and smacks him on the back.

"But, the Hard Deck, is that where you guys go to get a drink around here?" You ask them.

"Yeah, it is. Mav's girlfriend owns it. If you want to, you can follow me over there, and I can buy you a welcome to the team beer." Rooster pipes up.

"Sounds good. Lead the way, Bradshaw." You say as you open your car door and climb in. A grin breaks out across Bradley's face as he jogs over to his car.

Great, you've been too nice.

Stop it.

You press your push to start button and the engine under the hood purrs to life. You can see the shocked expression of Hangman, Coyote, Fanboy, and Payback through your tinted windows.

You select your favorite playlist and turn the volume up. The beats ring out as you rev the engine before following Bradley out of the parking lot.

As the bass drops, you tap your shiny black fingernails along your leather wrapped steering wheel as you listen to the song

"She's in her villain era"

You cut your eyes to your rearview mirror. "You aren't here to make friends, and you aren't here to fall in love." You tell yourself.

"You'd better send a prayer up"

You took a deep breath as you pulled into the parking lot next to Rooster. You could do this. You killed the engine, but before you could open your door, Rooster rushed over and grabbed the handle before offering his hand to help you out.

"You didn't have to do that." You tell him.

Don't let him charm you.

Do you want a repeat of last time?

"I know, but my mom would roll over in her grave if I didn't." He tells you with a smile before leading you in.

The moment he mentions his mother, you can see her. You can see his memories of her. You know her. You had met her when she came through the gates. The first thing she asked you was if you knew where her Goose was. It took a few minutes of her explaining for you to realize she was talking about her husband. You think fondly of their reunion. Moments like those made your godly job more tolerable. It must have been almost fifteen years ago. You realize how young Rooster must have been.

Now you know why he carries sadness in his eyes.

"Hoping that she'll maybe spare ya"

You vow to yourself to not cause him anymore.

Don't lose control

................

You spend a few hours in the Hard Deck with your new squadron. You try your best to ignore the countdown timers of all the new faces. You swipe them away until you notice one of a young man who is sitting at the bar alone. He looks depressed and is clearly intoxicated. You see that he's got thirty minutes left to live.

He's fumbling for his wallet to pay his tab, and he sets his keys on the bar. You know exactly what he is going to do. You also know you shouldn't interfere because Minthe will tell you that all your time on earth has made you soft. But you can't help it.

You discreetly make your way through the crowd and swipe his keys without being seen. You look back and see that his time has jumped up several decades. You breathe a heavy sign and pocket his keys to turn into the bartender at a later time.

God, you are getting soft.

You're just about to pay for your drinks and the rest of your coworkers when Phoenix grabs your arm and tells you to come over to the piano.

You gather around to find Rooster sitting and playing a few melodies.

Then, he breaks into a song, putting on a show for the whole bar. You figured that's probably how he got his call sign.

As he is singing, he throws his head back, and you see them. You don't know how you hadn't noticed them before. His scars.

Before you know it, his words aren't his anymore. They are hers from ages past echoing in your brain.

"Come Hades! I want all of Olympus to know you're mine, mine, mine! I want to shout it from the mountain tops and tell the world you belong to me and I belong to you!" She chants out as you're racing her up a hill before catching her around the waist and kissing her. "Persephone, calm down, you'll wake the dead." You half scold her. "Well, I want them to know too, Hades." She tells you before kissing you again.

Her voice is as clear as day in your head. You can still feel the tingle from her kiss on your lips.

You didn't realize you had zoned out until Phoenix shook you to see if you were okay. You snapped back to reality and wiped a stray tear from your eye as Rooster began to play another song.

Don't lose control

Don't drop the mask

"Yes. I'm fine." You lied to her so easily. "It's just getting late. I'm going to head home. Will you tell everyone their tabs are taken care of." You call over your shoulder as you push your way through the crowd and out the door.

You struggle to draw in a breath as you get in your car. You turn on the headlights and zoom out of the parking lot as you try to regulate your heart rate.

