#reminder not to burn your WIPs | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

therogueflame · 6 months ago

Text

Through Storm and Silence

Hi my darlings,

I have decided to post my new Cregan x Reader fic a day early because I have started to hate it the more I look at it. I did change it since posting the teaser, so my apologies to everyone that is expecting that beginning. This fic is long, sad, and DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, READER'S DISCRETION IS ADVISED!! (Please let me know if this makes you feel things, my prozac stops me from knowing if this is Actually Sad)

Summary: The loss of your first pregnancy has you shattered in unspeakable ways, and Cregan does his best to comfort his Lady Wife.

📖 masterlist

🖊 ao3

🗒 wip list

🔥 discord server

WC: 13.4k

Warnings: Pregnancy loss, depression, fem!reader, isolation, intimate care, just sad fluff (or hurt/comfort if you wanna get technical)

Cregan Stark x Wife!Reader

The fire in your chambers had long since burned out, leaving the hearth cold and lifeless. Its ashes, once bright with promise, were now a bleak monument to what had been lost. The flames that had warmed you, like the fragile spark of life that had stirred within you, were extinguished, leaving nothing but emptiness behind. Shadows sprawled across the stone walls, bending and twisting in the faint moonlight that filtered through the frost-covered window. The light was weak, just enough to sharpen the edges of the cold that seeped into the very bones of Winterfell—and into yours.

The chill wasn’t just in the air; it lived in you now, settling deep in your chest, pressing against the raw, hollow ache that had taken root there. This cold wasn’t the familiar bite of winter—it was sharper, crueler, born from the absence of the life you had carried. The fragile hope that had grown inside you, so small yet so powerful, was gone. Its absence left a void so vast it consumed you.

You couldn’t bring yourself to move from the high-backed chair by the window, where you sat motionless, staring into the dark expanse of night. The frost on the glass distorted the view beyond, transforming the swaying trees into ghostly silhouettes, their barren limbs stark against the sky. They reminded you of how you felt—stripped bare, fragile, and exposed to the harsh winds of grief.

The gown you wore clung to your body, its once-delicate fabric now feeling oppressive. Days ago, it had been chosen with care, a garment meant to hold the quiet anticipation of the life you carried. Now, its weight pressed against you like an accusation, its seams digging into your skin, sharp and unforgiving. It didn’t just hang on you—it felt as though it was marking you, reminding you of the absence that had replaced what you once held so dear.

You hadn’t changed out of it. The thought of doing so felt too heavy, too meaningless. To strip it away would be to acknowledge the finality of what had been lost, and you couldn’t face that yet. The woman who had smoothed its fabric with pride, who had worn it with a small but steady joy, was no longer there. All that remained was the crushing weight of who she had become—a shadow wearing the remnants of something she could no longer be.

Your trembling hands rested in your lap, fingers curling into the fabric as if trying to find something to hold on to. A faint breeze stirred from the window, its icy touch brushing against your skin like a cruel reminder of the emptiness inside you. You shivered, but still you remained frozen, the weight of Winterfell pressing down on you, heavy and unyielding.

The world outside went on, its voices and footsteps distant and indifferent. The quiet of the castle was unbearable, the oppressive stillness broken only by the occasional creak of wood or the faintest sigh of wind. It was as if the walls themselves conspired to remind you of your solitude, of the storm raging within you while the world beyond carried on, oblivious.

Tears slid silently down your cheeks, warm against the icy stillness of your skin. You made no effort to stop them, nor could you if you tried. They came endlessly, flowing in a slow, aching rhythm that mirrored the grief clawing at your chest.

You were alone with the memory of what had been—a fragile, fleeting spark of life that had slipped through your fingers. And now, with nothing but the cold to hold you, it felt as though you might never be whole again.

The rhythmic thud of boots against stone drifted faintly from the courtyard below, a distant murmur of life pressing onward. A horse’s whinny cut through the air, joined by the indistinct hum of voices carried on the wind. The world beyond was alive, indifferent, ceaseless. But none of it touched you. It all seemed unreal—muted fragments of a life you could no longer claim, slipping through your fingers like mist. You stood at the edge of it all, a silent shadow, severed from the world that churned on without you.

Time had abandoned you, or perhaps it had conspired against you, trapping you in this endless moment while everything else moved forward. The castle walls, so full of life, seemed oblivious to your sorrow. Their quiet betrayal, their unshaken permanence, was unbearable.

Inside the room, the silence pressed down on you, thick as the weight in your chest. It should have been a comfort, this room. Once it had been. But now its quiet corners and heavy drapes felt suffocating, its walls tightening around you with every passing hour.

You clenched your fists, the delicate fabric crumpling beneath your trembling hands. Tears welled, spilling before you could stop them, tracing hot, aching paths down your cheeks. You couldn’t stem the tide, nor did you try. The gown bore the stain of your despair, but it was nothing compared to the jagged wound that bled unseen within.

The whispers were always there, clinging to the edges of your thoughts no matter how desperately you tried to banish them. They were cruel and unyielding, slipping into every quiet moment, lurking in the shadows of your mind. Their voices were soft but sharp, cutting deeper with every repetition. You should have done more. You should have been stronger. You should have saved him. This is your fault.

They weren’t Cregan’s words, nor the maester’s, nor anyone else’s. They belonged to you, born from the hollow ache in your chest and the guilt that had taken root there. They poured through your mind like a poison, insidious and unrelenting, twisting everything they touched. You could almost hear them in the silence of the room, louder than the crackle of a distant hearth or the sigh of wind through Winterfell’s ancient walls.

No matter how tightly you closed your eyes, no matter how fiercely you tried to silence them, they persisted—a constant, merciless drumbeat. Each word struck like a blow, reverberating through your body, the weight of them pressing down on your chest until you could barely breathe. The air felt thinner with every beat, as though the whispers were siphoning it away, leaving you gasping in the darkness.

You tried to fight them, tried to find some small thread of reason to grasp onto, but they always returned, louder and sharper than before. And the worst part was, some part of you believed them. You clung to the guilt like a lifeline, as though holding yourself accountable might make the loss hurt less. It didn’t. It only sank you deeper into the suffocating pit that you couldn’t seem to climb out of.

They weren’t just whispers. They were chains, binding you to the pain, and no matter how much you struggled, you couldn’t make them let go.

The knock shattered the oppressive silence, a sharp, jarring sound that cut through you like a blade of winter air. For a moment, you froze, the sudden noise startling you out of the haze that had enveloped you for days. The weight in the room, in your chest, had been so heavy, so all-encompassing, that you’d almost forgotten the world outside existed. The knock was a cruel reminder that it did, and that it still demanded something of you.

You stiffened, every muscle tightening as though bracing for an unseen blow. Your breath hitched, thick and shallow, your throat closing as if even the act of breathing might betray you. You didn’t want to answer. You couldn’t. What could you say to him? What could you possibly offer, except more of this broken, hollow shell of yourself?

The knock came again, softer this time, a gentler plea that only seemed to make the silence more suffocating. And then his voice followed, threading through the stillness. The voice you had once found so reassuring, so unshakably warm, now felt like a ghost of itself—steady, deep, but laced with something unfamiliar. Fragility. Desperation.

“It’s me,” Cregan said, his words low, insistent. There was a trembling edge to his tone, a quiet urgency that twisted in your chest. “Please, my love. Let me in.”

The sound of his voice sent a fresh wave of pain coursing through you, tightening around your throat like a vice. You clenched your hands in your lap, your nails pressing into your palms, the sharp sting grounding you in the only way you could manage. The guilt, the grief, the weight of it all threatened to crack you open. If you could just keep still, hold yourself together for one more moment, perhaps the pieces wouldn’t scatter completely.

But the truth was, you didn’t know how to answer him. You didn’t know how to let him in—not into the room, not into the space where your grief lay raw and unguarded. He hadn’t come before. Or maybe he had, and you had been too lost to hear him, too consumed by the darkness to recognize the sound of his voice. You didn’t know which possibility was worse—that he had stayed away, honoring the space you had begged for, or that he had tried and failed to reach you.

Neither was kind. Neither was something you could bear.

His knock had stirred something inside you, but it wasn’t hope. It was the sharp, aching reminder of how much you had pushed him away—and how much you had wanted to. Because if he saw you like this, if he saw how fractured you had become, you weren’t sure you could survive it. And yet, even as you tried to steel yourself against the sound of his voice, it lingered, wrapping around you, pulling at the frayed edges of the wall you had built between you.

“I’ll wait as long as I need to,” Cregan’s voice broke through the silence, quiet yet unyielding, like the steady strength of the man you had once leaned on without hesitation. “I’m not leaving you alone in this.”

His words were meant to soothe, to offer comfort, but they only deepened the ache in your chest. The tenderness in his tone was unbearable, like a hand reaching out to touch a wound too raw to bear. The sting behind your eyes flared, tears threatening to spill over once more. But you refused to let them fall. Not again.

You had cried enough—alone, in the suffocating stillness of the night, when the walls of Winterfell seemed to close in and the weight of your loss crushed you in the darkness. You had let the tears fall in those moments when no one could see, when no one could judge you for the depth of your grief. What good had they done? They had left you feeling even emptier, as though each tear carried away a piece of yourself until there was nothing left.

What would tears accomplish now? They couldn’t undo the pain that had carved itself into your soul. They couldn’t bring back what you had lost, couldn’t fill the gaping void that echoed inside you. They wouldn’t erase the crushing guilt that clung to every breath you took, whispering that you should have been stronger, that you should have done more.

The words you longed to say lodged in your throat, trapped beneath the weight of your grief. Cregan’s steady presence was a balm, but it felt undeserved—a kindness you couldn’t allow yourself to accept. The part of you that ached to let him in warred with the part that wanted to push him away, to protect him from the broken, fractured pieces you had become.

But still, he waited. And still, you remained silent, the battle within you raging on.

The door remained closed, an unyielding barrier between you and Cregan, the space between you stretching into an insurmountable chasm. Your lips stayed pressed tightly together, as if the very act of speaking would shatter the fragile hold you had on yourself. Words felt dangerous, too revealing, too raw. So, you stayed still, frozen in the quiet, every part of you locked in place. You didn’t move. You didn’t breathe. You didn’t respond.

Maybe if you stayed silent, he would leave. Maybe if you sank deep enough into the well of your grief, the guilt would loosen its grip on your chest. Maybe if you let the silence consume you entirely, the pain would finally relent. But even as the thoughts flitted through your mind, you knew they were lies. The grief, the guilt, the unbearable ache in your chest—they weren’t things you could escape. They were woven into you now, so tightly that nothing—not time, not distance, not even silence—could unravel them.

Deep down, you knew nothing would ever be the same again. The fragile thread of hope that had once connected you to the world had snapped, leaving you untethered, adrift. No amount of hiding, no fortress of silence, could change that.

The silence stretched on, thick and suffocating, pressing against you like the cold that had seeped into your very bones. It wrapped itself around you, a crushing weight that left no room for breath or thought. It wasn’t just in the room—it was in you, winding through every broken part of yourself.

Cregan’s steps broke the stillness, each one deliberate, careful, as though he feared his presence might break you further. The sound of his boots against the stone was soft, almost hesitant, but it still felt too loud, too intrusive in the suffocating quiet. He was close now. You could feel his steady presence, warm and grounding, even through the chasm you had built between you.

But still, you didn’t move. You didn’t turn to meet his gaze, didn’t even lift your head. Your heart was too heavy, weighed down by guilt and sorrow so profound it felt like a physical ache. You couldn’t bear the thought of looking at him, of letting him see what you had become—shattered, broken, unrecognizable even to yourself.

You were afraid. Afraid of what he might say. Afraid of the gentleness you might hear in his voice, the love you might see in his eyes, when you felt you deserved neither. Afraid that if he saw you like this, saw the depth of your ruin, he might try to put you back together. And you weren’t sure you could survive being pieced back together only to fall apart again.

He paused, his boots just inside the door, hesitating as though waiting for you to make the decision he couldn’t. As though he wasn’t sure if crossing the distance you had carved between you would help—or only deepen the divide. The silence between you was palpable, stretching wide and unyielding, a vast chasm neither of you knew how to bridge. For a fleeting moment, it felt as though the entire world was holding its breath, caught in this fragile, suspended moment.

And then, after what felt like an eternity, he stepped forward. Just one step, careful and deliberate, the sound soft against the stone floor but carrying a weight that echoed in the quiet. His presence, once a comfort you had never thought to question, now felt too close and yet too far all at once. He moved with a kind of reverence, each step slow and measured, as though approaching something sacred—and fragile.

It was almost unbearable, the way he moved toward you as if you were still the woman he had once known. As if you hadn’t been hollowed out, stripped of the light you had carried, replaced by a grief so consuming it felt like you were drowning. You couldn’t look at him. You didn’t dare. But you felt him, his quiet strength radiating through the cold space, the air between you shifting, growing warmer as he drew closer.

“My love…” His voice was soft, a gentle murmur that carried through the silence like the brush of a hand against frayed fabric. There was a weight to his words, though—something raw and aching, unspoken but undeniable. His concern was threaded through every syllable, tangled with the love he couldn’t seem to put into words. It was the kind of love that refused to be turned away, no matter how fiercely you tried to shut it out.

Still, you didn’t answer. You didn’t even turn toward him. Your eyes stayed fixed on the floor, unblinking, unseeing, your breath shallow and uneven as if even acknowledging him might break the fragile hold you had on yourself.

But his presence pressed gently against the edges of your grief, like a tide brushing against jagged rocks, refusing to retreat. You couldn’t face him, couldn’t let him see the ruin you felt you had become. To turn to him would mean letting him see the cracks, the unbearable weight of your sorrow—and you didn’t know if you could survive his gaze.

Your gaze remained fixed on the frosted window, your eyes tracing the jagged, crystalline patterns of ice etched into the glass. They spread like fractures, distorting the world beyond into blurred shapes and muted shadows. The courtyard below lay buried beneath a thick blanket of snow, its stark silence mirroring the hollow stillness inside you. It looked untouched, serene, as though the world itself had withdrawn, retreating from the weight of your grief. But the chill that gripped you had nothing to do with the winter outside.

This cold was deeper, more insidious. It had rooted itself in your chest, in the fragile places you had once protected. No fire, no warmth, could touch it. It wasn’t a chill of the skin but of the soul, spreading through every part of you, leaving you numb yet unbearably aware of the ache it carried.

Your fingers moved restlessly, pale and trembling as they tugged at the fabric of your gown. The motion was small, unconscious, but relentless. You picked at loose threads and seams, tearing at the delicate material with a quiet desperation. It was all you could do. The stillness of your body demanded an outlet, something to echo the storm raging within you. Each thread pulled free, each tiny rip in the fabric, felt like a hollow attempt to give shape to the suffocating emotions you couldn’t put into words.

You couldn’t stop. You didn’t want to stop. The motion kept the grief from swallowing you whole, even as it frayed the edges of your gown. The tears in the fabric mirrored the fissures in your heart, small and splintering, growing with every passing moment.

Each movement, each tug, was a silent rebellion against the unbearable weight that threatened to crush you. The storm inside you had no outlet, no escape, and the restless motion of your hands was the only way to keep from falling apart completely. Rest felt impossible. Stillness only amplified the ache, the sharp-edged sorrow that had taken over every part of you. Rest would mean surrendering to it, drowning in the pain you weren’t sure you could survive. And so, you tore at the fabric, as though unraveling it might somehow loosen the tight grip of grief around your chest.

But deep down, you knew it wouldn’t. Nothing could.

Cregan didn’t press you, though his silence was as heavy as the grief that hung between you. He didn’t demand answers, didn’t push for words you weren’t ready to give. Instead, he moved closer, his footsteps slow and measured, each one deliberate, as though the air itself might break beneath the weight of his approach. It was as if he were walking through a fragile dream, afraid that one wrong step might shatter it entirely.

Each careful step spoke of his restraint, his quiet struggle to respect the space you had carved out for yourself, even as it tore at him to see you like this. To see the woman he loved, his steadfast, fierce-hearted wife, lost in a pain so profound that even the strength of his presence couldn’t seem to reach her.

He stopped a few paces away, his form solid and steady against the shadows that filled the room. For a moment, he said nothing, the silence stretching again between you, an invisible barrier neither of you knew how to cross. And then, his voice came again, softer this time, carrying a tenderness that wrapped around you like a quiet plea.

“I know you’re in pain,” he murmured, his words low, heavy with the weight of his own helplessness. The emotion in his voice twisted in your chest, each word landing with quiet precision, like drops of water against a stone worn thin. “But I can’t help you if you won’t let me in.”

The pause that followed was almost unbearable, his voice trembling just slightly as he added, “Please, look at me.”

The plea lingered in the air, hanging between you like a fragile bridge you weren’t sure you could cross. His words carried no demand, only a quiet yearning, a love so raw it pressed against the edges of your sorrow, threatening to unravel the fragile defenses you had built around yourself. But you stayed where you were, frozen, your gaze locked on the frost-covered window, as though the jagged patterns of ice could hold you together in a way that his love couldn’t.

You didn’t move. His words reached for you, a lifeline cast across the vast, aching distance between you, but you couldn’t take it. You couldn’t meet his gaze, couldn’t let him see the broken pieces of who you had once been. Not when those fragments felt so sharp, so jagged, that even you couldn’t bear to look at them. The woman who had once stood beside him, who had promised him a future filled with light and hope, was gone. In her place was this hollow shell, weighed down by grief so consuming it left no room for anything else.

Your hands fell still in your lap, the nervous fidgeting replaced by an unnatural rigidity, as though any movement might crack the fragile dam holding everything inside. You stared down at your trembling fingers, clutching at the fabric of your gown not to tear it, but to stop them from betraying you further. The storm within you churned violently, and the stillness felt like the only thing keeping you from falling apart entirely.

The ache in your chest grew sharper, a suffocating pressure that made it hard to breathe, hard to think. It wrapped around you like a vice, pulling you deeper into yourself, away from the voice that tried to reach you.

The air between you felt heavier with each passing second, thick with unspoken words and the weight of all you couldn’t bring yourself to say. It pressed down on you, isolating you further, trapping you in this cocoon of silence where your grief felt too vast to share, too all-encompassing to explain.

You could feel Cregan’s presence, his unwavering patience like a quiet flame, waiting for you to let him in. But that only made the guilt burrow deeper, sharper, as though it might carve you out completely. He was waiting for you to open the door you had closed so tightly, waiting to shoulder the pain you were too afraid to show. But you couldn’t.

You couldn’t let him see you like this—shattered, hollow, and drowning in the sharp edges of your grief. If you turned to him now, if you let him see the raw ruin of what you’d become, you weren’t sure you could survive it. And so, you sat there, silent and unmoving, unable to cross the distance that had grown between you.

Your shoulders trembled, the motion small at first, barely noticeable, before it grew into a tremor that rippled through your entire body. Without warning, your head dropped, your face cradled in your trembling hands. The tears that had lingered just beneath the surface for so long finally broke free, spilling over in a torrent that you couldn’t stop. They came hot and unrelenting, each one carving a path down your cheeks, a relentless reminder of just how much you had lost.

You tried to stifle them, swallowing sobs that clawed their way up your throat, desperate to hold onto some semblance of control. But the tears came anyway, unchecked and unforgiving, a flood that swept away the fragile walls you had tried so hard to build. The warmth of them against your skin felt like a cruel mockery, a vivid contrast to the hollow, icy ache in your chest. You resented them—resented how powerless they made you feel, how impossible it was to push them back, to push any of it away.

You couldn’t. The grief was too deep, too consuming. It wrapped around you like a tide, pulling you under, dragging you further and further away from everything you had once been.

Behind you, Cregan watched, his gaze softening as his heart broke for you in ways he could neither stop nor fully understand. He stood frozen, torn between the overwhelming need to comfort you and the fear that his touch might only deepen the chasm that stretched between you. The sight of your shoulders trembling, of your body folding in on itself as though the weight of your sorrow was too much to bear, left him helpless.

He had always been your shield, your steady foundation, but now he could do nothing but stand there, watching as the woman he loved was consumed by a pain he couldn’t ease. It was a kind of helplessness he hadn’t known before—a sharp, piercing ache that left him stranded on the other side of the distance you had placed between you.

He wanted to reach for you, to do anything to pull you from the storm that raged inside you. But every tear that fell, every breath that shuddered through your frame, seemed to widen the gulf between you both. It felt as vast as an ocean, deep and unbridgeable, leaving him stranded and uncertain, his love for you a light that couldn’t yet pierce the darkness of your grief.

He moved toward you, each step slow and deliberate, as though afraid that even the slightest misstep might shatter the fragile thread tethering you both. The air between you felt heavy, charged with unspoken words and the raw ache of your grief, but he pressed on, his presence steady and unyielding.

When he reached you, he didn’t speak. Words would have felt too small, too inadequate. Instead, he sank to his knees beside the chair, his movements careful, reverent, as though kneeling at an altar. His presence alone was a quiet comfort, a steady flame in the storm of emotions that had consumed you.

His hand reached out, large and calloused, yet impossibly gentle as his fingers brushed against the delicate skin of your trembling hand. His touch was grounding, warm, and steady—a reminder of the life that continued outside the walls of your sorrow. He didn’t force you to respond, didn’t demand anything from you. His hand simply rested over yours, offering a quiet strength that asked for nothing in return.

The restless motions of your hands stilled beneath his touch, the anxious picking at your gown coming to a halt as his warmth seeped into your skin. It wasn’t much—just the smallest of shifts—but it was enough. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the unbearable weight of your grief seemed to loosen, if only by the slightest degree.

It was as though his presence alone could hold some of the pieces of you that had fallen apart, his touch a silent promise that you didn’t have to bear the weight of your sorrow alone. But still, the distance between your heart and his felt vast, the walls of your grief too high to climb. And yet, his quiet persistence, his unwavering love, pressed gently against those walls, searching for a way in.

“Let me be here for you,” Cregan said quietly, his voice a low murmur that carried more weight than the loudest declaration ever could. There was a raw tenderness in his tone, so unguarded and sincere that it pierced straight through you, cutting past the walls you had so carefully constructed around your grief. His words were a balm, gentle against the fractured pieces of your heart, but they also undid you, unraveling the fragile composure you had clung to.

The echo of his voice lingered in the heavy silence, filling the space between you with a quiet plea that wrapped around you, impossible to ignore. Each word was steeped in a love so deep, so unshakable, that it made your chest ache with its enormity. A breath caught in your throat, sharp and jagged, as the storm inside you began to crack open.

Before you could stop it, a sob clawed its way out, raw and ragged, tearing through the stillness. You tried to fight it, to swallow the sound of your brokenness, to hold on to what little control you thought you had left. But it was too much. The weight of it all—the loss, the guilt, the unbearable isolation—pressed down on you with crushing force, and you were helpless against the tide.

Your chest constricted, each breath uneven and shallow as the cry escaped you, desperate and guttural. It shook you to your core, your entire body trembling under the force of the emotion that had been building, unrelenting, inside you. The sobs came like waves, relentless and consuming, each one pulling you deeper into the grief you had tried so hard to bury.

And yet, through it all, Cregan stayed. His presence didn’t waver, his quiet strength anchoring you even as you fell apart. His hand remained steady over yours, grounding you against the tempest within, silently reminding you that you weren’t alone—even when it felt like the weight of the world rested entirely on your shoulders.

“I’m here,” he repeated, his voice a balm against the deep, raw wound carved into your soul. The words were so simple, yet they carried a tenderness that made your heart ache even more. His free hand rose slowly, his fingers brushing the damp strands of hair from your face with the lightest touch. His fingertips grazed your skin like a soft whisper, gentle yet steady, a silent promise in every motion. He wasn’t going anywhere. He would stay, even as you unraveled before him.

“You don’t need to hide from me,” he said softly, his voice unwavering, even as the weight of your sorrow seemed to hang heavy in the air between you.

You didn’t respond. His words settled around you, warm and grounding, but you couldn’t bring yourself to speak. There were no words left, no explanations to give, no answers to offer. Only the tears that fell, unrelenting now, streaking down your face like a flood that had been held back for far too long.

The dam inside you had finally burst, and the grief poured out in waves, racking your frame with sobs so raw they felt as though they were tearing you apart. Each shuddering breath brought fresh pain, the ache you had buried beneath layers of guilt and restraint now laid bare. It was unbearable, and yet, in this moment, you didn’t try to stop it. For the first time, you let yourself feel the full weight of the loss, the overwhelming ache that had been clawing at you from the inside out.

And through it all, Cregan stayed. His presence didn’t falter, didn’t try to pull you from the depths of your grief. He didn’t offer empty reassurances or platitudes meant to fix what couldn’t be repaired. Instead, he stayed steady, his hand a constant anchor against the storm inside you, his touch firm yet gentle. He held you in your brokenness, without expectation, without judgment, simply letting you break.

For the first time, the room didn’t feel suffocating. The walls that had seemed to close in on you, threatening to crush you beneath their weight, now felt less oppressive. The silence wasn’t a void anymore; it was filled with something warm, something alive. His presence was like a steady flame in the cold, a quiet reassurance that you didn’t have to carry this alone—not in this moment, at least.

And for the first time, you felt the faintest flicker of relief. It wasn’t enough to banish the grief, not even close, but it made the unbearable weight just a little easier to carry. For this fleeting moment, you weren’t drowning alone.

Cregan watched you as you wept, his heart breaking with every sob that tore from your chest. Each tremor that shook you felt like a blow to him, a pain he couldn’t bear to see yet refused to turn away from. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t speak. He simply stayed, his presence steady and unwavering, a quiet anchor in the storm of your grief.

His hand remained gently over yours, grounding you without words, offering a silent reassurance that you hadn’t asked for but desperately needed. His touch, so steady and sure, was a lifeline in the chaos of your emotions, speaking the things he didn’t need to say aloud: I’m here. You’re not alone.

As your sobs began to slow, the tears that had flowed so freely now reduced to quiet streams, Cregan shifted slightly. His hand lifted from yours, the motion so soft it felt like a whisper. And yet, there was an undeniable strength in it, a quiet promise that he wasn’t leaving, that he wasn’t going to let you fall alone.

“Come on, love,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing, a balm against the raw ache in your chest. The words, though simple, carried a weight of their own—love, patience, and an unshakable tenderness that wrapped around you like a warm embrace.

He didn’t rush you. He didn’t pull you from the chair or try to force you to move before you were ready. Instead, he stayed close, his presence a steady flame against the cold emptiness that had consumed you. Every quiet movement, every gentle word, was filled with care. He was waiting—not for you to be whole, not for the grief to pass, but simply for you to take the next breath, the next small step forward.

Cregan felt it all—the weight of everything you had been carrying, the unbearable burden that had pressed down on you for days. He felt the tremble in your body, the exhaustion etched into every line of your frame, and the grief that seemed to radiate from you like a storm that refused to pass. It was heavy, but he bore it willingly, silently vowing to carry it with you, no matter how long it took, no matter how much of himself it demanded.

“Let’s get you to bed,” he murmured, his voice low and thick with concern, each word carrying the weight of the thousand unspoken emotions he didn’t know how to name. There was no rush in his tone, no expectation—only a gentle insistence, a quiet plea wrapped in love.

His hand stayed firm against your back as he guided you across the room, his movements slow and deliberate, each step careful, as though afraid that anything too sudden might undo the fragile calm that had begun to settle between you. His touch was steady, grounding, a tether to hold onto as the overwhelming weight of your grief threatened to pull you under again.

When you finally reached the bed, he guided you to sit, his movements steady yet hesitant, as though reluctant to step away. His hand brushed lightly over your shoulder, the touch brief but deliberate—a fleeting attempt to offer something words couldn’t convey. But as his eyes lingered on you, seated and so visibly burdened by your grief, something shifted in him. It wasn’t pity—it was a deep ache, an unspoken understanding that settled heavily in his chest.

He forced himself to take a step back, his instincts warring with his restraint. He wanted to stay close, but he knew this moment wasn’t about him. You needed space, even if only enough to draw a breath, to navigate the depths of what weighed on you without intrusion.

“I’ll be right back,” Cregan said softly, his voice low, a quiet murmur that carried more emotion than he could name. His gaze flickered to you, filled with a concern so raw it nearly stopped him in his tracks. “I’ll have a bath prepared. You need to rest—and take care of yourself.”

You didn’t answer. There were no words left, only the faint hum of your breath as you sat still, your hands resting in your lap. As he turned, the smallest movement caught his eye—a barely perceptible nod, as fragile as the first stirrings of a winter thaw.

It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it spoke volumes. It wasn’t permission, nor surrender, but something quieter. A thread of trust, unspoken but present. And though the gesture was small, it was enough for him to continue, his steps quiet but purposeful as he left the room to prepare what was needed.

As Cregan stepped toward the door, the soft click of the handle as it closed behind him seemed to echo through the room, sharp and final. The sound sliced through the oppressive stillness like a cold wind cutting across bare skin. For a fleeting moment, everything seemed to hold its breath. The door’s finality hung in the air, and with it, an even deeper silence settled around you.

The space he left behind felt vast, as though the room itself had stretched in his absence, a yawning chasm you couldn’t cross. You slumped against the headboard, your body sinking further into the mattress, drained of the strength to do anything but exist in the quiet. The exhaustion in your bones was total, a kind of weariness that no amount of sleep could touch.

You had hoped for peace in the quiet, but it wasn’t peace that came. It was weight—heavy, stifling, pressing down on your chest, pinning you to the bed. The room around you seemed to breathe with the creak of old wood beneath you, a low, familiar groan that filled the silence alongside the soft hum of your own breath. And yet, none of it filled the aching void that stretched endlessly inside you.

It wasn’t that you wanted Cregan to return. His presence couldn’t undo what had been broken, couldn’t turn back time or mend the wound that had hollowed you out. But his absence carried its own kind of pain, sharp and relentless, a reminder that life would never return to what it had once been.

Still, you stayed where you were, motionless, surrendering to the stillness that wrapped around you. The weight pulled you deeper, like a tide dragging you under, but you couldn’t summon the energy to fight it. Your body was too tired, your mind too spent, and so you simply let yourself sink into the waiting quiet, waiting for nothing in particular, only the endless passing of time.

Cregan’s footsteps echoed through the stone corridor, quick and determined. The chill of Winterfell’s air was sharp, seeping through the heavy walls, but he barely noticed it. His thoughts were focused elsewhere, running over what needed to be done and how little he could seem to do to ease the storm inside you. Each step carried the weight of his resolve, even as his chest tightened with the ache of seeing you as you were—exhausted, hollow, a shadow of the woman who had once met life with unshakable strength.

He reached the servants’ quarters, his broad frame filling the doorway as his voice broke the relative quiet of the space. “Prepare a bath,” he ordered, his tone low but firm, brooking no hesitation. “And make sure it’s hot. Bring fresh linens, too.” He paused for a moment, his hand pressing briefly against the rough stone wall beside him as he steadied himself. “And food,” he added, glancing between the startled faces of the servants. “Simple, but warm—and enough to sustain her.”

The urgency in his voice was tempered by the restraint he’d forced upon himself. He didn’t bark the commands, but the sharp edges of his words made it clear how quickly he expected them to act. The servants, accustomed to the steady, measured demeanor of their lord, exchanged quick glances before hurrying to carry out his instructions.

Cregan lingered for a moment as the scurry of footsteps and murmured acknowledgments faded down the hall. He stayed still, his hand curling into a loose fist at his side, his breathing measured but heavy. The weight of the past days bore down on him like the snowdrifts against Winterfell’s walls. He could feel the strain of it in his chest, in his shoulders, in the way his jaw ached from holding his emotions in check.

He replayed the image of you sitting on the edge of the bed, your shoulders slumped under a grief that seemed to consume you whole. The tremble in your hands, the distant look in your eyes—it was enough to twist something deep inside him, a pain he couldn’t name and couldn’t shake. But he couldn’t allow himself to falter. Not now.

Straightening, he turned on his heel, his boots striking the floor with purpose as he made his way back through the dimly lit corridors. His thoughts remained focused, calculating what else could be done to make this moment, this night, a little less unbearable for you. He couldn’t take away the grief or the pain, but he could ease the harsh edges of it, if only for a little while.

When he passed another servant, he stopped briefly, his voice softer but no less insistent. “Make sure there’s firewood brought to the hearth. I want the chamber warm.” The servant nodded quickly, moving to comply, and Cregan pressed forward, his steps quickening as the ache in his chest deepened.

As he neared the door to your chambers, his hand brushed the rough stone of the wall beside him, grounding himself in its cool solidity. He paused for the briefest of moments, drawing in a breath to steady the emotions that threatened to spill over. The bath would be ready soon, the food prepared and brought, but none of that felt like enough.

Nothing ever felt like enough.

With one final breath, he opened the door quietly, stepping back into the room where you waited, fragile and silent, the weight of your grief filling the air. He didn’t say a word as he crossed the threshold, his steps careful, his presence steady, bringing with him what little he could offer.

The servants were already hard at work preparing the bath, their quiet movements echoing softly in the background, but none of it mattered to Cregan. His eyes found you the moment he stepped into the room, and the sight of you—the broken posture, your head bowed, shoulders slumped—made his breath hitch in his chest.

You sat so still, as though the grief had hollowed you out and left only a fragile shell in its place. Your movements were barely there, faint and withdrawn, blending into the dim shadows that seemed to wrap around you like a second skin. To him, it felt as though you were slipping further away, piece by piece, retreating into a darkness he couldn’t fully reach.

Cregan didn’t speak right away. He didn’t ask you to move, didn’t press you for words or force you to acknowledge him. The silence in the room was heavy, thick with the weight of everything unsaid, but it was yours. It was the only thing you had chosen in days, and he would respect it, even as it clawed at his chest to see you like this.

But respect didn’t mean standing idly by.

He stepped toward the bed, his movements slow and deliberate, each one measured with a care that spoke of his understanding. Your pain was something fragile, delicate, and he approached as though the wrong move might fracture the brittle calm you had managed to hold onto. When he reached you, he knelt down beside the bed, lowering himself to your level.

His hand extended toward yours, palm up—a quiet offering, an invitation to let him in, to let him share some small part of the burden you carried. His fingers lingered, close enough to touch but not forcing contact, allowing you the choice to accept or reject the gesture.

“Let me help you,” he murmured, his voice low, filled with a quiet but unshakable determination. Each word was gentle but carried the full weight of his resolve. He wasn’t asking for much; he wasn’t asking for words or answers. He was simply offering himself.

“I’m not leaving, love,” he continued, his tone soft but firm, the steadiness of it cutting through the stillness. “Not until you’re taken care of.”

There was no flourish to his words, no attempt to dress them up. He had never been a man of many words, but the ones he chose always carried meaning, each syllable weighted with purpose. He couldn’t fix what had been broken, couldn’t mend the wound that had torn through you, but he could do this. He could stay. He could make sure you were cared for, even if you couldn’t bring yourself to do it alone.

His hand stayed where it was, steady and patient, waiting for you to decide.

His words lingered in the air, their quiet warmth brushing against the edges of your sorrow. Cregan didn’t press you, didn’t rush you to respond. Instead, he simply stayed where he was, his steady presence a quiet assurance that you wouldn’t be left adrift in this moment.

After a few breaths, he gently helped you to your feet, his hand firm at your back as he guided you toward the chair by the hearth. “Let’s sit here for a while,” he murmured, his tone calm and patient, as though the rest of the world could wait.

The flames in the hearth flickered faintly, their light casting soft shadows across the walls. You sank into the chair with a heaviness that seemed to seep into your very bones, your gaze falling to the fire as it crackled softly. The minutes stretched on in silence, broken only by the occasional creak of the old floorboards and the muffled sounds of the servants working quietly in the background.

The faint hum of their activity filtered through the stillness. Logs were added to the hearth, the fire growing brighter and stronger, its warmth beginning to fill the room. The linens on the bed were stripped and replaced with fresh ones, their crisp folds smoothed with precision. The rhythmic sound of water being poured into the bath drifted faintly from the adjoining room, mingling with the scent of lavender as steam curled softly into the air.

Time passed slowly, each moment marked by the subtle changes around you. The room grew warmer, the air lighter, as the servants completed their tasks and slipped out with quiet efficiency. Through it all, Cregan remained close, his movements purposeful but unhurried, his gaze flicking to you every so often to ensure you were still with him, still grounded.

When everything was ready, he returned to your side, crouching down beside you. His hand found yours again, his touch steady and sure as he said, “The bath is ready.”

With deliberate care, he helped you to your feet once more. Each step toward the steaming tub was slow, measured, and supported by his arm at your back, his presence grounding you as you moved forward. The weight of exhaustion still clung to you, but the quiet warmth of the room and the promise of rest seemed just within reach.

The room was a haven of comfort, a stark contrast to the cold, oppressive silence that had held you captive for so long. Flickering candlelight danced across the stone walls, casting soft, shifting shadows that softened the room’s edges. The gentle sound of water filling the bath added a steady rhythm to the quiet, a soothing backdrop that eased the weight pressing against your chest. The warmth of the room wrapped around you like a long-forgotten embrace, the promise of relief so close you could almost feel it seeping into your bones.