It was all too much. Too similar. Too overwhelming.

You could feel the control slipping.

Get it together

You peeled down the highway towards your apartment, needing to put as much space between you and him. He was so much like her it scared you. You remember how easy it was for her to break down your walls. You could already feel them slipping again after just a day around him.

This is not good

Build your walls higher

Make your armor stronger

You couldn't relive the worst moment of your life. You would not let yourself fall in love with Bradley Bradshaw. You couldn't let yourself go through that heartbreak again. You might not be strong enough to survive it a second time

Do

Not

Lose

Control

Taglist: @thedroneranger @roosterscock @shanimallina87 @teacupsandtopgun @mayhemmanaged @wkndwlff @roosterforme @daggerspare-standingby @dakotakazansky @startrekfangirl2233 @hecate-steps-on-me @cassiemitchell @na-ta-sh-aa @milestellerlover @katieshook02 @mak-32 @je-suis-prest-rachel @soulmates8 @ohgodnotagainn @diorrfairy @eli2447 @xoxabs88xox @djs8891 @roosters-girl @sebsxphia @rosiahills22 @dempy @callsign-magnolia @alchemxx @gretagerwigsmuse @sunlightmurdock @withahappyrefrain @lt-spork @multifandomlover4life @lewmagoo @bradshawsbaby @seitmai @kmc1989 @bcarolinablr @roosterisdaddy36 @itsdesiree86 @waywardhunter95 @hisredheadedgoddess28

[novaursa]

could you please do torrhen stark x aegon the conquerers youngest sister (not rhaenys), getting married and having kids in winterfell

Queen of Winter

- Summary: Your life with Torrhen flourishes in spite of your brother’s ire.

- Paring: targ!reader/Torrhen Stark

- Note: This is another part of The Broken Crown series, where the reader chooses Torrhen ending called The Queen's Choice. These events follow after the ending.

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The North had never seen such a wedding. The cold winds blew through the godswood as you and Torrhen Stark were wed beneath the heart tree, its ancient branches reaching out as silent witnesses. The Old Gods looked on as you made your vows, their presence felt in every gust of icy wind. Winterfell’s great hall had roared with celebration that night, the fires blazing high in the hearth, the Starks and their bannermen toasting to the union of ice and fire.

Years had passed since that fateful day, and Winterfell was no longer just a place of cold stone and ancient oaths. It was filled with the laughter of children, your children. Nine in total, each one a reflection of the bond between you and Torrhen, the fierce love that had grown despite the odds, despite the war, and despite the looming shadow of Aegon and his sisters.

Your sons were the embodiment of the North’s strength, towering figures with the bulk and muscle of their father’s kin, but with the unmistakable Valyrian features that marked their heritage. Their hair, silver as moonlight, was often tousled by the wind, and their violet eyes burned with the same fierce intensity as your dragon. They moved through Winterfell with the quiet power of wolves, though the fire of dragons coursed through their veins.

Your daughters, on the other hand, were your mirror. Each one carried a trace of your fire, both in spirit and in appearance. They had inherited your beauty, your poise, and the regal way you held yourself, but beneath it all was the cold steel of the North, a quiet fierceness that only you could understand. When they stood with their brothers, they were a fearsome sight, children of two worlds, bonded by blood and the strength of the North.

It was a day of clear skies and crisp air when Torrhen found you in the godswood, watching your children. Your youngest son, Rhaenar, was perched on a low branch of the weirwood tree, his silver hair glowing in the midday light, his eyes fixed on the sky where one of his older brothers circled on dragonback. You smiled, a small, contented sigh escaping your lips.

Torrhen approached quietly, wrapping his arm around your waist, his warmth seeping through the heavy fur cloak you wore. “Rhaenar is restless again,” he said, his voice a low rumble.

“He wants a dragon of his own,” you replied, leaning into him. “He watches the skies more than the other children. He has his eyes on one of Tesaerix’s hatchlings.”

Torrhen chuckled softly, his breath misting in the cold air. “The boy has ambition. Like his mother.”

You smiled at that, looking up at your husband. His face, weathered by the years and the responsibilities of ruling, was still as handsome and strong as the day you first met. “And like his father,” you teased. “The Starks may be wolves, but there’s dragon blood in his veins.”

Torrhen’s gaze softened, his fingers brushing against your cheek. “Our children are as much Stark as they are Targaryen. They carry both fire and ice in them. They will grow into great leaders.”

Your eyes turned back to the godswood, watching as your eldest son, Vaeron, landed his dragon in the clearing. The beast, a large creature with scales the color of dark smoke and ember, lowered its head, allowing Vaeron to dismount. He was the spitting image of you in his features, but Torrhen’s strength and Northern stature shaped his form. Vaeron had bonded with the first of Tesaerix’s clutch, a proud dragon who had hatched in the dead of winter.

As Vaeron approached, Rhaenar rushed over to his older brother, eyes wide with excitement. “Did she fly higher today? Did you see beyond the Wall from afar?”

Vaeron smiled, ruffling his little brother’s hair. “Not today, little wolf. But one day, when you have your own dragon, we’ll fly together.”

Rhaenar’s face lit up, and he looked to you with a pleading expression. “Mother, when will one of the hatchlings choose me?”

You knelt down, brushing a lock of silver hair from his forehead. “Patience, my love. The dragons choose when the time is right. They are not just beasts to command—they are kin, bound by blood and fire.”

Rhaenar nodded solemnly, though his excitement was barely contained. The bond between dragon and rider was something every child of yours yearned for, and you knew it would come in time.

That evening, as the fires in Winterfell’s great hall roared and the scent of roasted meat filled the air, your children gathered around the table, laughter and conversation filling the space. Vaeron sat at the head of the table beside Torrhen, discussing strategy and plans with his father, while your daughters entertained their younger brothers, teasing them mercilessly.

Torrhen watched them with pride in his eyes, the legacy you had built together here in the North. “The bannermen will be expecting more of our children to take up their positions soon,” he said, his voice thoughtful. “Vaeron will need to command, and the others will follow.”

“They are ready,” you replied, glancing at your sons and daughters. “The dragons have chosen some of them already, and the Old Gods watch over the rest.”

Torrhen took your hand under the table, his grip firm but warm. “I never thought our lives would become this, Y/N. Not after all that’s happened. But now, I can’t imagine it any other way.”

You smiled at him, your heart swelling with the same love you had carried since the day you’d flown north to be with him. “This is where we were always meant to be, Torrhen. Here, with our children, our dragons, our home.”

The years had not been without their trials, but in that moment, surrounded by your family, the future seemed as vast and as endless as the northern sky.

In the distance, a dragon roared, its call echoing through the halls of Winterfell, a reminder of the power that lay within your bloodline, and the strength of the bond between fire and ice.

[atopvisenyashill]

Hiiiii what are your theories on what post-resurrection Jon with be like?

So I AM curious if he’s gonna be a bit more animalistic. I went back to look at Varamyr and I feel like Varamyr is a weirdo but he doesn’t act like an animal, despite spending a lot of time as an animal. Now you can contrast this to some of the Starklings who will do shit like growl and howl and stuff, and Jojen in fact warns against staying an animal for too long.

“Bran the boy and Summer the wolf. You are two, then?"

"Two," he sighed, "and one." He hated Jojen when he got stupid like this. At Winterfell he wanted me to dream my wolf dreams, and now that I know how he's always calling me back.

"Remember that, Bran. Remember yourself, or the wolf will consume you. When you join, it is not enough to run and hunt and howl in Summer's skin."