But it wasn’t just the room that brought this fragile sense of solace. What truly began to thaw the ice that had settled in your heart was Cregan. His presence, steady and grounding, was a force that anchored you without demand or expectation. His eyes, unwavering and filled with a tenderness you hadn’t thought yourself capable of receiving, never left you as he guided you forward. Every movement he made carried with it a quiet purpose, an unspoken promise that you were not alone in this moment.

When you reached the edge of the bath, Cregan’s hand was firm yet gentle against your back, steadying you as you lowered yourself into the water. He moved with the same deliberate care, as though the slightest misstep might shatter the fragile calm that had begun to form around you. The warmth of the water enveloped you immediately, wrapping around your tired body like a soft, tender embrace. The heat seeped into your aching muscles, melting away the tension that had clung to you for days, while the chill rooted in your skin seemed to dissolve into the bath.

Yet, even as the water soothed you, it was Cregan’s presence that truly began to untangle the knot in your chest. His quiet care, his unwavering devotion, and the unspoken promise in his every action brought with them a peace you hadn’t known in what felt like a lifetime.

As you soaked in the warm water, something deep within you began to shift. The tears you’d been holding at bay for so long finally began to fall again. But this time, they were different. They weren’t the sharp, jagged tears of grief that had torn through you in your solitude. These were softer, quieter—tears of relief, of release. They came hesitantly at first, as though testing the safety of the space around you, before flowing freely in an unbroken stream. It was as if the warmth of the water and the quiet strength of Cregan’s presence had unlocked something within you, giving you permission to let go of the pain you had carried for so long.

Cregan didn’t speak as you cried. He didn’t try to comfort you with words or fill the silence with empty platitudes. Instead, his hand rested gently on your shoulder, his touch warm and steady, an anchor amidst the wave of emotions overtaking you. His silence was filled with understanding, speaking louder than anything he could have said.

Cregan moved with deliberate care, his touch light but steady, as though the very act of tending to you required all the patience and gentleness he could muster. He reached for the soft cloth resting at the edge of the tub, dipping it into the warm water before wringing it out with precise, measured motions. His movements were purposeful, each one imbued with the quiet reverence he reserved for the things that mattered most to him—things that needed protecting, things that needed care. And in this moment, nothing mattered more to him than you.

You sat there, unmoving, as though the water had become an extension of the emptiness within you. It felt as though you had become hollow, a presence without weight, without purpose. Your eyes, distant and unfocused, stared into the space beyond the water, seeing nothing, feeling nothing. The grief had settled so deep within you that it had worn you down to a mere shadow of the woman you once were. The person who used to laugh freely, who found joy in the smallest of moments, felt so far removed from you now. It was as though the agony had stolen her away, leaving only an echo, faint and fragile, drifting somewhere beyond your reach.

Cregan’s movements didn’t falter, even as he watched the faint tremble in your hands, the distant look in your eyes. He began at your shoulders, the warm cloth brushing over your skin in soft, soothing strokes. His hand followed the curve of your neck, careful and unhurried, as though afraid that anything more abrupt might fracture the fragile calm around you. The heat of the water and the rhythm of his touch seemed to melt some of the tension in your body, loosening the weight that clung to you, though you still felt adrift.

The silence between you remained unbroken, filled only with the faint crackle of the fire and the soft ripple of water. It wasn’t oppressive; it was gentle, a quiet space where words weren’t needed. Cregan’s hands, rough from years of work yet impossibly tender now, moved down your arm, washing away not just the remnants of the day but the faint traces of neglect that marked your solitude.

When he reached your hands, he paused, his fingers brushing over the places where anxious picking had left their mark. His thumb lingered on those faint lines, his touch featherlight, as if trying to soothe both the physical signs of your grief and the deeper wounds that lay unseen.

He continued with the same deliberate attention, his focus unbroken. The cloth moved down your back, across your legs, each motion slow and purposeful, as though he understood that rushing would rob this moment of its meaning. This wasn’t just about cleansing your body—it was about showing you, without words, that you were still cared for, still seen, even in your most broken state.

As he finished, he set the cloth aside, his hand lingering at the edge of the tub for a moment. His gaze softened as he looked at you, his expression full of unspoken tenderness. “Take your time,” he said quietly, his voice low and steady, a quiet reminder that there was no need to rush, no expectation beyond this moment.

And as the warmth of the water embraced you and the quiet intimacy of his care settled around you, the faintest flicker of something stirred within. It wasn’t enough to mend the hollow ache or restore the woman you once were, but it was a start. For the first time in what felt like forever, the weight of your grief wasn’t all-consuming. In the stillness, in the warmth of the water and the strength of Cregan’s presence, you felt a fragile sense of being held—not by words, but by the simple, steadfast care of someone who refused to let you drift away.

You opened your mouth, desperate to speak, to give voice to the storm tearing through you. But the words wouldn’t come. They caught in your throat, heavy and sharp, refusing to escape no matter how much you willed them to. Every syllable you might have spoken was swallowed by the weight of everything you carried inside—the guilt, the loss, the crushing sense that you had failed not just yourself, but everyone who had ever cared for you.

Your chest tightened, the pressure rising until it felt as though you might shatter under it. Your lips closed again, trembling as the turmoil inside you deepened, the ache in your heart becoming more unbearable with every passing second. The silence stretched on, not a reprieve, but an oppressive reminder of how the words remained out of reach, leaving you trapped, drowning in the depths of your own sorrow.

Cregan, kneeling beside you, felt the subtle shift in your body—the faint tremble of your shoulders, the way your breaths grew shallow and uneven, as though your grief threatened to tear you apart from the inside out. He paused, his hands still resting gently on your back, not pressing, not rushing, but simply waiting. He gave you the space to feel, to process the rawness of the emotions tearing through you, even if you couldn’t find the words to name them.

The room was still, save for the faint crackle of the fire and the soft rhythm of your breathing. The quiet wasn’t empty; it was filled with the weight of your sorrow, heavy and palpable in the air between you. Cregan’s gaze stayed fixed on you, his dark eyes steady and filled with a resolve that didn’t waver.

It was as though, in that silence, he was speaking to you without words, telling you that it was okay to feel this, okay to break. His presence didn’t demand anything of you—there was no impatience, no expectation. Only the quiet assurance that no matter how many tears you shed, no matter how fractured you felt, he would stay.

His hands, roughened from years of labor but impossibly gentle now, remained steady on your back, offering a constant, grounding support. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. He simply stayed, his warmth a quiet contrast to the storm raging within you.

Without a word, Cregan reached for the towel resting beside the tub. His movements were deliberate, his hands steady as he prepared to help you. He extended his hand, firm but careful, guiding you to stand. The water rippled softly as you rose, the warmth slipping away as cool air wrapped around you. Without hesitation, Cregan wrapped the towel around your shoulders, covering you fully before helping you step onto the soft rug beside the tub.

He led you to the nearby stool, lowering you gently into the seat. The towel stayed draped around you as he knelt and began drying you, his hands purposeful and precise. Starting at your shoulders, the soft cloth moved over your skin in slow, even strokes, absorbing the water that clung to you.

He worked silently, dabbing at your arms, your back, your legs, each movement unhurried. When he reached your hands, his touch was impossibly light, the towel brushing carefully over the faint marks left behind by your anxious picking. He dried your feet last, the warmth of the towel a small barrier against the cool air around you.

Once he finished, Cregan reached for the folded nightclothes he had set aside. He unfolded the soft fabric, his hands moving with the same deliberation as he slipped the robe from your shoulders. He held the nightgown open, guiding your arms into the sleeves with gentle care. The fabric fell over you, light and soft against your skin, as he carefully smoothed it into place.

Leaning closer, he adjusted the ties at the neckline, his fingers working deftly but without haste. He paused briefly, ensuring the gown fit comfortably, before retrieving the thicker robe that lay nearby. He draped it over your shoulders, its weight heavier and warmer, securing the belt loosely at your waist.

The room was silent save for the faint crackle of the fire and the rustling of fabric. His hands lingered briefly at the edges of the robe, tucking it into place, before he stepped back. He didn’t speak, his focus solely on ensuring you were fully dressed and shielded from the cold.

You sat still, your gaze fixed downward, the weight in your chest as heavy as ever. A tear slid down your cheek, but you didn’t move to wipe it away. Another followed, your breath hitching as the sobs that had been building broke free once more, shaking your frame.

Cregan knelt again, his hands steady as he adjusted the robe around you, the simple action wordless but full of purpose. When he was done, he rose quietly, leaving the space untouched by words, as if to respect the unspoken weight of the moment. The room held only the sounds of your breathing, uneven and raw, and the faint crackle of the fire as the night stretched on.

As Cregan helped you to the bed, his movements were slow and deliberate. One hand stayed steady at your back, the other guiding you by the arm, each gesture careful, as though ensuring you wouldn’t falter. When you were finally seated, he lingered, his hand resting against you for a moment longer than necessary. His gaze flickered briefly to your face, searching for something—perhaps assurance that you were steady, perhaps something unspoken. He didn’t rise, didn’t retreat. Instead, he knelt before you, his broad frame folding quietly to the floor, his presence grounding without intrusion.

His hands reached for yours, large and warm as they wrapped gently around your trembling fingers. His touch was firm but cautious, like cradling something that had already been cracked too many times. His thumb traced over your knuckles, the slow, deliberate rhythm neither asking nor expecting anything. It was a touch that seemed to say everything he didn’t—an offering without pressure, a steadiness that didn’t waver.

The silence between you was dense, weighted by everything that had been left unsaid, yet it didn’t press for answers. The faint crackle of the fire filled the air, mingling with the sound of your uneven breaths, each inhale and exhale catching on the edge of a sob. Your hands trembled beneath his, the effort of holding yourself together visible in every small movement, threatening to break apart at any moment.

When Cregan finally released your hands, it wasn’t to leave you. He moved quietly, rising to retrieve the small plate of food that had been left on the table beside the bed. Without a word, he brought it closer, setting it gently on the mattress within your reach. His movements were careful, unhurried, as though even this simple act demanded the same precision and attention as everything else he did.

Your gaze fell to the plate, and for a long moment, you simply stared at it. Its simplicity felt almost cruel, a stark contrast to the enormity of what weighed on you. Your hands trembled in your lap, the act of reaching for the plate feeling like an impossible task. When you finally lifted your hand, it hovered uncertainly, your fingers stiff and unfamiliar as they wrapped around the fork with halting movements.

The food sat heavy on your tongue, its taste muted and distant. The mechanical act of chewing felt disconnected, each motion foreign and wrong. When you swallowed, a sharp twist gripped your chest, the weight of the action pressing against you with suffocating force. It wasn’t just the food—it was the reminder that you were still here, still breathing, still alive, when everything inside you felt hollow and undone.

A sob tore from your throat, sudden and raw, breaking the fragile quiet of the room. It came without warning, jagged and unrestrained, and with it came the tears—hot and relentless, spilling down your cheeks in an unending torrent. Each one dragged something deeper, more painful, to the surface, leaving you trembling in their wake.

The plate sat untouched as your body folded in on itself, your hands gripping the edge of the bed as though it might keep you tethered to the ground. The sobs wracked through you, your breaths coming in uneven, shallow gasps, and then the words came—soft, broken, slipping from your lips before you could stop them.

“I failed him…”

The words lingered in the air, cutting and bitter. They twisted in your chest like a blade, the weight of them sharper now that they had been spoken aloud. Saying them didn’t ease the ache—it only made it heavier, more real. The truth of them pressed against you, unrelenting, as though it might suffocate you entirely.

Cregan knelt again, his movements measured as his hands returned to yours. His fingers curled around them, their warmth a quiet counterpoint to the trembling in your own. His grip was steady, firm without being constraining, and his thumb resumed its slow, deliberate strokes across your knuckles. The rhythm was calm, offering no pressure, no demand—only an unspoken reassurance that he wasn’t going anywhere.

“You didn’t fail him,” he said softly, his voice low and even, the words carrying the weight of his certainty. “You loved him. That’s all anyone could ask. And I will love you through this, no matter how long it takes.”

The words hung between you, unshaken and sure. But as they reached you, they didn’t sink into the places they needed to. They echoed faintly in your mind, the edges of them dulled by the roar of guilt that refused to be silenced.

Your gaze lifted to his, and his eyes reflected nothing but tenderness, a love that was steady and unflinching. But in their reflection, all you could see was your own brokenness, your own failings laid bare. The ache in your chest twisted sharper, the weight of your perceived failure pressing harder with every breath.

And in that moment, as your heart shattered once more beneath the unbearable weight of everything you had lost, it felt as though the grief might crush you entirely. It pressed against your chest, unrelenting, a force that hollowed you out further with every passing second. The ache seemed endless, a constant presence that had carved itself so deeply into you that it felt inseparable from who you had become.

But even within the depths of that pain, there was something else—something faint yet immovable. It wasn’t hope, not exactly, nor was it solace. It was Cregan. His hands on yours, his steady presence, the quiet certainty of his care—it didn’t lessen the weight of your sorrow, but it didn’t waver either. It was simply there, an unspoken truth that remained even as the grief threatened to consume you.

It didn’t ease the ache in your chest or silence the voice in your mind that told you you’d failed. But in the pit of your broken heart, you knew his love was unyielding, something that had existed long before this moment and would remain long after. It wasn’t a cure for the grief, but it was steady, something that wouldn’t falter, no matter how deep the sorrow ran. And though you couldn’t yet bear to hold it fully, it lingered, waiting in the quiet.

Cregan sensed the shift in you before you could fully grasp it yourself. His gaze softened, the faintest flicker of understanding reflected in his eyes. He didn’t push, didn’t demand anything from you. His hands remained steady, his touch gentle as his fingers brushed along the curve of your cheek in slow, deliberate strokes. The motion was rhythmic, unhurried, an unspoken promise that he would stay—not to fix you, not to pull you from the depths, but simply to be there, however long it took for the storm inside you to rage.

The plate of food sat nearly untouched on the bed, a quiet acknowledgment of his respect for what you needed in this moment. He made no move to bring it closer, no effort to coax you into eating before you were ready. Instead, he let it rest there, unobtrusive, as though understanding that the weight of even that small act might be too much to bear.

The silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t cold or empty. It was a silence that held no expectations, no pressure. It was gentle, patient—a space that allowed you to exist as you were, unfiltered and raw. In that quiet, there was no demand to explain, no urgency to heal. You could simply be.

And though the grief remained sharp, unyielding in its hold, there was a small comfort in that silence, in his steady presence. It didn’t take away the ache, but it gave you permission to feel it without pretense. To sit in the heaviness of your sorrow without the burden of pretending to carry it differently..

As you sat there, wrapped in the quiet warmth of the room, the rest of the world seemed so far away. Yet the overwhelming weight of everything began to creep back in—a steady, suffocating pressure that settled heavily in your chest. The plate of food that had once felt distant now sat in front of you, an unwelcome reminder of what you had lost, of everything you hadn’t been able to protect. It wasn’t hunger that repelled you—it was what the food represented. The simple act of eating felt trivial, almost offensive, in the face of the emptiness that consumed you. The ache within you was too vast, too deep, to be touched by something so mundane.

Your hand moved almost instinctively, pushing the plate away with a motion so gentle it was barely perceptible. It wasn’t defiance or rejection—it was an admission of what you couldn’t give yourself. You couldn’t force yourself to be whole, couldn’t pretend that eating would fill the void left inside you. The untouched plate sat between you and the world, its presence quietly mocking.

Cregan sat beside the bed, his broad frame still and his posture calm, as though any sudden movement might disturb the fragile balance of the moment. His hands rested lightly on his knees, his thumbs tracing slow circles against the rough fabric of his trousers, his gaze fixed on you. He didn’t try to convince you to eat, didn’t say a word. His silence wasn’t empty—it was full of quiet understanding. There was no expectation in his eyes, no disappointment, only a steady acceptance of what you couldn’t yet bring yourself to do.

He didn’t judge you for it. There was no reproach, no impatience. His gaze, steady and unflinching, carried only a gentle acknowledgment of your pain. In the quiet of that moment, his presence eased the sharp edges of your self-doubt, not by removing them, but by offering a space where you didn’t need to fight against them. He had seen you at your strongest, at your best, and now, as he looked at you, he saw you at your most vulnerable. Even here, raw and fractured, he looked at you with the same certainty, the same unwavering care.

He didn’t reach for you. He didn’t touch you beyond the occasional flicker of his thumb brushing against your hand where it rested near your knee. Yet even without words or gestures, his presence spoke volumes. It wasn’t a love that sought to fix you or erase the weight of your sorrow. It was a love that existed without expectation, without conditions—a love that offered itself freely, regardless of how broken or fragile you felt.

Cregan’s gaze didn’t falter, even as you pushed the plate away, even as your breaths grew uneven under the weight of it all. He sat beside you, offering nothing more than the certainty of his presence, the quiet assurance that you didn’t need to be anything other than what you were. In that silence, his love wrapped around you—not as a solution, but as a quiet anchor, holding you steady when everything else felt like it might slip away.

The tears that had once flowed relentlessly began to slow, though the ache in your chest remained—a constant, gnawing presence. It wasn’t something that could be banished or fixed with time or words. It felt woven into the very fabric of your being, an ache that refused to be soothed.

Cregan rose from his seat beside the bed, his movements deliberate as he reached for the plate that sat untouched. He lifted it gently, carrying it away and placing it back on the small table with care, as though even this small act deserved respect. When he returned, his attention shifted to you. He stood quietly for a moment, his gaze steady and unhurried, silently asking for permission as he helped you lie back against the bed.

He lingered as he pulled the blanket up over you, tucking it lightly against your shoulders before stepping back. Without a word, he began to undress, his movements slow and deliberate, as if the weight of the moment demanded nothing less. Once ready, he slipped beneath the covers beside you, the mattress dipping slightly as he settled into place.

At first, Cregan didn’t reach for you. He allowed the space between you to remain, as though giving you time to decide how close you wanted him to be. When you shifted toward him, seeking his warmth, he responded without hesitation. His arm wrapped carefully around your waist, drawing you closer with quiet purpose. His chest pressed against your back, solid and steady, a barrier between you and the cold emptiness that lingered at the edges of the night.

Though the ache in your chest didn’t fade, with him beside you, it felt a little less suffocating. His presence didn’t erase the grief that had hollowed you out, but it steadied you in a way you hadn’t expected. Slowly, you began to let yourself rest, the weight of his arm and the quiet rhythm of his breath coaxing you into a fragile kind of calm.

Your forehead came to rest gently against his chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat grounding you. The rise and fall of his breathing guided your own, slowing the uneven rhythm that grief had imposed. His warmth surrounded you, cocooning you against the chill of sorrow that still lingered in your heart.

Cregan’s arm tightened slightly, his hand resting against your back as though shielding you from the weight of your pain. He didn’t speak or try to fill the silence with empty reassurances. He simply held you, his presence unshaken, offering quiet strength without demand or expectation.