But the thing is - it’s Rickon Bran and Arya doing that. Bran & Arya are barely old enough to be self aware and Rickon is a literal toddler (I think all the Starklings refer to him as “the baby” not as in “the youngest” but as in he is TINY still). Jon is sixteen. I do wonder if he adjusts better simply because he’s older. But to flip back again…Varamyr is our only reference and Jojen explicitly warns against it. So will Jon have a temper? Will he growl, go nonverbal when emotional, like Rickon does? Will he howl at the moon like Bran and Arya? Will other people find him unsettling? Not in the “why is this grown man acting like a wolf” way but in that way that actual wolves are unsettling….you know the stories about how you KNOW if you’ve seen a wolf because they’re fuck off huge, they LOOK like predators, and your instincts tell you “this thing can kill me” in a way they don’t when you see a regular dog? What if he’s just unnerving to be around?

I do wonder about his physical look as well. Every person who ~comes back from the dead~ still bares the scars they got while dying. Beric & LSH’s injuries seem to healing human slow - that is to say, if they hadn’t received killing blows, Cat’s vocal chords would be healing at about the rate we see LSH start to regain speech, and Beric’s various cuts are scarring & healing at a normal rate. Bran is paralyzed. Drogo is…all of that. Will he face some issues with his body because the wounds are still healing? Will he have some more stiffness in his limbs, like the way his burnt hand has problems? I don’t really know how he would pick up the red eyes and white hair from ghost - Beric, LSH, Bran, even Drogo, they don’t suddenly change eye or hair color or something, and Brynden was BORN albino it’s not like his magic made him that way later - but I’m ngl I still kind of hope he’ll have the red eyes, I think it’s neat. He doesn’t need white hair tho I think that’s overkill.

When it comes to his priorities, I think we're going to see a huge shift. I know everyone ragged on the show for just having Jon be like "yeah i'm peacing out bye" bc there's going to be more hubbub than that but I do think Jon is going to feel incredibly jaded when it comes to the Night's Watch. I always come back to his confrontation with Maester Aemon and the fact that Aemon is distressed by his choice to not attempt to help Elia and her babies...

Maester Aemon sighed. “Have you heard nothing I’ve told you, Jon? Do you think you are the first?” He shook his ancient head, a gesture weary beyond words. “Three times the gods saw fit to test my vows. Once when I was a boy, once in the fullness of my manhood, and once when I had grown old. By then my strength was fled, my eyes grown dim, yet that last choice was as cruel as the first. My ravens would bring the news from the south, words darker than their wings, the ruin of my House, the death of my kin, disgrace and desolation. What could I have done, old, blind, frail? I was helpless as a suckling babe, yet still it grieved me to sit forgotten as they cut down my brother’s poor grandson, and his son, and even the little children …” Jon was shocked to see the shine of tears in the old man’s eyes. ...“Once. So you see, Jon, I do know … and knowing, I will not tell you stay or go. You must make that choice yourself, and live with it all the rest of your days. As I have.” His voice fell to a whisper. “As I have …”

There’s nothing he could have done and he knows it. AND YET. How do you justify to yourself hiding out at the Wall in safety while children of your house are slaughtered? How do you make your peace with it? You can’t! Love is the death of duty!! Aemon doesn’t ever make peace with it! He spends the last days of his life hating himself for being so old, being unable to help Dany, reaching out for the brother he’s long lost in his dreams. I think being murdered by his men, after months of arguing with them, of trying to get them to put aside their shitty little beef with the wildlings and focus on the real threats to their safety, and the knowledge that “Arya” is ALIVE OUT THERE, it’s all going to massively change his priorities. When you factor in the girl in gray turning out to be Sansa (don’t boo me i’m right!!)…I don’t think he’s going to hem and haw about being a brother of the night’s watch, I think he’s taking his shit, and he’s getting the fuck out of dodge.

But when it comes to his state of mind…again, I’ve come around to the idea that Jon is going to be resurrected 100% due to Northern type magic, and not anything Melisandre is doing. I’m willing to be wrong on this one btw, I do think there’s still a shot some funky magic brings him back but I think with all the build up to Jon actively warging, to accepting his magic, and opening his third eye, is in fact building up not just to Jon spending a long time in Ghost while his body is found and resurrected, but that his body will HEAL while he’s not in it the way Bran’s does, and he comes back to an injured but on the mend body.

If he’s waiting around for his body to heal though, he’s going to be spending a hot minute inside Ghost & greenseeing. Possibly longer than Bran did. I think like Bran, he’ll have his own mini vision quest as he wanders and sleeps in ghost’s body - and I think he’s going to find out Bran is still alive. See, Bran figures out that Robb is dead through a green dream, then buries the memory-

The dream he'd had . . . the dream Summer had had . . . No, I mustn't think about that dream. He had not even told the Reeds, though Meera at least seemed to sense that something was wrong. If he never talked of it maybe he could forget he ever dreamed it, and then it wouldn't have happened and Robb and Grey Wind would still be . . .

And we know Summer is aware of his scattered siblings, dwelling on them often. I don’t think it’s out of the realm of possibility that the connection works the other way. We also know Bran is still dwelling on his family, with his weirwood dreams focusing on Ned. Similar to Aemon, similar to Jon’s whole story, Bran struggles in balancing his love for his family with what he feels is his duty. Not only that but imo there’s a lot of connections between Jon and Bran when it comes to magic. Jon is the only character we see saying goodbye to Bran, which has always stuck out to me. Bran also attempts to open Jon’s third eye before Robb (presumably - i think if bran was talking to robb in his dream, he would have brought it up) Sansa, Arya, or Rickon (again, presumably).

It seemed to sprout from solid rock, its pale roots twisting up from a myriad of fissures and hairline cracks. The tree was slender compared to other weirwoods he had seen, no more than a sapling, yet it was growing as he watched, its limbs thickening as they reached for the sky. Wary, he circled the smooth white trunk until he came to the face. Red eyes looked at him. Fierce eyes they were, yet glad to see him. The weirwood had his brother's face. Had his brother always had three eyes?

Not always, came the silent shout. Not before the crow…. Don’t be afraid, I like it in the dark. No one can see you, but you can see them. But first you have to open your eyes. See? Like this. And the tree reached down and touched him.

And Bran has that near miss where he and Jon are in the same places at the same time, with Bran running into Sam & Gilly. Additionally, we get all those scenes with Mormont’s crow doing weird stuff and we have no idea if it’s Bloodraven or Bran - it’s very possible Bran At Some Point In Time has been trying to get Jon’s attention for a long time.

All of that to say I think there’s a build up to Jon and Bran being the first Starklings to reunite, but not in body, just in mind! While trapped in Ghost’s body greendreaming about his thought to be dead brother, Bran will have the opportunity to jumpstart Jon’s magic the way his was, and Jon will realize Bran is still alive - potentially even exchanging important information about the Others, Winterfell, and Jon’s real parents…Both boys return to their bodies, turn to the people they’ve sworn their lifetimes to and go “actually fuck this shit and fuck you too” and try to leave.

Try, being the operative word here, of course.

[mywifealhaitham]

warmth in the harshest winters

-- fatui harbinger fluff drabbles !!

all romantic besides Pierro and Pulcinella

⚠: just fluff, slight mention of injury in some parts, firm believer in disabled sandrone, Capitano is very soft and squishy, scaramouche is wanderer, not proofread I'm sleepy

A/N: every fic I see with the harbingers are always more dark and borderline toxic so I wanted to make them all soft and fluffy :3

PIERRO doesn't know what to do with you sometimes. He's been alive for so long yet he can barely show affection to one he feels connected too. So he takes to the streets observing families all across snezhnaya. He sees fathers decorating their daughters in jewels calling them more beautiful than the gods and mothers teaching their sons how to cook for their future beloveds. Even though the old man has you, he still gets a wave of loneliness whenever he sees real families talk and live life together. However when he himself gifts you fine jewelry and teaches you ancient meals long forgotten by time the loneliness is his heart subdues and just for a moment, he has a family once again.

like DOTTORE himself, his segments share a great love for you and often pamper and coddle you when you're in their vicinity. Younger segments of himself often have heart eyes when they look at you, like how a schoolboy admires their teachers. You always pat their heads and tell them that technically when their older they can call you their own. His older segments often like to have more fun with you. Sometimes they'll sandwich you and poke you all already or they'll pull you in the lab to watch experiments they have conducted, waiting for your praise. Sometimes they get jealous of eachother and often that manifests into insecurities. So you reassure them that you'll love them all equally and you'll support them as long as you live.