He could feel the tension in your body, the stiffness that came from holding too much inside. The way you tensed against him spoke of the struggle to keep your grief contained, as though letting it spill out would unravel you completely. He wished he could take that weight from you, even for a moment, but he didn’t ask you to let it go. Instead, he held you tighter, his warmth enveloping you, a silent shield against the sorrow that pressed so heavily upon you.

After a long stretch of stillness, Cregan’s voice broke through the quiet. It was soft and low, almost as if he were speaking to himself. His words carried a thoughtfulness, the weight of a memory he had been holding close, now offered to you in the stillness of the night.

“I remember a time when I was a boy,” he began, his voice low and tinged with nostalgia. “It was a winter, much like this one. We were up in the mountains with my father. The cold was so sharp, so bitter, that even the wolves sought shelter in the trees.” He paused, his fingers gently tracing a slow, absent rhythm on your arm, as if anchoring himself in the memory. “We were hunting, tracking a stag, but my father—he always taught me that you don’t chase after something just because it’s there. You have to be patient. You wait for the right moment.”

His words hung in the air, deliberate and weighted, as though each one carried more than just a memory. It wasn’t about the hunt, or the bitter cold—it was about something deeper. About waiting. About endurance. About knowing that some things take time, even when the waiting feels unbearable, even when the pain seems endless.

You kept your gaze on him, watching as the memory unfolded in his eyes. It wasn’t just the words he spoke—it was the way he offered them, the quiet conviction in his tone. A simple story, yet it carried the quiet strength of patience and resilience, a lesson that reached beyond the moment. It wasn’t about fixing what was broken. It was about surviving. Enduring. And as you listened, you began to understand that this was a truth he had carried with him for a long time—a truth he was now sharing with you.

Cregan’s voice softened even further as he paused, the weight of his words settling into the quiet around you. His hand rested lightly against your back, steady and warm, as though trying to shield you from the storm of your thoughts. His gaze met yours for a moment, unflinching, before drifting away again as he spoke.

“I didn’t get it then, not fully,” he murmured, his tone thoughtful, each word carefully chosen. “But now… now, I think I do.” He exhaled softly, his breath brushing gently against your face, the realization in his words carrying the weight of years. “There are moments in life that feel like they’ll break us. Moments where we feel like we’re lost, as though nothing we do will ever be enough. And in those moments, it’s not what we do to fix it that matters most. It’s how we endure. How we wait through the pain, knowing that, eventually, it will pass. It’s about having the patience to let the hurt come—and the patience to let it leave when it’s ready.”

Cregan’s next words came slowly, each one deliberate, heavy with the weight of his love and the quiet strength he offered. It was as though he were trying to bridge the chasm between your pain and his desire to hold you together, even in the brokenness that surrounded you.

“I won’t pretend to understand the full depth of your sorrow, or the weight that rests in your heart,” he said, his voice low and steady, thick with meaning. The tenderness in his tone was undeniable, each word chosen with care. “But I do know this—you are not carrying it alone.”

He paused, letting the words settle between you. They hung in the air like a fragile thread, something so delicate yet so vital, connecting the raw edges of your grief to the steadfastness of his presence. His gaze remained fixed on yours, unwavering, as though willing you to believe him.

“We are here together,” he continued, his voice softer now but no less certain. “And I’ll stay beside you through it all—no matter how long it takes, no matter how much time you need.”

As he spoke, his arm tightened around you, just enough to make his promise tangible, to emphasize the truth of his words. It wasn’t a solution, wasn’t meant to erase the pain that clung to you so fiercely. But it was constant, unyielding—his presence a silent vow to remain with you, no matter the weight of the sorrow that bound you both to this moment.

You could feel the steadiness in his voice, the raw honesty behind each word. It wasn’t just a story he told—it was a promise, woven into the quiet strength of his presence. It was a reminder that grief, with all its weight and anguish, was not something you had to face alone. And though the journey through it would be long—perhaps longer than you could imagine right now—he would wait with you. Just as he had waited patiently that day in the mountains, not rushing the hunt but trusting that, in time, the right moment would come. Cregan understood the power of patience, the way it shaped everything, even in the darkest of times.

The warmth of his body and the quiet strength of his words began to settle in your chest, providing a fragile comfort amidst the storm of your grief. The ache didn’t vanish—it gnawed at you still, sharp and relentless, pulling at the edges of your heart. But his presence offered something more, something small yet significant: a sense that you didn’t have to face this alone. You were still broken, still lost in the enormity of everything you had endured, but in his arms, there was a flicker of solace. Not hope—not yet. But the smallest inkling that, with time, the pieces might begin to mend.

Cregan wouldn’t ask you to hurry through this pain. He wouldn’t demand anything you couldn’t give. He would wait beside you, steady and unwavering, until the day came when the ache didn’t feel so suffocating. He would wait for you to heal, not by rushing you forward but by standing with you through every difficult step.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself rest. You loosened the tight grip you’d kept on your grief, just enough to lean into him, to let his arms hold the weight you no longer could. In this moment, with him, you didn’t have to be strong. You didn’t have to understand what came next. You only had to exist, to breathe, and to trust that in the silence between you, the promise of healing was waiting, just like the moment Cregan had waited for in the mountains.

521 notes · View notes

letsdosciencetoit · 1 month ago

Text

WIP - BuckTommy 5+1

Under promise and over deliver - Part 5 of 5 times the 118 worried about telling Buck that Tommy got married and one time they realized they didn't have to.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

5. Eddie

Eddie is quiet on the ride back to the station. The call was routine, or as routine as a three alarm fire can be. The building was empty when the fire started, and they get it under control. The work is exhausting, but it isn’t hard. Ravi is a good partner, and good at the job. He’s been trained well, but they don’t have the years of experience working together on calls. Buck always seemed to know what he needed before he needed it.

Seeing Tommy on the call has given him a lot to think about though.

He was wrong to cut off Tommy when he and Buck broke up. Buck had never asked that of him, and he’d been friends with Tommy before the two of them had started dating. Not for long, obviously, but long enough.

His therapist has helped him realize that he lashes out and cuts people off when they don’t behave the way he expects they should. It’s his salt and burn strategy to avoid dealing with any emotion other than anger or the uncomfortable conversations that need to happen.

Learning that Ravi is still tight with Buck gives him even more to think about.

A two years ago, Eddie wouldn’t have been able to imagine a world where he and Buck weren’t best friends – brothers even. Now he doesn’t know how to reach out to Buck now to apologize.

It’s actually part of his therapy homework. Identify the people he needs to make amends to so that they can figure out why he acted the way he did and develop better coping strategies.

Chris was the first person he held himself accountable for. Therapy had been one of Chris’ conditions for moving back to LA with him. They still go monthly, slowly working through the trauma of Shannon’s death, and their tumultuous relationship before that.

It’s helping. He feels lighter at home, and he’s doing well at work. They’re settling into a new routine with Chimney as Captain at the station. The only thing that’s missing is Buck.

At first he’d wanted to give Buck space to calm down. Eddie had made the grand gesture of bringing Chris back to LA, so they should be back to normal. His therapist had pointed it he had the tendency to make grand gestures rather than apologizing or admitting what was wrong.

But then Buck had moved out, and then transferred stations, and then it was hard not to get his back up because it felt like Buck was punishing with his choices. His therapist reminds him that he is not responsible for other peoples’ choices, and that their actions are not a reflection on him.

Now the space between them feels insurmountable, and Eddie knows that if he wants to repair it he has to make a meaningful apology and do the work.

He just doesn’t know how to make the first step.

If they’d still been talking, he would have shown up at Buck’s place with a six pack of beers and just flat out told him Tommy had gotten married. Now he doesn’t even know where Buck lives, and that’s on him.

***9-1-1***

Eddie is sitting at the table, staring at his phone screen, when Chris gets home from school. His little boy is already in high school.

“Hi Dad,” Chris greets him as he lets himself into the house. Chris hangs up his bag, and makes his way past Eddie to the kitchen. When Eddie doesn’t answer him, he turns back around and comes into the living room. “Are you okay Dad?”

Eddie shakes his head, “Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry Chris. Hi. How was your day?”

Chris just tilts his head to one side. “Reallly Dad?”

“Sorry buddy,” Eddie replies. “Just a lot on my mind right now. I’m seeing Dr. Medina again tomorrow.”

Nodding with understanding, Chris comes to sit next to his dad on the couch. “Therapy homework?”

“Therapy homework,” Eddie acknowledges. He sets his phone, face down on the table, and angles his body towards Chris. “Say, you’ve been talking to Buck, right?”

“Yeah,” Chris answers hesitantly, like he’s worried he’s going to get in trouble for it.

“No, that’s good,” Eddie is quick to explain. “Does he seem happy right now? He’s not regretting the transfer?”

“I’m not your spy, Dad,” Chris huffs, rolling his eyes.

Eddie thinks how he would have been reprimanded for talking back to his parents like that. Eddie doesn’t comment on it, because Chris has a point, and he wants his son to be comfortable enough to speak up. “Sorry, Chris. You’re right. I just found out something at work today that made me think of him.”

“If you want to find out how he’s doing, maybe you should call him and ask him,” Chris explained to him with all of the wisdom of a 14 year old boy.

“No, you’re right kid,” Eddie agreed. “I should call him.”

“Good talk dad,” Chris replied, before pushing himself to a stand. “I’m going to do my homework, then log on with Katie and Alex to play Fortnight.”

Chris doesn’t wait for a response before going to his room and shutting the door.

Eddie picks up his phone and unlocks the messenger app. He has to scroll down to find his last conversation with Buck. He’s ashamed to see it’s his offer to pick up groceries. Has he really not reached out to Buck since that awful night?

He’s too much of a coward to call Buck, but he does type out a message, putting the ball in Buck’s court.

Eddie: You have every right to not want to talk to me, or to be angry with me, but I owe you an apology, and I’d like to give it to you face to face. You pick the time and place.

Eddie puts the phone face down on the coffee table again and goes to the kitchen to start dinner. They don’t eat as well as when Buck was in the kitchen, but his regular Facetime cooking lessons in El Paso have helped and he’s able to feed his son without burning something nine times out of ten.

He doesn’t check his phone again until after they’ve eaten. Buck hasn’t even read the message, but there’s a new unread message in the team’s group chat. The same one they haven’t kicked Buck out of.

Buck: I know it’s short notice, but I’m having a house warming party on Saturday.

Buck: I checked with Maddie that you weren’t on shift.

Buck: Be there or be square 🤓

Buck: P.S. The only presents needed is your presence. Seriously, I have too much stuff already.

Part 6a

Tag List: @fenrirscarsback, @gayjaytodd, @wiay04, @daughterofscotland, @thuperrah (I'm sorry if I missed anyone. I'm new to tag lists).

I'm brainstorming a follow up to this - 5 times Buck and Tommy almost spill the beans about their marriage + how they got back together.

#bucktommy #evan buckley #tommy kinard #eddie diaz #9-1-1 #9-1-1 fanfiction #wip #5 + 1 fic #christopher diaz #christopher diaz is a national treasure

255 notes · View notes

whumpmasinjuly · 29 days ago

Text

Welcome to Whumpmas in July 2025!

Thank you for patiently waiting! As a reminder, we will not be reblogging any creations on this blog and will instead keep this blog as a space to only post the prompts, tags, and relevant information. We will post the tag for each day, and we ask that you use two tags when filling prompts this year so that others may find your creations easily: Tag 1 —> #wij25day__ (Fill in the blank with the appropriate day number for the prompt you are filling! For example, if you are doing the prompt for day 21, make sure to tag your post with #wij25day21.)

Tag 2 —> #whumpmasinjuly2025 Be sure to also tag @whumpmasinjuly-archive if you would like your posts reblogged to our new official archive account! Of course, feel free to use any other relevant tags too! You can also find a banner that you can use in your posts (if you want, not required) under the #wijbanner tag.

The prompts are divided into three categories: community (red boxes), question (green boxes), and creation (white boxes). Everyone is free to participate as much or as little as they want–there’s no completionist requirement! This list provides a preview of the prompts, but on each day a more detailed post will be released with more context and additional suggestions for each day’s task. Similar to previous years, all prompts and other important information will be found under the #infowhumpmasinjuly tag and #infowij25 for ease of access. This blog will also use the tags #wijquestion , #wijcommunity , and #wijprompt respectively for each post so that you can filter and find the type of prompts you’d like to do.

Below the cut is a text list of this year’s prompts:

1. (Re)Introduce yourself 2. What images/moodboards describe your favorite whumper/whumpee/tropes? 3. “I’m sorry” 4. Post a whump prompt for someone else to fill on Day 28 5. What ten words/phrases give you the whumperflies? 6. Field Medicine 7. Post links to your favorite whump fics, new and old! 8. What tropes or scenarios do you love or wish to see more of? (People will make media recommendations on Day 13) 9. Burning 10. Share a sneak peek of something you're working on WIP 11. What songs/playlists are perfect for whumpy daydreaming? 12. Dangerous 13. Recommend media with the tropes/scenarios from the Day 8 posts 14. What would be the ultimate nightmare situation for your favorite whumper/whumpee? 15. Breathless 16. Drop some delicious tropes/scenarios in three WIJ participant ask boxes! 17. What has been your most recent whump obsession? 18. "Something’s wrong" 19. Create a whump meme! 20. What are some of your favorite fandoms to create or enjoy whump in? (People will message you on Day 25) 21. Tears 22. Find a story/author you've never engaged with before, and leave some nice comments! 23. What are your top three injuries/ailments you desire in your whump? 24. Frozen 25. Find someone with similar interests as you from Day 20 and reply/ask/message! 26. What is your best advice to others about creating or finding whump? 27. Hunting 28. Fill someone's whump prompt from Day 4 29 What creation are you most proud of?30. “Brace yourself” 31. Who is someone in the whump-creating world that you admire and why?

#whumpmasinjuly2025 #wij2025 #infowij25 #infowhumpmasinjuly #whumpmasinjuly #whump event #whump community #whump

161 notes · View notes

coralinnii · 1 year ago

Note

Congrats on reaching the 2.7 K followers milestone!! If it's okay to ask why specifically 2.7 K?

anyways I heard you were taking requests so I'll request something to celebrate with you :-D

I was wondering if you could do one where Idia, Kalim, Azul, Riddle rejects Fem!reader but ends up falling for reader after that, how would they react when they need to reject her and when the realization of them liking her back hits? (I tried to come up with an og idea but idrk if this one is actually good enough writing material :'-D)

‧₊˚✧ Waking up Too Late ‧₊˚✧

↳ Realizing their feelings for fem!reader after rejecting you

feat: Idia ❋ Kalim ❋ Azul ❋ Riddle genre: slight hurt/comfort, open ending note: no pronouns were used but reader is written as a female in mind, reader can be interpreted as Yuu!reader,

Question: Why specifically 2.7K? Well... I wanted to do something when I reached 2k but by the time I finished my initial wave of requests and WIPs, it already reached 2.7K ^_^" There wasn't a real rhyme or reason... I was just really late to the game

extra note: the joke in the start of Azul’s section doesn’t mean anything bad about him in general. It’s just Azul reminds me too much of myself during my younger days and I wasn't the biggest fan of myself back then.

Also, if anyone is wondering... I haven't stopped writing. I was just unable to find time for myself during the last 3 months because my classes and work didn't leave me time to do much outside of that. Seriously, I had assignments due on weekdays AND weekends! If none of you know who I am or didn't even realize I was gone... ignore me and have a good day ^_^

2.7K Followers Writing Event 2023

The Big Ooff

Regardless of Idia’s feelings before or after the confession, he rejected you in fear of change. He was content with the way things are, where he doesn’t have to worry about things like romance and relationships.

Idia can’t imagine being the main protagonist for anything. He’s not the cool main hero or the handsome prince that gets the pretty girl. That's for the extroverts with high charm specs (a.k.a not him). Afterall, when does the NPC ever win?

So when you, his friend and confidant, his solace and only exception, told him that you held feelings more than friendship…well, his system short-circuited.

While the two of you said it wouldn’t change your friendship, you still wanted time away from him to heal the hurt. Idia agreed that the risky emotional roll dealt some real backlash to both of you.

The Realization

Idia tried to deny it, but he started imagining an alternative universe where he did accept your confession that fateful day.

If he were to zone out during his level grinding sessions, he would vaguely envision himself in the same position, but perhaps with you lying next to him or even running your fingers through his flames. These daydreams would surprise him literally off the bed, his aforementioned flames burning a cute pinkish hue.

Some days when he’s browsing around online shops, he would occasionally encounter items that remind him of you.

Now, that in itself is not new but rather it was when he imagined how cute you would be if he got these items for you. Instead of your usual pleasantly surprised thank you, would you lovingly embrace him, maybe even kiss-!

Ortho was startled to see his brother suddenly falling off his gaming chair, with his hands suspiciously covering his face.

Crap, not only did he realize his feelings for you (which in hindsight probably was not surprising in the least), but he actually would like to be in a stupid lovey-dovey relationship with you.

His Next Moves?

Continues to deny everything. So what if he wants a relationship with you? He can’t handle this new step even with these newly realized emotions. Plus, he was the one who blew his own shot by rejecting you the first time.

So, he falls to his coping mechanism which is to deny everything and that he’s perfectly fine the way things are.

When the two of you returned to your typical routine, he tried to keep things the way it used to be, as the same with you.

Except it’s not quite the same.

You weren’t sure if you were being conscious or that it’s been a while since you two hung out, but you felt that Idia was slightly more…attentive you could say?

He would give you first bids of the better controller before picking anything himself. If you seemed the slightest bit uncomfortable while sitting, the blue-flamed senior would offer you a comfier spot on his bed and a blanket if you wanted, before sputtering that he meant nothing weird about it.

He says he’s fine, but Idia’s is in no way the usual closed-off, sometimes cocky genius you knew before. He’s jittery, more prone to shriek and burst into pink flames to any of your gestures, and according to his little brother his heartbeat is slightly faster than usual.

It’s weird…it’s like he actually acknowledges you as a woman…

Oh.

“Ahh, I seriously chose the wrong choice option. The story path…I wonder if I could still salvage a good ending…”

The Big Ooff

Kalim’s overly friendly nature, while harmless, is somewhat misleading and confusing to those around him. I mean, if someone threw a grand luxurious party for you, it’s easy to assume that you were someone special. Unfortunately, Kalim is simply just…too friendly. He would do this and more for just about anyone, no matter how special they may or may not be.

Nonetheless, you still wanted to tell him your feelings. You wanted to tell him how his smile and laugh hastens your heartbeat as you smile back. That you feel butterflies every time he extends his hands to you, coaxing you to dance with the boisterous Housewarden of Scarabia.