COLUMBINA dotes on you almost all the time, you're practically her little doll. With your permission she takes you everywhere, walks through the city's most beautiful hidden spots were she has you rest on her lap while she sings songs proclaiming the love you too share, missions were she protects you with her life like a true knight in shining armor with you as her royalty, banquets that the fatui hold were she dresses you two up in matching outfits and walk into the ballroom arm-in-arm as everyone stares in awe, but her all time favorite place to take you is in her arms. As ethereal as some see her, her feelings are entirely human. The softness you provide fuels her fire, it gives her a reason to keep fighting if all her wings are clipped and she's left to die. Often times she'll hold you, almost making time stop and all you can hear is her heartbeat and a tune she hums as you drift off into a restful slumber.

though some may see him as a strong yet evil leader PULCINELLA treats you and a few others he sees as children very nicely. He holds great pride in the title grandpa you've given him, often time joking about how you'll need to be careful not to hurt his hold heart and soul. Whenever you visit him his face lights up patting the nearest seat, an invitation to get lost in stories with him. He'll offer you sweets he picked up that he knows you'll enjoy. As you snack happily he tells you stories of all different genres, ranging from snezhnian myths about creatures lurking in the night to foolish and silly things his fellow harbingers have done. Sometimes if you ask nicely he'll share stories about himself and how he came to be, leaving out more gruesome parts only leaving you with stories of a strong and determined man. If fate would allow it, he'd sit with you in these armchairs telling endless stories with you forever.

even before SCARAMOUCHE abandoned his title as balladeer and erasing himself from this world he vowed to keep you with him, you are his heart along with the electro gnosis. Before becoming the wanderer he is today, he asked Nahida if there's a way to keep you in his memories, if you can know him as both scaramouche and wanderer. Her response was simply no but the solution was simple, make you fall in love all over again. Even when Wanderer regained his memories he was puzzled on courting you. He used all the same methods as the balladeer and yet you would not fall as easily. Until one night you broke down hugging him, recently your heart felt like something was teared out and he replaced it. With a gentle smile he embraced you back, promising to repair the seemly ghosting feeling in your heart. Though in his mind he promised to love you more than the balladeer could ever give.

though most of her comrades were robots, screws and tools SANDRONE always knew how to be human around you. Due to locking herself away in metal and confinement she lost most of the skill you need to be human, accidentally crafting herself to be a robot. However you are her heart that beats reminding herself that she is flesh and bones and not bolts and steel. Being unable to walk on her own she relies on you to be her guiding feet to humanity. She's blunt but not by choice, she'll demand you too wheel her into the garden were she'll then demand you again to explain the life of plants and flowers. Her demands aren't terrifying like how she commands her subordinates but more light and flustered. As you explain how plants breath the air, drink water from their roots and bask in the sunlight she's silent. She's completely lost in your voice. She applies all the information that you told her into you. you are her air that she breaths, you are the water that brings her to life and finally you are her sun that melts away the metal of her skin, leaving her with flesh and bones, leaving her to be a human again.

people all across snezhnaya envy the fair lady's beauty, singing praises about her skin, her hair and her eyes. As much as she prides herself the only person to ever top SIGNORA'S beauty is you. Sometimes she'll place you on her lap as she brushes your hair and powders your face. The only words to come out of her mouth are endless waterfalls of praises. The gods themselves took the finest jewels teyvat has to offer and crafted them into your eyes she sings kissing your cheek while she pins up your hair. Every single silk flower in teyvat is jealous of how soft and clear you're skin is she sighs her hand trailing up from the tip of your fingers to your jawline as her other hand applies powder to your face, making it shine more than before. She scoots you off her lap, making you sit in the chair she occupied before you as she pulls out two shining outfits of your favorite colors. They look like something celestial being would wear, as you pick the one you like the best she beams. Perfect, she sings, tonight both of us will shine like stars, maybe even the gods will notice us hand in hand and imprint our love onto the night sky she winks and kisses your cheek. Tonight at the banquet your love will rival the sun and the moon.

Even though he is the richest of them all and believes money can define the world itself PANTALONE believes that 100% of your happiness cant be bought with mora alone. He believes in equality and that belief spreads onto you. Don't get me wrong he spends ungodly amounts of mora on you already, buying you the best meals any chef on teyvat can make, renting out museums and aquariums just so you can him can waltz in front of statues of the gods or the most gorgeous looking sea life. He buys you jewels and gems that shine so brightly that it blinds everyone around, but to him the thing that truly blinds everyone is money. So he makes sure that the greed he can give you doesn't taint you or corrupt your mind, making you believe that he's only bribing you to stay with him. The way he compels these thoughts is with his undying love to you. Most of his work is filing documents requesting funds so he always allows you to enter his space and exist along with him. Though he still needs to do his work he'll take breaks and play a few round of card games with you, or perhaps read a book together and discuss it but his favorite break time activity is when you two simply lay together on the couch he commissioned for times you wish to nap while he works. The combined comfort of the luxury couch and the warmth and weight of you on top of his person is something money can never buy, it's something he earned alone with no funds required.

TARTAGLIA is a child(e)ish man at heart and that applies for when you're around too. He'll hide behind the wall and as you walk by he'll shout boo as you clutch your chest and fall to the ground. Realizing the situation you both laugh as he outstretched his hand for you to get off the ground. In the early mornings he'll tickle you awake, he enjoys the feeling of you swatting him away and how your body vibrates when you burst out into giggles against him. He also loves when you play with his siblings, fully immersed in the action game his siblings have dragged you both into. As much as he says he's focused his real attention is on you and how your eyes sparkle when you get playfully shot at with a stick gun. Even though he is as playful as a fox there are times when he matures and is more romantic with you. He'll prepare candle-lit dinners with the best home made snezhnaya specialties. He'll warm you too a bath with rose petals and the best oils imported from all across the globe so you too can relax into eachother. Whenever you're sad he will be there, when your happy he will laugh with you, when your angry he will calm you down. As long as the sun still shines he will remain by your side, he is forever your loyal loving knight Ajax.

whenever they hear CAPITANO'S name one often thinks of a brutal man with a army that shadows a nation but what you hear is much more different. the Capitano you know is a gentle giant who during midnight walks will pick the most beautiful rose in the bush, carefully remove all it's thorns and gently placing it behind your ear. The Capitano you also know clasps one of your hands in excitement when the stray cat he was petting starts purring and nuzzling into the cool armor of his hand. Capitano is totally at your mercy, he's completely wrapped around your finger. He talks about you nonstop to the fatui soldiers around him, at first they hold great respect for you because you are Capitanos partner but overtime they respect you for yourself. You bring in blankets and pillows on cold nights to them, wrapped them and yourself up around a small campfire as you tell them stories of happy times. If you have the skill you even train with them, praising them on their blade work. This never goes unnoticed by Capitano who when he finally has you too himself engulfs you in a huge hug, telling you how proud he is of you and all the work you do to help the fatui. He and some of the fatui members you have helped call you a angel, a rare kind soul in the harshest of winters.