To everyone’s genuine surprise, the snow-haired student sincerely apologized to you, not able to return your feelings the same way. All of your friends and also Scarabia was so sure that their Housewarden thought differently of you, but news quickly spread that Kalim never thought about being more than friends with you.

The Realization

To clarify, Kalim never thought about being more than friends with anyone. He’s happy to have so many friends, what more could he possibly want?

But your words did shake him mentally. He never realized that you would feel this way for him. On days when he can’t keep track of the lessons at hand, his mind would doze off and wander back to your confession.

“Hastening heartbeat, feelings of butterflies, always wanting to smile when you do…”

The more he thinks about your love symptoms, he’s realizing how similar those feelings were to his own when he’s around you. It was why he would always try to find you in a crowd, or why he wanted to be your dance partner on any occasion. Sure, he’s happy to be around everyone, but he feels especially good when it's you.

The pieces are connecting, the clogs are aligning, and soon…

“JAMIL, I THINK I’M IN LOVE TOO!”

“IS YOUR LACK OF INTROSPECTION THIS BAD?!”

His Next Moves?

Man is now a fool in love. He has this goofy smile on his boyish face at the slightest mention of you. Everytime he thinks about you, he keeps attempting to buy one or two grand bouquets of flowers for you, each flower as beautiful as you, much to Jamil’s chagrin as the vice-Housewarden has to keep reminding him of a crucial fact.

“You two aren’t dating. Actually worse considering your prior actions.”

Jamil’s brutal but accurate words brought Kalim back to harsh reality as he realized his mistake in not realizing his feelings soon enough. But not one to wallow in the past, Kalim sought to tell you his feelings just as you bravely did before.

Whether I personally think if that’s a smart move is irrelevant

Whatever your response is to him, Kalim would fully respect your choice, prioritizing your comfort and feelings over his newly uncovered ones. Despite his well intentions and honest feelings before the realization, his carelessness hurt you and he needed to consider your healing process.

Kalim would still act like a love-sick fool, however. Buying beautiful trinkets because he thought of you but won’t push them onto you if you couldn’t handle the heavy sentiment (thank Jamil for that).

Though a little more sheepishly, he would still extend his hand to you hoping for a dance, small little gestures to make you smile even the slightest bit brighter…all this and more because “I like you” and nothing else.

Just because he’s slow in figuring things out, his feelings won’t change so easily. This special feeling of happiness, of love… he’s grateful that you taught him this whole new world.

"I’m a little much? Haha, sorry. I get really happy when I see you...It feels nice being in love with you.”

The Big Ooff

Please reconsider

Ahem. Azul has grown accustomed to your presence. Perhaps even look forward to it throughout his daily routine, even assisting you in whatever trouble you always seem to get involved in. Some would accuse him of favoritism, but Azul argued that he was simply a gentleman treating a lady right.

He’s too observant to not notice that these sentiments are somewhat mutual. He thought of you as too kind and generous as to spend your spare time helping him around the lounge or to keep him company when the Leech twins get a little much.

But he was surprised to learn that your feelings were deeper than he initially predicted. There was such sincerity in your voice as you confess your feelings that it shook Azul to his core and turned his human legs weak.

However, he still had so many aspirations he hasn’t reached yet, opportunities he can’t miss. He can’t afford to split his time for something like romance, something that didn't register to him as urgent in the first place. Love is all well and good, but success is better and more tangible.

He’s careful with his words, gratefully thanking you for your confession and complimenting you with a list of traits he admired about you.

But you should know Azul by now. He’s hyping you up before ultimately giving you crushing news. Like a company recruiter telling you weren’t chosen despite your apparent talents.

You knew this, but it still hurts to have your dynamic treated equivalent to that of a business relation.

The Realization

Azul understood you needed time away. Certain things were said that can’t be taken back and it’ll be a while before you two could feel comfortable around each other again.

During this time though, the Housewarden truly felt your absence. He feels it when someone else takes a seat in his office where you usually occupy, when his mealtime feels less fulfilling because you weren’t there to enjoy it with him, when his headaches get worse from stress and you weren’t there to lend a comforting hand.

This sense of void was like a stream of cold water slowly trickling into his body and mind until he felt heavy and almost drowning. What an odd sensation for a deep-sea merman.

His mind became cluttered. He can’t focus on his work when all he could think about is where you might be and what you were doing.

He reached his limit when he realized that he couldn’t even hide this internal conflict from Jade or Floyd when their keen eyes pick on every moment of his loss of focus, and they have an inkling as to the cause.

…Dear Sevens, he might have made a great miscalculation on his own feelings.

His Next Moves?

First off, he’s going to spend some time in his pot. He needs some personal time reflecting over his own obliviousness and self-sabotage.

Once that’s over, he now has to figure out how to remedy this. A plan to get back into your good graces after the blunder.

He is a greedy merman. If he’s going to do something, he wants the best outcome possible, which is you forgiving him and accepting him while forgetting the past even happened.

He’s read through countless relationship books, advice found online, and personal intel that his schoolmates were forced to generous enough to offer under an NDA.

He’ll use the knowledge he remembered from your confession to his advantage, highlighting the parts of himself that he knew you liked about him. He shows off his good side in hopes to reignite what attracted you to him.

If there’s anything to expose his intent with you, it’s the flush of his pale skin when you finally thanked him with that sweet smile he missed so much.

"I’m not one to lose an opportunity when within my reach. However long it takes, I’ll earn back what I’ve foolishly lost.”

The Big Ooff

Riddle was, in all seriousness, taken aback by your confession.

The studious Housewarden of Heartslabyul is definitely smart, but he’s just slightly lacking in the people-reading department.

To him, you were simply a very loving person. He thought perhaps you were on the shyer side but always worrying about his well-being, making sure he’s taken breaks and to enjoy himself between his duties.

You were still a little rambunctious as lately you seem at odds with Ace as you’re quick to smack and silence the mischievous redhead who seems to snicker more often than usual as of late.

Frankly, you left him stunned, his face similar to a deer in headlights. No textbook or lecture has prepared him to reply back to your sincere confession.

In the end, he rejected you while giving his full honesty. Silly things like love and relationships were subjects he never thought to consider in depth, and he wasn’t sure it was something he wanted at the moment.

He tried to explain the best he could, but you couldn't stop the aching feeling of your heart breaking.

The Realization

Your relationship with Riddle took a blow but it was not destroyed. Albeit some awkwardness here and there, life flows relentlessly as usual.

But that fateful day would occasionally sneak its way into Riddle’s mind during his spare moments to himself, recalling your determined face, coupled with his memories of your beautiful, clear eyes.

Nowadays, his heart would tighten, his throat would feel dry, and his breathing would be shallower whenever his thoughts sway towards you.

Spurred by these odd symptoms, he finally looked more into the topic of love. The more he delved into talks on relationships, seminars on emotional attraction, and even tropes from novels, the more it feels as though he’s going down a rabbit hole of new emotional discoveries.

For a while, the Heartslabyul dorm was on edge as they feared for their necks every time their terrifying Housewarden suddenly turned franticly scarlet out of nowhere.

Alone in Riddle’s room, surrounded by articles and books littered on his once pristine desk, Riddle found his conclusion; he’s in love too

His Next Moves?

Riddle isn’t actually sure how to approach you anymore. This whole “in love” experience is all too new to him. He couldn’t bring up this embarrassing topic with any of his peers, and much less with his mother (Sevens knows he doesn’t exactly want to replicate a relationship like his parents).

But he couldn’t handle the sudden sensations of nerves that occur every time he’s close to you. He can’t keep up constantly chastising himself internally for flinching every time he passes a tart or a teacup to you during Unbirthday parties.

He can no longer focus during his study sessions with you as he’s now fighting with himself as he dreams to hold your free hand or to brush a stray lock of hair from your endearing face.

Was it as difficult to deal with as it was for you? Was this the reason you decided to confess to him? But the thought of speaking to you about something so intimate invokes nerves in him that he couldn’t understand.

No, he should learn from your example. If the natural progression of his feelings should be clear communication between those involved, then he will face this challenge as confidently as he does with any other.

Prepare yourself, the stubborn Riddle has made a goal for himself.

“I admit my inexperience has hurt those I cherish. Next time, I will respond to your bravery in kind.”

#twisted wonderland #twst #disney twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #twst imagines #twst scenarios #twisted wonderland imagines #idia shroud #idia x reader #kalim al asim #kalim x reader #azul ashengrotto #azul ashengrotto x reader #twst azul x reader #riddle rosehearts #twst riddle x reader #2.7k followers event

727 notes · View notes

jungkoode · 3 months ago

Text

UNMANAGEABLE

-ˏˋ a story about trust issues, career warfare & hating the one person you must trust ˊˎ-

"He burns through managers like readers through new books. You fix unfixable cases, scandals. Your partnership is a corporate bomb soon to detonate.”

—or unstoppable force meets unmovable object.

ૢ✧˚ · . quick links ✧˚ · . ૢ

read on ao3

read on wattpad

read author intro and TWs (MUST)

ૢ✧˚ · . synopsis ✧˚ · . ૢ

When HALYX Entertainment makes you Jeon Jungkook's new handler, everyone starts a secret countdown to your resignation. Korea's most brilliant actor has destroyed every manager before you—cold, calculated, and completely unmanageable. Between his trust issues and your pride, this professional arrangement is a corporate death spiral waiting to happen.

But there's something almost addictive about hating someone who sees right through you.

✧ details ✧

main ship: jungkook × f!reader side ships: hani × jihoon and TBD genre: enemies to lovers, corporate warfare, EXTREMELY slow burn (and as usual this is kiki’s work, so = 300k words in no romantic feelings yet, please spare yourself the suffering if you can’t stand agonizing slow pacing), psychological tension rating: explicit (18+ only) chapters: - status: upcoming

ૢ✧˚ · . chapter guide ✧˚ · . ૢ

ko-fi

➵ #snippet 1

volume one: liability & asset management

➵ #01 | ➵ #02 | ➵ #03 | ➵ #04 | ➵ #05 | ➵ #06 | ➵ #07 | ➵ #08 | ➵ #09 | ➵ #10 | ➵ #11 | ➵ #12 | ➵ #13 | ➵ #14 |

lost files

AGENCY INTEL ➵ personnel profiles ➵ halyx handbook ➵ damage reports

BEHIND CLOSED DOORS ➵ press conference fallout ➵ the busan incident ➵ missing schedule notes ➵ hallway standoff ➵ after-hours negotiation ➵ two a.m. damage control

PERSONAL RECORDS ➵ what he won't say ➵ what she won't admit ➵ voice messages ➵ contract margins ➵ three-day silence ➵ after the award show

Key:

Regular titles: current chapters

[WIP]: chapters currently being written

Strikethrough: scheduled for future release

Read order: chronological recommended

✧ content includes ✧

♡ explicit themes ♡ psychological depth (duh, it’s Kiki’s work) ♡ trust deficits and career sabotage ♡ reputation management ♡ destructive coping mechanisms ♡ enemies enemying for basically the whole book ♡ bdsm dynamics

ૢ✧˚ · . extras ✧˚ · . ૢ

✧ playlists:

unmanageable - official soundtrack

songs tab plays in her office after hours

✧ my UM-related art: sketches ✧ pinterest: aesthetics & visuals ✧ moodboards: characters | dynamics ✧ floor plans:

halyx headquarters

jungkook's penthouse

tab's apartment

✧ tidbits/headcanons: here ✧ lyrics: tag with #unmanageablelyrics

✧ disclaimer ✧

please be reminded that members are purely used with visual purposes. this is a work of fiction merely written for entertainment purposes.

#jungkook fic #jungkook fanfic #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #bts fanfic #bts fic #jungkook x yn #jungkook x y/n #jungkook fanfiction #bts fanfiction #jungkook smut #bts smut #corporate au #unmanageable #UM #jungkoode #bts x reader #btsjungkook #jeon jungkook x you

192 notes · View notes

xomakara · 7 months ago

Text

It's You

SUMMARY | You're a publicist secretly in love with your famous client, San, but his manager thinks you should cook up a story about him and his co-star to generate buzz for their upcoming movie. This involves arranging dates and photo ops for the two of them, but you can't help but notice he seems more interested in you.

PAIRINGS | San x Reader

RATING | Mature, NSFW, EXPLICIT, MDNI, 18+, Any Minors and Ageless Blogs will be blocked

GENRE | smut, actor!San, publicist!Reader, slight angst

CONTENT/WARNINGS | profanity/strong language, unprotected sex (wrap it up ya’ll!), handjob, oral sex (male giving/female receiving), slight dirty talk, praise kink, pet names, vaginal penetration, couch sex, office sex

LENGTH | 3,300 words

TAGLIST | ---

NETWORKS | @illusionnet @cromernet @k-vanity @ksmutsociety @othersideoutlawsnetwork

AUTHOR’S NOTE | I finally managed to finish this fic that has been sitting in my WIP folder for months. I feel like this one is a bit lackluster compared to my other stuff but I hope you all love and enjoy this. Love you ❤️

ATEEZ Main Masterlist

"Do you think this is a good idea?" San’s voice cuts through the sterile air of your office, low and gravelly. You glance up from the stack of papers on your desk, meeting his piercing gaze.

"It’s not just a good idea," you say, forcing yourself to sound confident, even though your heart is pounding. "It’s necessary."

San leans forward, resting his elbows on your desk, his face inches from yours. The faint scent of cedarwood and spice invades your senses, making it hard to focus.

"Necessary?" he repeats, his mouth quirking into a half-smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. "For who? The movie? Or for you?"

You swallow hard, resisting the urge to look away.

"For both," you reply, trying to keep your voice steady. "The studio wants buzz, San. They want people talking about you and Jiae. This is how we generate that."

"Buzz," he mutters, running a hand through his tousled hair. His smile fades, replaced by a tense line of frustration. "Yeah, because nothing says 'authentic' like fake dates and staged photo ops."

You bite your lip, glancing down at the script in front of you. The words blur together as your mind races. You know this is the right move. It’s your job, after all—to manage his public image, to protect his career. But when you look back up at him, his expression stops you cold. There’s something raw in his gaze, something that feels... personal.

"San," you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper. "I know this isn’t ideal, but—"

"Ideal?" he interrupts, leaning closer. "Is it ideal for me to pretend I’m head over heels for someone I can’t stand just so people will buy tickets to a movie? Or is it ideal for you to sit here and tell me how to live my life?"

Your breath catches in your throat. You want to argue, to remind him that this is what fame entails, but the way he’s looking at you—like you’re the only person in the room like you’re the one he’s really upset with—makes it impossible to form words.

"San," you start again, but he shakes his head, cutting you off.

"Forget it," he says, standing abruptly. He runs a hand through his hair again, pacing across the small space of your office. "I don’t need this right now. I’ll do whatever you want, okay? Just... stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?" you ask, unable to stop yourself. Your pulse quickens as you realize how close you still are and how vulnerable the moment feels.

San stops pacing, turning to face you. His jaw tightens, and for a moment, you think he’s going to leave without another word. But then his eyes lock onto yours, and something shifts.

"Like you care," he murmurs, his voice so low you almost don’t hear him.

The room falls silent, the tension between you thickening like smoke. You open your mouth to respond, but no words come out. Instead, you feel the heat creeping up your neck, your cheeks burning under his scrutiny.

San watches you, his expression unreadable. And then, just as suddenly as it began, he turns on his heel and walks out of the office, leaving you alone with your racing thoughts.

The truth is, you do care. More than you should, more than you ever intended to.

Ever since San became your client, you’ve been fighting a losing battle against your feelings. His charm, his intensity, the way he somehow manages to balance chaos and control—it’s intoxicating. And every time he looks at you like that, like you’re more than just his publicist, it’s harder to remember why this is a terrible idea.

But it is a terrible idea. You know that better than anyone. Falling for your client? No. You can’t let that happen.

So instead, you throw yourself into planning the fake romance. Dates at trendy restaurants, walks through crowded parks, intimate interviews where he and Jiae can “accidentally” let slip details about their ��relationship.” And yet, despite your best efforts, things keep slipping. Like the way San keeps finding excuses to touch you during meetings or the way his eyes linger on you a little too long when he thinks no one’s looking.

Jiae notices, of course. She’s sharp, and perceptive, and she doesn’t miss much. During one of your strategy sessions, she leans back in her chair, appraising you with a knowing smirk.

"This isn’t going to work," she says casually, flipping through your prepared itinerary.

You blink, momentarily thrown. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, please," she laughs, tossing the papers aside. "He’s not interested in me, and you know it."

Your stomach drops. "That’s not—"

"Save it," she interrupts, waving a hand dismissively. "Look, I get it, eonnie. You’re his publicist. You’re supposed to be impartial, professional, blah blah blah. But let’s be real here—the chemistry between us is about as convincing as a cardboard cutout."

You stare at her, unsure of how to respond. Part of you wants to deny it, to insist that everything will go according to plan. But deep down, you know she’s right. San’s energy shifts whenever you’re around, his focus zeroing in on you in a way that makes it impossible to ignore.

"So what do you suggest?" you ask, your voice tight.

Jiae grins, clearly enjoying your discomfort. "I suggest you stop pretending you don’t see it. Because trust me, eonnie, he’s into you."

Before you can muster a rebuttal, she stands, smoothing out her dress. "Have fun with that," she says with a wink, breezing out of the room before you can recover.

Alone again, you sink into your chair, letting her words sink in. He’s into you. Of course, he is. How could he not be? You’re the one who’s always there, the one who knows him better than anyone else. But knowing that doesn’t make it any easier. If anything, it makes it worse.

Because now you have to figure out how to handle this. Do you continue with the fake romance, pushing your feelings aside in the name of professionalism? Or do you confront San, and risk everything by admitting how you feel?

The thought of either option makes your head spin. But as you sit there, replaying the conversation with Jiae, something stirs in your chest. A flicker of defiance, maybe, or just plain curiosity. What would happen if you gave in? If you let yourself explore this connection, even just for a moment?

Just as you’re about to push yourself up from the chair, the door swings open again. San steps inside, his presence instantly filling the room. He closes the door behind him, his movements deliberate, almost predatory.

"We need to talk," he says simply, his voice steady but charged with something unspoken.

You nod, standing slowly. "About the—"

"Not about the movie," he interrupts, taking a step toward you. "About us."

"Us?" you echo faintly, your voice trembling despite your best efforts. Your breath hitches as he closes the distance between you, his eyes never leaving yours. San’s gaze softens, his expression shifting from intense to something almost tender.

"Yeah," he murmurs, reaching out to brush a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers linger, grazing your skin in a way that sends shivers down your spine. "Us."