though her loyalty to the Tsaritsa is questionable ARLECCHINO love for you is not. People say she is crazy, not one part of her is sane but when she's with you all humanity she's lost throughout her life comes back into her. She's slightly possessive over you, asking to take you along for missions. During said missions she always makes sure you don't get a single scratch on your perfect body. She also likes to impress you during these times, sometimes she'll fight five strong enemies at once just enough so you'll be at the edge of your seat. When she swiftly and elegantly kills them all she'll kneel before you and kiss your hand, looking at you with loyalty and determination in her eyes. When you come on missions with her she only brings her most trusted fatui soliders with her, often times these soldiers are the ones she has personally raised at the house of the hearth. These fatui soldiers know better than to hurt you or get too comfortable with you so they simply let you be, protectively watching you from beyond. If by any chance some force breaks through the defense of well trained soldiers or Arlecchino herself and mange to her you she is deeply concerned. She'll drag you to her private tent and gently patch your wounds. after she'll cup your face in her hands and kiss away any tears that may have fallen during the process, promising you that she will shield you from any bad in this world even if that meant death to herself.

[ludinusdaleth]

this is something ive had brewing in my mind for a while, but now that this aeor arc seems concluded, im really thinking on ludinus & other calamity survivors, and the idea of no perfect victim & moving forward.

ludinus & leylas are about the same age, have lived the same years. when we meet leylas, she is sending her soldiers to war in large part because she has seen the cycles of exandria unfold so consistently she cannot imagine peace until she defeats her enemy (quana still prays for it, and unity among everyone. but she holds her tongue). ludinus, on the opposite side of the mountains, knows the cycles too. and he thinks he must wage them to break them. leylas worships the luxon to free herself from the gods. ludinus despises the luxon for being seen as a god at all, that leylas as a survivor would dare worship it. both see the exact same thing but in opposite ways. but leylas gives a small smile of surprise when the m9 stop the war of ash & light. she is surprised, but happy to be wrong, in this one moment; her faith in these non dynasty folk paid off. all ludinus, one who hates cycles seeing a cycle caught short, sees, is a loss at taking more beacons, at destroying the "religious drivel" of the luxons religion. at least he can get to work on the big picture, the cycle he actually cares about, over any he enforces.

devexian & alyxian awaken the same year, devexian by the m9, in the ruins of his (and ludinus's) home. he can only laugh dryly at its fate, say it is a cruel joke of history. he picks up the pieces, tries to bring his people back to life. he wants them to start anew. he wants them to let go. if ludinus cant escape the day the city fell then it seems devexian wants nothing more than to leave it for tomorrow. alyxian has been caught in the hell of being a demigod of divinity & ruidis left to rot in half death. (depending on your netherdeep ending) he awakens to a new dawn, suddenly ancient & old in body, but.... free. freed by your party. he was torn asunder by avandra/correlon/sehanine & predathos within him, their powers festering in him as gruumsh destroyed him - and still he tries to be kind, and have faith, even if he is not the warrior he was, even if everything he ever knew was destroyed. he can see society flourish again, even after his & gruumsh's battle destroyed half of marquet. ludinus has seen society rebuild its entire course of time - and all he sees is a world never as brilliant as what it was before.

all of these calamity survivors are completely fucked. leylas is paranoid, losing her mind from living too long, and still haunted by lolth. quana is resigned to stay at her lovers side even as madness takes her when all she wants is unity with others. devexian is clearly so unwilling to face history repeating he wont tell other aeormatons their heritage. alyxian is broken & battered after an eon of nonstop torture.

but they had help from others, from kind souls, who reached a hand out. and they took that kindness and internalized it. and they have vowed to help their people any way they can. to spread that glimmer of hope. to rebuild.

ludinus hasnt. and i think there is deep tragedy in that. i dont know if he has much hope, ironically, beyond raging cleansing fire. in that broad big picture it is both incredibly real & also heartbreaking when recovery falls through the cracks so badly. to have so little of a support group of survivors around you that you smack the hand of those who came out of it differently, and not have known others who could show you it was okay to move on. you hurt other survivors in your refusal to breathe, and live too large to see the others choosing a small destiny. it is unfair to him to had to have suffered and unfair to inflict that on calamity survivors again for your own agenda.

i fixate on him not disagreeing with the bells finding a third option. deep down, he wants to have that hope the others share so fucking bad. we'll see if he ever finds it.