Your breath catches in your throat as San’s hand slides from your hair to your jaw, his touch warm and firm. The room seems to shrink around you, the world outside forgotten. All that exists is this moment—this man—and the undeniable pull between you.

“San…” you whisper, a plea and a question all at once. You don’t know what you’re asking for, but you feel it burning in your chest: permission, understanding, something more than just this fragile connection.

His eyes darken, and for a split second, you think he’ll step back, and put some distance between you. But then his other hand cups your face, tilting it up toward his. His thumb traces the curve of your cheekbone, and you can feel the tremor in his fingers, the same one reverberating through you.

“I’ve been trying not to do this,” he admits softly, his voice rough with emotion. “Trying to stay professional, to keep things… clean. But I can’t anymore.”

You swallow hard, your heart pounding so loudly it feels like it might burst out of your chest. “San, we can’t… This isn’t—”

“I know,” he cuts you off, his voice low and urgent. “I know what we’re supposed to be doing. I know how this looks. But none of it matters when I’m standing here looking at you.”

He leans in closer, his breath fanning across your lips, and you wonder if you should pull away, remind him of the consequences, of the boundaries you’ve both spent years erecting. But then his lips brush against yours, gentle at first, testing, seeking permission.

And you give it.

The kiss starts slow, like two people afraid of breaking something too precious. But it doesn’t stay that way for long. San groans into your mouth, his hands tightening on your face as his tongue sweeps inside, claiming you. The sound vibrates through your body, setting every nerve on fire.

You grip his shirt, anchoring yourself as the world tilts dangerously. His taste floods your senses—warm, spicy, entirely intoxicating. You didn’t realize how much you needed this until now, until his lips were on yours, his body pressed against yours, solid and unyielding.

“Jesus, you feel so good,” San murmurs against your mouth, pulling back just enough to nuzzle your neck. He sucks a mark onto your collarbone, his teeth scraping lightly, and you gasp, arching into him.

“San…” you manage, your voice shaky. “We shouldn’t—”

“Screw shouldn’t,” he growls, punctuating the words with another bite. His hands slide down your sides, skimming over your waist before settling on your hips. He tugs you flush against him, and you feel the proof of his desire pressing into your stomach.

You shudder, your brain short-circuiting as heat pools between your thighs. God, he felt incredible even fully clothed. The thought of getting him out of those clothes sends a bolt of desire straight to your core.

“Tell me to stop,” he rasps, his forehead resting against yours. His eyes are wild, and desperate, like he’s daring you to put an end to this madness.

But you don’t. You can’t. Not when your body is screaming for more, not when your heart is already halfway to falling for him. Instead, you tilt your head back, giving him better access to your neck, silently begging him to keep going.

San takes the invitation, his lips trailing lower, down the slope of your neck, over your shoulder. He pushes your blazer off your shoulders, letting it pool at your elbows before continuing his assault on your skin. His teeth nip at the exposed flesh above your bra, his tongue soothing the sting with languid swipes.

“Fuck, you’re driving me insane,” he mutters, his voice thick with lust. He drags his lips back up to yours, kissing you with a ferocity that leaves you breathless. His hands roam under your blouse, his palms hot against your bare skin.

You suck in a sharp breath as his fingers find the clasp of your bra. With a practiced flick, it releases, and your breasts spill free. San groans, cupping them in his hands, his thumbs grazing your hardened nipples.

“So perfect,” he whispers, lowering his head to take one into his mouth. He alternates between sucking and nibbling, his tongue laving circles around your sensitive peak. You clutch at his shoulders, your legs threatening to give out under the onslaught of sensation.

“San… please…” you beg, your voice barely audible over the roaring in your ears. You don’t even know what you’re asking for, only that you need more.

He pulls back long enough to yank your blouse over your head, tossing it aside without a second glance. Then his lips are on yours again, devouring you as his hands explore your body with unrestrained hunger.

“Touch me,” he demands, grabbing your hand and guiding it to the button of his jeans. His eyes bore into yours, intense and pleading. “Don’t stop this time.”

A thrill shoots through you as you fumble with the button, your fingers clumsy with anticipation. When the zipper finally gives, you slip your hand inside, finding him hard and ready for you. He gasps, his hips jerking into your touch as you stroke him firmly.

“God, yes…” he groans, his head falling back as he struggles to maintain control. But you can see the strain in his expression, the way his jaw clenched as he fights to hold himself together.

You want to break him. You want to see him unravel completely, to watch the walls he’s built around himself crumble. So you tighten your grip, quickening the pace as your other hand teases the waistband of his boxers.

“Take them off,” you command, your voice steady despite the storm raging inside you.

San complies immediately, kicking off his shoes and shimmying out of his jeans and boxers in one swift motion. He stands before you completely exposed, every inch of him breathtakingly gorgeous.

“Now you,” he says, his tone commanding yet laced with vulnerability. He drops to his knees in front of you, his hands sliding up the insides of your thighs. “Let me see all of you.”

You hesitate for a fraction of a second, but then his fingers hook into the waistband of your skirt, and you lift your hips to let him strip you bare. When you’re fully undressed, he drops to his knees and presses a reverent kiss to the inside of your thigh, his breath hot against your skin.

“San…” you groan, your legs trembling as his mouth moves closer to your aching core.

“Shh,” he soothes, his voice muffled against your damp curls. “Let me take care of you.”

And then his tongue is on you, parting your folds and delving deep. You cry out, your head falling back as waves of pleasure crash over you. He laps at you greedily, his fingers probing and teasing until you’re writhing beneath him, consumed by a blinding sensation.

“San, please…” you beg again, your voice raw with need. “I can’t… I can’t wait…”

He doesn’t make you. Instead, he rises to his feet, lifting you effortlessly and carrying you to the couch. He sets you down gently, positioning himself between your thighs. His eyes lock onto yours as he lines himself up, poised to enter you.

“Look at me,” he commands, his voice steady despite the tension coiled in his body. “Keep your eyes on me.”

And then he thrusts into you, filling you. You gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders as your bodies connect for the first time. It’s overwhelming, all-consuming, and for a moment, you forget how to breathe.

“San…” you murmur, your voice breaking as the reality of the situation crashes down on you.

“Say my name again,” he demands, his hips snapping forward with purpose. “Tell me you want this as much as I do.”

You nod frantically, your thoughts fragmented, your body too far gone to form coherent words. “Yes… San… please…”

He smiles, a wicked glint in his eye. “That’s what I thought,” he says, and then he drives into you harder, faster, his movements confident and sure. His lips find yours again, urgent and demanding as if he’s trying to devour every ounce of hesitation you might still be holding onto.

You gasp into the kiss, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. There’s no space between you now, no room for anything but the heat that’s been simmering between you for so long. This isn't your first time, but it feels different, important—not a quick and casual fuck, but something more, something special. This moment has been a long time coming; you both know it, feel it in the way your bodies seem made for each other, the way you slot together perfectly, as though every inch of you was designed with this connection in mind.

There will be time later for sweet nothings, gentle caresses, and murmured promises. Right now, neither of you has the patience for romance.

"Fuck," you moan, tilting your head to let him better access, his lips a trail of fire across your skin. You don't have to pretend this is perfect, that this feeling between the two of you was always meant to be—instead, you hold on for dear life as he takes you higher than you've ever been, the coil of pressure building inside you hotter and tighter than before.

"I've got you, sweetheart," San murmurs against the curve of your throat, the tone in his voice low enough that your entire body quakes at the sound. "Let me take care of you like a good girl."

When his hand falls to where you are both joined, his touch against your already sensitive nerves makes you yelp, a sudden jolt of electricity surging through your spine. San chuckles at the reaction, a rich and dark sound that rumbles against your ear. "So beautiful like this, baby, such a mess for me."

"San..." you whine, his name like a prayer tumbling from your lips as you teeter on the precipice. "Please, please don't stop, don't fucking stop--"

And he doesn't. He's relentless as his thumb draws small, tight circles over your center, the sound of your whimpers urging him to go faster and harder, until you are crying out, shuddering with pleasure.

"That's it," he says, his voice ragged now, raw and honest. "Let me hear you."

His pace shifts again, this time erratic, desperate. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply as he drives into you. “God, I’ve wanted this for so long,” he mutters, his voice muffled against your skin. “Wanted you… all this time.”

His admission sends a jolt of electricity through you, amplifying the already dizzying pleasure. You clutch at him, your body arching instinctively as you chase that elusive peak. “San… I—I think I’m going to—”

“Yes,” he growls, his thrusts becoming even more frantic. “Come for me. Right now.”

It’s too much, too fast, too good. Your vision blurs, your muscles tightening as you spiral over the edge, your release crashing over you in waves. You cry out his name, over and over, your body convulsing around him as you ride out the aftershocks.

He follows soon after, his movements faltering as he finds his release. For a moment, he’s still, his entire weight pressing you into the counter as he catches his breath. Then, slowly, he withdraws from you, leaving you feeling empty and spent.

In a matter of minutes, his world has been upended, and somehow, yours along with it. San runs his hand through his hair, his expression an intoxicating mix of awe and disbelief.

"How did we get here?" he asks softly, almost as if he were talking to himself.

"I don't know," you answer truthfully, still a little breathless.

He nods, silent for a long moment, and you worry that the spell is broken, the real world threatening to intrude upon this fantasy you'd constructed for yourself. And then, slowly, a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, and he raises an eyebrow. "Want to do it again?"

You laugh, relief rushing through your veins like a drug. "Let's go home first," you suggest, trailing a hand down his chest. "Where we can be more... thorough."

"Fair point," San murmurs, capturing your lips in a passionate kiss. "If I can only love one girl in this life, then it's you. It's you, baby."

#illusionnet #cromernet #kvanity #other side outlaws network #ksmutsociety #ateez #ateez scenarios #ateez stories #ateez fanfics #ateez imagines #ateez smut #ateez san #san #choi san #san smut #ateez choi san #choi san x reader

338 notes · View notes

bettystonewell · 4 months ago

Text

HITCHED - Drabble

Read on AO3 ||Main Masterlist

Dean Winchester x Reader

There’s a party going on (right here), and a celebration - happening on both sides of the door. 18+ only MDNI 611 words

A/N: I might not be writing the WIPs I should be finishing, but I’m getting out of my writers block - yay! Here’s a smutty Drabble because we all need more smut. This was titled Pretty/Quickie in my WIP folder post *Originally posted as Hitch

The clatter fades in the hall outside. Heels that clack and heels that thud soften. The voices of their owner’s whispers and the odd high pitch of a cackle or a clang from serving ware and glass override them. The party’s still going.

No bother.

There’s something fitting about the way your thighs hitch themselves ‘round Dean. It’s perfect. He’s perfect. It’s thrilling knowing they could hear you.

Knees bent, ankles locked together over the curve of his sweet, hunter’s ass. His every plunge, thrust, and roll of his hips into you has them moving if only by a fraction. Rocking, shaking, jolting you just right as your back glides over the door he’s got you pressed upon.

You’re in your own world. One separated by a glossy rich paint and three golden numbers nailed to the wood. One painted by the soft glow of a light overhead. Hadn’t even made it cross the threshold before he was hiking your dress up and pushing your panties down. They’re there, somewhere behind him. His black loafers and tie with them, too.

Who knew formalwear could be so fun?

He ruts up into you. Whiskey, still on his tongue even though champagne was an option, caresses your neck. Wisps of warm air tickle your hairline as his nose digs against the strands.

He smells divine, but he feels even better.

A heavy girth drags its tip up to kiss the edge of your cervix and down, down to catch at the bottom where your tight walls spread into folds and seam.

“Gonna fuckin’ ruin you,” his unmistakable southern charm creeps in on his words. “Ruin this fucking dress. Fucking tease.”

“Not the dress, baby,” you somehow say between pants. A moan interrupting your, “I wanna keep it.”

So you chose the one that hugged your hips and made the girls pop? So you ground against him more than once during the party? Satin and chiffon against black slacks and his lucky boxers you’d since discovered underneath. The sight of him in his suit was enough to turn everyone’s eyes, including yours.

Though you turned some heads, too.

“‘S not like you need to wear it again.” His fingers dig into the soft dip of your waist. The back of his hands stretch the already taut fabric.

His next thrust has your head thumping against the wood. Your latest whine overrides it.

His pelvis is grinding your clit and his cock is uncomfortably high, straining your walls to new depths just to fit him. There’s a delicious burn in your lower cunt. Throbs, and fluttering from muscles clenching around him. Pulling your skin, making you full.

“No. But it’s pretty. We don’t get much of that.”

His brow raises when he leans back to look at you. Really look at you. His hips still hold you up. “You’re pretty without the dress, sweetheart.” He snickers.

“Yeah?” you hum.

“Yeah. And you’re all mine.” He grins, toothy. His words come on the edge of a husk.

“I am, aren’t I?” Your left hand moves to cup his face. The silver band on your ring finger grazes over his freckle-kissed jaw and soon to be scruff come morning. “Mrs Winchester?” you say with a smirk.

“Mrs Winchester.” He nods, before capturing your lower lip, and holding it tight.

You taste the sugar and cake crumbs nestled in his kiss, and it draws you in. Reminds you just how precious something so simple like this is for you both in a world full of danger. Your lives are really fucked up, but in this moment, right now, even though there’s a party going on that’s all for you, it’s just you and him; husband and wife; Dean and you.

DEAN TAGLIST:

@globetrotter28 @ambiguous-avery @arcannaa @jollyhunter @zepskies

@reluctanthalfwayoptimism @supernotnatural2005 @jackles010378 @kaz-2y5-spn @applelovesposts

@jaydensluv @foxyjwls007 @deans-spinster-witch @roseblue373 @waynes-multiverse

@kazchester-fanfiction @maddie0101 @ladykitana90 @luvr4miya @amyjam78

@stoneyggirl2 @winchesterwild78 @missywinchester15 @deansbbyx @kr804573

@lyarr24 @salemslostwitch @mostlymarvelgirl @ladysparkles78 @multiversefanfics

@31miw-inkpsycho @yoursrosie @Theantisoci-alone @roseamie13 @krazykelly @my-stories-vault

If you’d like to be added, you can add yourself HERE, or if you’d like to be removed, please let me know ☺️

#dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean x you #dean winchester smut #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester drabble #dean winchester #supernatural x reader #reader insert

185 notes · View notes

gildui · 7 months ago

Text

wip — ustulation; oneshot , knight/squire 18+ bros kinda mean!

"knock. knock."

you blink upwards, bleary-eyed, as two massive fingers tap at your bottom lip.

it distorts your vision to have a hand thrown in your face. what you'd been doing rendered to no importance, diminished to the petulant child you once were. instinct rears its ugly head and irritation licks at your insides. you had always bit first. asked later.

but a simple command wrapped in a familiar inflexion—guttural, deep, a dichotomy of smoke and scratch; cocksure buried beneath layers of sleep deprivation and a penchant for one too many smokes—has taught you to stand down.

he's apathetic towards you, at most. at least, he despises your very being. wishes he'd said no when they'd tossed you to him—a clot of blood in shark-infested waters—for tutelage.

treats you like a runt from the litter of hunting dogs he breeds. picking you apart to find the smallest, most antagonizing details—the most personal of barbs—then, flays you apart again and again until you are raw, bleeding out on your threadbare mattress. unable to allow yourself the luxury of thinking about a dreamless sleep whilst you polish clean armour and hone sharp knives.

still, you comply, malleable in his unforgiving hands. saccharine; sweet enough for a toothache, never lets you live it down—'might 'ave to pluck y'r teeth out, runt. givin' mine a cavity. eye for an eye n' oll that'—

his fingers push at the seam of your lips, slow but forceful; impatience at an all-time high if you're involved. your jaw protests, lockjaw,—'need ta learn how to relax', he says as the next swing of his sword against yours is jarring enough that your teeth rattle and your ears ring, while knowing he's the source of all of your stress—you're forced to blink back a whimper of pain when your knight's digits bully into your mouth.

they're unwashed. pungent acridity, brine burns on your tasebuds as he pets your tongue with rough fingerpads. he huffs in laughter, mean, when you inevitably choke on his taste.

"good, pet," he purrs. nothing like a compliment and all too antagonising, an austere reminder of the hellion he'd broken in, "open wide. let me see my next set o' pearly whites."

#simon riley x reader #ustulation #toxic!simon

204 notes · View notes

allfortheslay25 · 6 months ago

Note

Hi. I love your art, and your story's off of them. I was wondering if you could go a little more in depth with Warren and Milo.

Sure! I’ll just cover their first meeting/impressions of one another. Also sorry it’s just a wip instead of the full line art, I started classes again and have found little time to squeeze in finished projects

First off, Milo was meant to stay with Wymack during the summer before his semester started at palmetto. Milo would be an assistant coach for a bit as he was not yet cleared to play full scrimmages with the team just yet. Wymack had not told the team and was planning to as soon as Milo’s plane landed. However, Milo booked an early and fast flight, eager to surprise his family (Wymack, Abby, Betsy, and Sarah aka Abby and David’s adopted daughter)

Milo didn’t have a key yet so he picked the lock of Wymack’s apartment and snuck inside, unknowing of the foxes already inside. Warren, who is very protective of Wymack, Abby, and Betsy, broke Milo’s nose upon entry. He didn’t give Milo a chance to explain since Warren has been conditioned to deal with everything with violence. He chased Milo, grabbing for him and swinging as the boy tried to escape. Milo had been trained by Matt to box, by Renee to wield a knife, and has the instinct to cause pain from his bloodline but his hearts too big to purposely hurt someone

Warren chased him into the hallway, tackling Milo and turning him around to hit him again when Wymack appeared, asking Warren wtf he was doing.

Wymack then explained that Milo would be staying with him and dropping by practices to help the team. Warren fumbled to apologize but after the craziness that was the encounter, he realized Milo was reallly pretty and so Warren was too shy to say anything else to him.

On Milo’s side of things, he was too busy reeling in his rage at being attacked to notice. Milo reminded himself to be nice and open to the foxes and attend his therapy with Bee every day.

Throughout the summer, Warren began to fall for Milo. He was his type after all; tall, cute smile, kind and friendly personality, intelligent and passionate. Plus he was amazing at exy. Warren got to be up and close with Milo during a scrimmage once (when Milo was giving the backliners a tip or two) and his talent and fierceness was the nail in the coffin for Warren.

On Milo’s side, he focused on exy and tried to get the foxes to bond so their teamwork would improve. He didn’t genuinely think of Warren often unless it was part of the team lol.

However, as soon as the semester began, Milo was officially introduced to the team as Emilio Isaiah Minyard-Josten. Warren’s crush crashed and burned when he realized this was the son of his favorite exy player, Neil Josten.

Warren, not knowing what to do with his feelings and discomfort at being close to Milo, began to accidentally bully him. He’d be too rough during practice, try to push him away (literally) and end up hurting him because Warren doesn’t know how to be gentle. He’s not very good at English which shows up more when he’s flustered so he’d be meaner than he intends.

On Milos side, he was confused and put off by warrens attitude. He wanted everyone to like him but every time he was nice, it only resulted in Warren clipping him in the ankle with his racquet or a hiss to leave him alone. Milo decided to respect warrens boundaries and give him the space he wanted. The only time they were ever close was on the court when the two would ignore everyone’s existence to push the other until one of them came out with the victory. Being that they were the teams most versatile players, they often practiced against each other

Sometime in Milo’s first week, he took his foxes out to Eden’s for bonding (he had never gone himself but his family had a reputation there and thus Milo had free entry) Milo made sure everyone had fun but was safe and eventually found Chris and Ash bothering Warren outside.

Warren was being pressured to try a smoke but he’d always thought it was a dumb habit. Until Milo chased away Chris and Ash, joining Warren outside for a civilized conversation, in which Milo inhaled the second hand smoke wistfully and said the smell reminded him of simpler times. (Referring to his five years of childhood at palmetto since andreil quit smoking after they graduated) Milo went back inside and Warren finished the cigarette. If he suddenly picked up a smoking habit, well that was his business.

Overall, Warren deals with his one sided crush on Milo. He’s too attracted to him to be his friend without guilt but he admires Neil Josten so much he refuses to make a move on Milo in fear that everyone will think it’s just a creepy fan move.

Milo is completely blind to Warren’s existence most days. He isn’t his friend and Milo has enough on his plate along with two people he actually has semi crushes on; Captain Jackie (a platonic crush) and Jay (a one sided crush since Jay finds Milo too young)

But Milo also has five more years to become close with Warren :)

#aftg #all for the game #art #doodles #oc #oc art #aftg oc #milo josten #ed warren #david wymack #miloverse #all for milo #all for my foxes

174 notes · View notes

wileys-russo · 1 year ago

Text

like a dumb rom com (3) II k.cooney-cross x catley!reader

this is many many months overdue but feels good to tick it off my wips and wrap this little series up finally! one two like a dumb rom com (3) II k.cooney-cross x catley!reader

ever since steph walked out after catching you and kyra you'd been on edge. plastering a fake smile on your face you made an effort to show appreciation for all your teammates and friends showing up, avoiding both your sister and your girlfriend like they had some sort of infectious disease.

but if anyone noticed the underlying tension they didn't comment on it, though you felt the looks thrown your way by caitlin every now and then who seemed to stay stuck by stephs side for the rest of the evening.

as well as from kyra who was doing her very best to respect you were in an awkward position, but her hands itched to grab yours in them and she found herself staring longingly at you across the room nearly the entire night.

"okay! training tomorrow girls, think its about time we wrapped this up." it was kim who made the call around ten thirty at night, half of the girls already having left and the rest of you lounged about talking.

you looked up from your conversation with lia and caught your sisters eye, dropping your gaze right away as they burned a hole in your head and everyone all started their goodbyes.

when it came to kyra it was obvious neither of you were sure what to do, awkwardly staring at one another before you went for a hug and kyra stuck her hand out for a fist bump.

you both blushed bright red and mumbled apologies before you grabbed her hand and dragged her outside.

"i'm really sorry about-" you cut off your girlfriends apology with a shake of your head and stole a quick kiss. "don't. its not how i wanted her to find out but she was bound to sooner or later." you sighed with a somewhat sad smile.

with a slight frown kyra poked at the corners of your mouth, turning your lips upward into a proper smile. "dickhead!" you pushed her lightly, pulling her a little more around the corner of the house and out of sight.

"i love you." your hands fell to her cheeks as you brought her in for a proper kiss, the words mumbled right back against your lips before you pulled apart, promising you'd check in later and she hurried off to get a lift with teyah.

"you call me if you need something yeah?" caitlin murmured as she hugged you goodbye next, a short nod all she needed before heading off with katie.

you were hoping to sneak away to your room as steph was busy saying goodbye to jen, but fate wasn't in your favour.

"hey kid." you stopped halfway down the hallway and turned, dean standing a few feet behind with a sympathetic smile. "you know the more you avoid it, the longer it drags out and the worse its going to be." he reminded as you sighed, unable to really argue that fact as you followed after him.

steph had her back to you in the kitchen washing something up with far too much vigor, furiously scrubbing a glass you were surprised hadn't smashed in her hands yet.

you shifted awkwardly on the balls of your feet, wishing the ground would swallow you up as dean cleared his throat, steph pausing to glance briefly over her shoulder as he subtly nodded in your direction.

"you are unbelievable." was all your sister spoke, barely loud enough for you hear as she continued washing up, dean stepping out to the living room to give the pair of you some privacy but still hovering close enough that he could intervene if needed, taking calvin with him.

"pardon?" you scoffed, unsure if you'd heard her correctly as she shook her head, dropping whatever was in her hands back into the sink full of water and whipping around to properly face you.

"i said, you are unbelievable." your sister spoke louder this time, drying her hands on a tea towel and glaring you down. "oh and do tell steph, why exactly is that?" you questioned, crossing your arms over your chest and glaring right back at her.

"this. all of this! you are way too immature to be in a relationship, or whatever you and kyra are." steph rolled her eyes as again you scoffed.

"excuse me? i'm the one being immature right now? and yeah we are in a relationship, kyra is my girlfriend." you confirmed with a snarl, your sisters jaw clenching.

"the hickeys on your neck the other day...that was kyra. kyra was here the night before and you picked her up for training the next day!" steph realised as suddenly then chips started to fall into place. "you lied to me, you told me you came back for that textbook but-" steph accused as you rolled your eyes.

"congratulations sherlock, you figured it out! i came back to cover up my hickey." you clapped with a sarcastic smile which only wound your sister up further. "watch the attitude. you still live under my roof!" steph cautioned making you scoff, of course she'd hold that over you.

"for how long? and why kyra? you're just being stupid!" steph laughed humorlessly as you frowned, hurt flashing briefly across your face but it was almost immediately replaced with anger.

"well lets see. none of your business, none of your business, and how am i being stupid?" you questioned, hands on hips and raising an eyebrow in the older girls direction.

"you're too young to be in a relationship, you need to focus on football and school. and i know kyra well enough that all she's going to be for you is a distraction to both of those!" steph rolled her eyes as you shook your head in disbelief.

"i am twenty one years old steph, you were sleeping around long before that, at least i'm just with one person!" you snarked again as your sisters face glowered and dean appeared again as she started toward you.

"okay girls. its been a big day, its late, i think we all just need the night to cool off and-" he tried to calmly intervene but you weren't finished yet.

"and you don't know kyra at all. either way you do not get to tell me who i get to date or when i get to date them steph! you're my sister, not my mum." you warned seriously, turning on heel and exiting the conversation yourself.

"don't you dare walk away from me! we are not done here." steph scoffed and hurried after you ignoring deans urging she drop it for now, your door slammed in her face and promptly locked causing her to gasp.

"you open this door right now or i swear to god!" steph ordered pounding on it with her fist and jiggling the doorknob with her other hand, mumbling under her breath. "no, fuck off stephanie." you rolled your eyes, quickly shoving some things into a bag hearing your sister gasp again.

"oh just you wait till i-" you didn't give her a chance to hear the end of her sentence, carefully swinging one leg over your open window and shimmying around, dropping to the floor and racing away.

meanwhile steph was rummaging around in the kitchen for the spare key to your door, muttering angrily and waving off deans every attempt to soothe her, even ignoring calvin who bumped his head into her leg with a whine.

"telling me to fuck off? me? she's so-ooh when i get my hands on her." steph mumbled storming back down the hall to your room as both dean and calvin followed cautiously behind, your door popping open and steph rushing inside.

a squeal sounded as she tripped over your shoes, tumbling down to the floor and groaning in pain, dean hurrying to carefully help her up as steph took in your empty room and open window and saw red.

"oh she's dead. grounded. shipped back to melbourne in a crate!" steph growled, attempting to flee and make a beeline for her car keys as dean held her back.

"steph. babe, she clearly doesn't want to do this with you right now. when has she ever run off from a conversation? or even an argument? she obviously needs space and so do you, to calm down." he urged calmly as steph melted into his touch with a deep seeded sigh.

it would have to wait until tomorrow then.

only by the time tomorrow had rolled around steph indeed was calm, cool as an ice block one might say, and as frosty as one too.

rather than seek you out for an adult conversation like she'd promised dean, steph decided it was much easier to ice you out, ignoring you all together which didn't take long for you to catch onto.

you'd driven to and spent the night at alessia's thinking if you went to kyras that would be too easy for steph to find you, having sent kyra a quick message and prompty shut your phone off so your sister couldn't call you either.

the older english girl welcomed you in and listened to you rant but then made you promise you'd try to hear steph out today, advising your sister was probably more upset at being kept in the dark about it than she was about you actually seeing kyra.

alessia was of course correct, and that was what had been picking at steph as she stewed over things in bed last night, tossing and turning and barely getting a wink of sleep as suddenly she was overthinking everything.

how long had you been sneaking around? how long was this happening under her nose in her house? how long had you been lying to her? how long was kyra lying to her? why did you feel the need not to tell her? did you not trust her? had she been that bad of a sister? no, this was on you and not on her.

forever with a calm head on her shoulders alessia's words had stuck with you regardless, and you'd shown up to training with an olive branch in the form of a coffee for your sister and a new attitude toward hearing her out.

but when she completely blanked your attempt to even greet her good morning, that resolve died as quickly as it had been born.

"steph." you'd started softly, clearing your throat as lia sent you a warm smile, stopping her conversation with your sister who refused to turn around. "steph?" you tried again, lia and beth both frowning at the girl in question who turned but bent to tie her laces, clearly ignoring you.

"but i'm immature? right." you mumbled, harshly dumping her coffee in the bin as alessia winced, watching you storm off and kyra hurry after you as steph pretended not to notice and ignored her friends attempts to work out what that was all about.

"i would have drank that, just because she got caught does not mean she needs to waste a perfectly good coffee!" vic groaned as alessia shoved her, having filled her in but sworn her to secrecy not wanting to upset you or steph any further.

but steph was hardly subtle in the way she was clearly speaking about you to beth during warm ups, the blondes eyes darting toward you and kyra who'd paired up every few seconds which you hadn't missed.

"jesus!" kyra grunted as you grew tired of the fleeting glances and kicked the ball extra hard without watching, sending it sailing right into your girlfriends stomach who bent over winded with a wheeze.

"shit, i'm so sorry ky!" you hurried to her side with wide eyes, grabbing a water bottle alessia offered and handing it to the brunette who nodded with a grimace of pain, mumbling it was fine in between mouthfuls of water as she caught her breath.

catching the slight smirk on your sisters face at what had happened you shot to your feet, intending to march on over there and slap it off but someone grabbed the collar of your shirt before you could so much as take a step.

"nope, no catley brawl in the middle of training." caitlin shook her head, grip on your top tightening as you struggled to pull away but gave up with a defeated huff.

"kyra, finish warm ups with katie. you, come with me." caitlin ordered, dragging you away as you heard katie already start to tease kyra for the way she stared after you like a lost puppy.

meanwhile the smirk was wiped off stephs face but not in the way you wanted, instead she felt a strange feeling settle in her stomach at the way you'd sought out caitlin and were clearly confiding in her.

exactly the way you'd obviously told her about you and kyra before your own sister.

it was that resentment bubbling beneath the surface that perhaps the older girl should have known well enough to set aside and focus on football instead.

and it was that resentment that caused her to take you down perhaps a little too hard in the cool down game awhile later, the ball already gone from your possession when your sister slid into you, taking your legs out and sending you thumping to the ground.

you wheezed in pain, the wind knocked completely out of you by the unexpected tackle, squeezing your eyes shut and taking short sharp breaths as pain shot through your sides.

you heard some of the girls crowd around to check in, waving them off and grabbing leahs hand who pulled you up into a seated position. "i'm fine i'm fine, just winded." you brushed off the physio who hovered nearby.

"ankle? knee? no pain?" kyra squatted beside you with a concerned frown as you shook your head, the whistles blown to end the mornings session. "promise?" your girlfriend pushed as you nodded and mumbled the word back.

you didn't know if your sister would apologise, but you didn't give her a chance to either way as stina helped you to your feet and you took off inside, leaving both kyra and steph behind you.

you frowned as you entered the empty gym, your girlfriend having texted you to meet in here before the afternoon session to help her with something.

"kyra? ky?" you called out, hunting about but finding no sign of the midfielder. "she's so weird." you huffed, turning around to leave and screaming as suddenly there she was stood right behind you.

"gotcha!" the brunette grinned victoriously as you clutched your chest. "not funny cooney-cross." you warned catching your breath, heart pounding a million miles an hour.

"you always tell me i'm too loud, but i think i just proved i can be very very sneaky." kyra wiggled her eyebrows as you rolled your eyes. "is that seriously why you made me cut my lunch break early?" you sighed, unimpressed if a jump scare was all you were going to get out of this.

"no. i need your help stretching out my back before gym, please?" kyra asked hopefully, hands clasped together and slight pout on her lips. "you do realize there is an entire floor of physios who could do that right?" you couldn't help but smile.

"yeah...but i'd rather have your hands on me. i've barely seen you all day!" kyra groaned softly. "well whose fault is that!" you poked her accusingly as she smiled guiltily.

"okay its hard to train with stephs eyes shooting lasers at me every second, and thats when i'm not near you!" kyra admitted as you rolled your eyes but took her hands in yours. "where are we going?" your girlfriend asked as you begin to tug her away.

"somewhere stephs laser eyes can't hurt you." you mocked pouting at her as she huffed and bumped her shoulder into yours. "oh how romantic, you've put us both back in the closet." kyra teased as you pulled her into one of the equipment closets.

"are you going to make jokes or are you going to kiss me?" you asked boldly, raising an eyebrow as kyra made a point to snap her mouth shut and tug you closer, pressing her lips to yours without a seconds hesitation.

"-i said i don't want to talk about it caitlin." steph shut down her national teammate with a sigh, the forward trying to press her to talk about everything sensing bottling it up was only making things worse for the both of you.

"steph. you're hurt and you're upset that she didn't tell you, i understand that really. but so is she and avoiding her isn't going to make that go away, it'll get worse!" caitlin warned as steph hummed, rifling through the small stack of papers for her afternoon program.

"just think it over." caitlin gave in, squeezing her teammates shoulder and grabbing her program steph held out for her without another word, the rest of the team all slowly filing in.

now if you and kyra were maybe a little smarter, you might have kept track of time, or chose a less obvious hiding place for your little 'catch up', more specifically not hid out in the closet where the mats and rollers were kept, the mats and rollers that all the girls needed for their warm ups.

which is why one moment you were whispering something, lips pressed against kyras and soft giggles filling the air, and the next you were flat on your back with kyra laid out beside you, four concerned faces staring down at you.

"i didn't think it needed to be said but new rule, no making out in the equipment closet!" kim warned sternly, both you and kyra's faces blushing bright red as you hurried to your feet and she did the same, both of you drowned in the teasings of your teammates shortly after.

you caught your sisters eye as you grabbed your program, her jaw set and eyes piercing into yours you felt a wave of shame roll over you at her judgement, bowing your head and hurrying as far away from her as you could get.

"harsh." beth stated bluntly, knocking her shoulder into her best friends who blinked and glanced over to her, rolling out her hamstring. "thats unprofessional, she should know better." steph mumbled with a roll of her eyes.

"she's twenty one steph, and she's in loove." beth teased, quickly shut down by the sharp glare sent her way by your sister. "don't. she's an idiot, they both are." steph muttered, moving to roll out her back, watching as you arose from your own matt and followed after lotte to start your program.

"steph, she's a kid. kids make mistakes, should she have told you about the two of them? maybe. and when i say this i mean it with love-" beth started, steph averting her eyes toward the blonde and raising an eyebrow.

"-but doesn't your reaction also maybe explain why she held off?" beth smiled sympathetically as steph only sighed, ignoring the question as beth chose to let her sit with it, quickly changing topics.

and sit with it she did, not surprised when she returned home from training to an empty house despite the fact you'd left before her. though given calvin was nowhere to be found and your training bag was sat at your door, you'd clearly been and gone.

"boo!" steph let out a yell and spun around, hitting her fiance a few times who laughed and shielded himself. "alright alright! cool it karate catley." dean grinned as steph huffed, setting down her bag and shooting him one last glare.

"i see our mood hasn't improved. so you didn't talk to her then?" he asked, taking a seat at the counter as steph sighed, grabbing out a few things to make herself some food. "ugh she always does this!" your sister groaned, moving to take out the empty milk from the fridge.

"just further proves her immaturity." steph mumbled, tossing it away into the recycling and fixing her fiance with a glare as he chuckled. "something funny?" she challenged, the man still grinning.

"you do know its me who does that right?" dean advised as steph frowned.

"what? but she always says-" "once, she covered for me once. and you just assumed from then on that its been her!" "but why would she-" "do you remember when we had that argument? after i'd gone out for...a big night." dean winced at the memory as steph hummed in acknowledgement.

"well i drunkenly ate five bowls of cereal and left the milk empty in the fridge. we argued that next morning, you were angry with me and you grabbed out the milk for your coffee and it was empty and-"

"-and she took the blame so we wouldn't argue even more." steph realised with a sigh, drumming her fingers against the counter top. "bingo." dean clicked, leaning over and apologetically kissing her, promising he would no longer leave the milk there.

"then that same morning she went out and got me a coffee, took calvin for a walk and brought home flowers...which she said were from you." steph narrowed her eyes as her fiance winced and smiled sheepishly.

"what else has she taken the blame for or done for me that you took the credit for?" your sister gasped as dean grinned. "we're getting off track here. does this not maybe prove she's a bit more mature than you give her credit for?" dean pointed out, conveniently switching topics.

"covering for you being a grub hardly proves she's mature enough to balance school, football and a relationship." steph sighed, chopping up some fruit to make a smoothie. "but babe, technically she's already been doing that." dean pushed gently as steph paused, frown creeping into her features.

"has she failed a test?" "no." "handed in an assignment late?" "no." "seemed less sharp at football?" "no." "has she been playing poorly?" "no." "well..."

"yeah alright, i get your point." steph grumbled, pausing to massage her temples where she could feel a headache building. "talk to her steph. she's your sister she loves you, and even if she didn't tell you about her and kyra you know your approval means the world to her, she's always looked up to you." dean encouraged softly, standing and rounding the corner, steph melting into a warm hug.

"it really hurts i was one of the last to find out, i thought we were closer than that." steph mumbled into her fiances shoulder. "you are. maybe she didn't tell you because she was more worried about your reaction than other peoples, because it means more to her than anyone elses." dean offered as steph huffed.

"stop being right would you, its a very annoying switch up."

steph sighed and raised her hand, knocking on the door and taking a step back, arms crossed over her chest.

"oh! hi steph!" teyah made a point to say her name louder than needed making the australian chuckle. "you can relax with the warnings teyah, i just want to speak with kyra." steph spoke calmly, the blonde nodding and stepping aside.

"were you hiding behind the door?" steph raised an eyebrow as kyra instantly appeared, cheeks flushed bright red. "maybe." the younger girl mumbled, avoiding her gaze.

"i meant it, i just want to talk kyra." steph promised, the midfielder nodding in understanding as the older girl rolled her eyes. "are you going to let me in or are we going to stand here and chat with your neighbors too?" steph mocked as kyra stepped aside and allowed her in.

teyah caught kyras pleading gaze and made herself scarce, ignoring the girls silent begging not to leave her alone with steph who took a seat on the lounge, watching kyra squirm uncomfortably as the silence grew until she couldn't take it anymore.

"steph i'm so so so sorry we didn't tell you we were just worried about how you'd react and i wanted to leave the decision up to her since you're her family and i also didn't want to mess things up with you as well as her by jumping the gun and telling you first or pressuring her to tell you which hasn't worked because you're mad at me anyway but i really don't want to break up with her because i love her but i also love you but more like a sister even though thats weird because im dating your sister and-" kyra rambled out all in one breath, not pausing even for a second.

"kyra." she however fell silent at the single word, chest heaving slightly. "shut up and breathe." steph instructed as the midfielder exhaled shakily with a nod.

"how long have the two of you been together? don't lie to me." steph asked calmly, though her eyes warned the younger girl off of any dishonesty. "its complicated." kyra shifted with a frown.

"well, uncomplicate it." steph settled backward into the lounge more, crossing one leg over the other. "well we figured out we had feelings for one another awhile before we started dating, but with me in sweden and her in england we never had the time to give it a go-" kyra started with a sigh, steph nodding curtly for her to go on.

"then when the camp for the world cup rolled around and i let her know i'd be leaving sweden and trying to make a move over here, things changed, and we decided to try officially dating a few days before the tournament started." kyra explained, trying her best to untangle a rather twisted timeline.

"so you've been together for nearly six months." steph's voice was emotionless but kyra could see the thoughts swirling through her eyes and grimaced. "a little over five but...yeah." kyra mumbled, fiddling with her hands which sat in her lap.

so far this was easily the most serious conversation the two had ever had, and it was suffocating the younger girl.

"school. university is really important to her, and to me." steph stated, kyra opening and closing her mouth for a moment. "wait here." with that said the midfielder was up and darting off, steph watching her disappear with a confused frown.

though she returned not even a minute later, calendar and a small bag in hand which she promptly dumped in stephs lap, cautiously taking a seat closer to her than she was before.

"whats all this?" steph questioned not any less confused at the items in her lap. "well as we know im not really...an organised person." kyra sighed. "understatement of the century." steph mumbled, eyes raking over the pages in front of her.

"right. well i might not have a calendar for my every day life, my agent handles that." the midfielder blushed as steph rolled her eyes. "but i do have one for your sister. i know school is important to her and i don't want to get in the way of that steph, i promise." her tone softened as she grabbed the bag.

"i have all these coloured stickers and tabs-" she pulled open the drawstring and showed steph the inside who nodded slowly. "well they all mean different things, this is the key-" she pulled out a piece of card from inside the bag and handed it to steph.

"the blue tabs are days she has exams, the orange tabs are days she needs to study, the red tabs are days i can't interrupt her studying, normally a few days before her exams-" kyras finger moved across the key as steph nodded wordlessly.

"the yellow tabs are days where i need to force her to take a break so she doesn't burn out, and those aren't always days she has to spend with me either. the gold stars are days where her assignments are due, the footballs are game days, the kangaroos and international break and the little flowers are days off." kyra flicked through month after month, pointing out each sticker to steph who admittedly was still speechless.

"you can't even remember your boots on game day...but you keep track of her entire schedule?" the older girl eventually questioned, moving the calendar and bag onto the coffee table and turning to face a bright red kyra who shyly nodded.

"i-i love your sister steph. she runs rings around me and she has so much potential and drive and commitment, i don't want to ever hold her back. i know you might not think i'm good enough for her or smart enough or that im too immature or annoying but i really really care about her. she was my best friend before she was my girlfriend, i've always cared and i wouldn't dream of ever hurting her." kyra bounced her knee nervously as she spoke, feeling frightfully vulnerable and out of her comfort zone with this conversation.

"i know you care about her, and this just proves that." steph sighed deeply, nodding to the calendar. "its not that i don't think you're good enough for her kyra, and your intelligence has nothing to do with it. thats my baby sister, no one will ever be good enough for her." steph promised seriously as kyra nodded quickly.

"but it hurts that neither of you felt like you could come and speak with me about this. though you're not the one i need to have that conversation with-" steph exhaled, dragging her hands down her face and suddenly standing.

kyra followed suit, tracking after her back to the front door as steph pulled it open and hovered in the doorway. "i know you care about her kyra, i do. and you're both adults as hard as it is for me to admit that, and as much as you don't often act like one." kyra cracked a tiny smile at that.

"you don't need my permission or my approval, but you do have it-" steph assured softly as kyra breathed a long overdue sigh of relief, though that died in her throat as steph grabbed a fistful of her hoodie and tugged her closer.

"but if you ever and i mean ever hurt her kyra, you will pay for it. i will make your life a living hell and you will never speak to, look at or breathe near her again. got it?" steph warned seriously as kyra nodded hurriedly, the older girl smiling happily at the fear on her face.

"good, i'm glad we had this talk." steph let go, smoothing out her hoodie and squeezing kyra's shoulder with a nod. "see you at training tomorrow." steph turned to leave, kyra's head popping out of the door.

"i can call her to see where-" "no it's okay, i know exactly where she is."

"oh and kyra?" steph turned one final time, catching the younger girls eye. "if i catch the two of you making out in a closet again, i will snap your ankle."

sure enough, you were exactly where steph thought you would be.

not far from her house in st albans there was a huge park that you often took calvin to when you wanted to read in the sun, the pair of you would curl up on a blanket and it never ceased to amaze steph just how calm the normally hyperactive pooch became when you needed him to be, dean teasing you were some sort of dog whisperer.

just as your sister thought you were laid down on a blanket, but there wasn't a book in your hands and the very moment calvin laid eyes on his mum he bolted, almost taking your hand off which was wrapped around his lead.

but knowing all too well he only went haywire like this for one person you let go with a sigh, closing your eyes and making no move to acknowledge the older girl when you felt her sit down beside you.

you grunted as calvin laid himself down, head flopping down onto your stomach as his bottom half curled up into steph who'd also laid down on the blanket, an uncomfortably tense silence between the pair of you.

"sorry for the poor tackle today." your sister broke it first, only getting a quiet hum from you in reply as she sighed, thinking carefully about her next words before speaking them.

"why didn't you tell me?" but of course that all went out the window as her curiosity burned forth, clouded by the hurt that came with the reveal.

"you cannot seriously be asking me that steph?" you scoffed, glancing to her and looking away with a roll of your eyes. "look at your reaction, why do you think i didn't tell you." you mumbled, crossing your arms and glaring up at the sky above.

"okay...fair." your sister sighed, a frown thrown her way by you surprised at the small admission of guilt. "i only lashed out because i was hurt that you didn't come to me first. you've never kept secrets from me before, at least not huge ones like this." the older girl confessed, pausing to give you a chance to think it over.

"i was worried you'd freak out, which you did. you always treat me like a baby and i'm not anymore steph, i'm old enough to make my own decisions and if those decisions have consequences then they are mine to deal with." you warned, adjusting your position slightly.

"again, that's fair." your sister agreed once more to your surprise. "you're being suspiciously agreeable." you mumbled, steph reaching over to shove you lightly, a slight smile on her lips.

"it may have been already pointed out to me that the way i handled this only made you not telling me more valid." steph admitted, a slightly more comfortable silence falling between the two of you for a few moments as you sat with your own thoughts.

"i spoke to kyra." "i know, she called me panicking the moment she saw you pull up in the car park." you chuckled lightly, shielding your face with your hands as the clouds parted and the sun shone down.

"i talked her out of jumping out of her window before you got there though." "she is...something else."

"but, you're happy. right?" steph sat up a little more and looked down with a frown of concern. "yeah i am. i know kyra can be a pest but when its just the two of us its different, i love her and she loves me and she would never treat me poorly or ever get in the way of football or school or anything." you followed her lead and sat up, grabbing the tennis ball from beside you and tossing it for calvin as he sprinted off.

"oh i know, i saw her little calendar." steph smiled wider as you frowned. "what calendar?" you questioned, confused as your sister raised an eyebrow. "i'll let her explain that, ask her about it." the older girl chuckled.

"maybe at dinner, at our place tomorrow." steph extended the final olive branch as you paused for a minute to think it over. "you won't be really weird about it? make her uncomfortable?" you questioned a little hesitantly.

"i will be your older sister who will never think anyones good enough for you, that your girlfriend should be at least a little scared of." steph smiled honestly as you rolled your eyes.

"she's already terrified of you." "a wise choice. this might work out in my favor, she can annoy you instead of me." your sister grinned, poking you and whistling for calvin to come back as he was making some new friends.

"oh no we'll just both team up to annoy you now stephanie." you returned her grin as she groaned and grabbed calvins lead, clipping it onto his collar as you both made your way to your feet ready to head back home.

"hey. if you're happy then i would never stand in the way of that, as your sister all i ever want is you to be with someone who cares about you and though kyra might not have been my first choice, it isn't up to me anyway. you're right you are an adult, and maybe i need to work a little more on treating you like one." steph admitted, surprised as you stepped forward and hugged her tightly.

"well this is nice." your sister exhaled, cradling your head just like she would when you were much younger. "i'm sorry i waited so long to tell you, i didn't mean to upset you." you admitted into her shoulder. "i know, i can tell when you mean to upset me." the girl teased making you smile as you pulled away, grabbing the blanket and tucking it into the tote on your shoulder, the pair of you walking side by side.

"does you treating me like an adult mean you'll finally stop calling me peanut?" "oh absolutely not, you'll always be my little peanut no matter how old you get." "just when i thought we were having a nice moment." "hey embarrassing you is my right as your older sister, you never get to take that away from me."

#woso #woso community #kyra cooney cross x reader #kyra cooney cross #woso x reader #woso fanfics #woso imagine #woso blurbs #steph catley x reader #steph catley #awfc x reader

759 notes · View notes

solangeloficawards · 5 months ago

Text

solangelo fic awards 2025 - winners!

happy valentines day guys!! <3 thank u everyone again for their participation this year!! just a reminder that this is all for fun, and if you were nominated but didn't win, there's always next year!! :)

nominations / masterdoc

BEST ANGST!

1st place: i dream about it (and i wake up falling) by @yrbeecharmer (16 votes)

2nd place: misery loves company by HandleWithCare @wordsofasarcast (13 votes)

3rd place: staying on guard (every lesson forms a new scar) by @wrongcaitlyn (9 votes)

BEST AU!

1st place: ice blue, trippin' over you by HandleWithCare @wordsofasarcast (14 votes)

2nd place: so american by @wrongcaitlyn (13 votes)

3rd place: i would honestly love you now (but I would lovingly let you down) by @buoyantsaturn (12 votes)

BEST BUDDIES!

1st place: i buried myself alive on the inside by @buoyantsaturn & @ethannku (14 votes)

2nd place: we've got young blood (we make our own love in this world) by @2nd2ndalto & @anything-thats-rock-and-roll (11 votes)

3rd place: An Artist and a Writer Walk Into a Coffee Shop... by Xx_crushingonnicodiangelo_xX @crushing-on-nico-di-angelo for cwaughffle (10 votes)

BEST CANON COMPLIANT!

1st place: bear skin rug by @buoyantsaturn (12 vote)

2nd place: Oranges by negativefouriq @mediumgayitalian (11 votes)

3rd place: and i'll never go home again (place the call, feel it start) by introvertedhufflepuff (10 votes)

BEST WIP!

1st place: august (will's version) by cordeliarose @cordeliaandthecocoapuffs (19 votes)

2nd place: ever after by @rosyredlipstick (17 votes)

3rd place: Dolce Dissonance / Sweet Dissonance by HandleWithCare @wordsofasarcast (15 votes)

BEST ONESHOT!

1st place: plant check by @buoyantsaturn (16 votes)

2nd place: you're the reason i can't leave here yet (the reason I don't want the world to end) by valhallasoundbox @kotenokk (11 votes)

3rd place: will solace "takes" the cake by fl_utterby (7 votes)

BEST FLUFF!

1st place: paper hearts (we're burning matches) by HandleWithCare @wordsofasarcast (13 votes)

2nd place: double, double, toil and trouble by RegretfullyRegretful @marbleheavy (9 votes)

3rd place: Then you hold life like a face between your palms … and you say, yes, I will take you / I will love you, again. by @buoyantsaturn (7 votes)

BEST MISC!

1st place: Please Hold… by HandleWithCare @wordsofasarcast (16 votes)

2nd place: rotten work (not if it's you) by doeheart (10 votes)

3rd place: hoping that this feeling stays by @buoyantsaturn (9 votes)

BEST SERIES!

1st place: dear reader by @wrongcaitlyn (30 votes)

2nd place: a sweet tooth for you by @thebhorror (18 votes)

3rd place: bar trivia AU by @thebhorror & valhallasoundbox @kotenokk (10 votes)

and...... (insert drumroll)

our author of the year for 2025 is @wrongcaitlyn with 26 votes!!

runner up is HandleWithCare @wordsofasarcast with 22 votes!!

make sure you check out the full masterdoc if you havent already! pls let me know if theres any broken links or anything wrong with the post! congratulations to all our winners! and we'll see you all next year <3

#honrary mention to whoever submitted the leo/malcom fic. why would u do that #solangelo fic #solangelo #winners #fic awards 2025

161 notes · View notes

therogueflame · 4 months ago

Text

The Winning Argument

hi angels!

here is this request, sorry it took me so long! i did change the dragon from silverwing to vermithor bc silverwing is so not mischievious. shes just a girl. ok byeeeeeee

📖 masterlist

🖊 ao3

🗒 wip list

🔥 discord server

Summary: You brought the Bronze Fury. He brought the Blood Wyrm. The rest was inevitable.

WC: 3.5k

Warnings: 18+, targcest (uncle-niece), daemon targaryen, smut but not like super explicit. no description of reader

Daemon Targaryen x Niece!Reader

It always starts the same way.

Vermithor circles once above the cliffs before dropping into the yard like a falling star, all bronze wings and roaring wind. He lands hard, stone cracking beneath his weight, the scent of scorched earth curling into the air. Caraxes is already there. Coiled, waiting, seething. You see the twitch in his tail, the flare of his nostrils as Vermithor kicks up dust and salt. The red wyrm bares his teeth. You grin.

You slide from the saddle and raise a hand in greeting, voice bright, deliberately obnoxious. “Lovely morning, isn’t it?”

Daemon doesn’t turn. He never does. But you catch it anyway—the set of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand lingers just a little too long near Dark Sister’s hilt. He hears you. He always hears you. Caraxes growls.

Vermithor exhales a plume of smoke, completely unbothered. You laugh.

It’s routine by now. A game. You never arrive quietly, and he never expects you to. Vermithor is older, larger, and far too smug for a dragon who barely lifts a claw. One slow stretch of his wings—just wide enough to edge into Caraxes’s space—and the younger dragon snaps at the air like a spoiled child.

Daemon finally glances over his shoulder. He doesn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth twitches—just enough to show he’s playing along.

“I should start charging you docking fees,” he mutters.

You shrug easily. “Vermithor goes where he pleases. You know how he is.”

“I know how you are.”

There it is again. That tone—half warning, half something far more dangerous. You tilt your head like you’re listening, but your boots are already clicking across the stone, Vermithor rumbling behind you like he knows the rhythm of this dance by heart.

“You’re just upset he’s bigger than him.”

Daemon scoffs, sharp and low. “He’s faster.”

“Is he?” You feign innocence, eyes wide. “Hard to tell when he’s always running away.”

Daemon turns at that, slowly. His expression is unreadable at first—stone-faced, lips pressed tight—but his eyes burn with something bright behind the calm. Challenge. Irritation. Maybe something else, too.

“You know,” he says, voice soft in that dangerous way he gets, “one of these days, you’re going to push too far.”

You grin, teeth bared like a dragon yourself. “Not today, though.”

Behind you, Vermithor lets out a low growl, deep and steady, like thunder rolling across the sea. Not a threat. Just a reminder. A presence. Caraxes snarls in response, wings twitching like he’s barely holding back from lunging. He hates that noise. He hates that Vermithor doesn’t even bother looking at him.

Daemon steps closer, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you—eyes locked, breath held.

“You’re lucky he tolerates you,” he says, nodding toward Vermithor. “If he didn’t, you’d be ash.”

“I’m lucky everyone tolerates me,” you shoot back.

Daemon’s mouth curves, slow and sharp. “Not everyone.”

You arch a brow. “No? Jealous, Uncle?”

He’s close now. Too close. You can smell leather and dragon smoke and something distinctly Daemon. His gaze flicks to your mouth, then back to your eyes.

“You’d know if I was.”

Behind him, Caraxes snarls and rears—agitated, territorial. The moment shatters.

Vermithor shifts slightly, rising halfway onto his forelegs. Just enough. The sound of muscle and bronze scale grinding against stone is immense. He doesn’t growl. He doesn’t roar. He just moves.

Caraxes drops back instantly, tail lashing the ground, furious and humiliated.

Daemon doesn’t look away from you. “Tell your dragon to stand down.”

You smile slowly. “He hasn’t stood up yet.”

For a beat, Daemon just stares at you. Then he exhales, laughs under his breath, and turns away.

“Mount up,” he says, already walking toward Caraxes. “We’re flying.”

“Oh?” you call after him. “Finally ready to be humiliated in the sky and on the ground?”

His reply is thrown over his shoulder: “Try to keep up, little terror.”

You swing back into the saddle, patting Vermithor’s neck as he huffs. “Let’s show them how slow looks from the front.”

With a surge of muscle and wind, Vermithor launches into the sky, the cliffs rattling with the force of his wings. You don’t look back. You don’t need to.

The sky yawns wide above Dragonstone, all salt wind and cloud-shadow, and Vermithor climbs steadily into it. His wings beat in long, measured strokes, bronze scales catching the sun like hammered metal. Caraxes is already ahead, a red streak knifing through the air with reckless grace. You watch them for a moment—Daemon crouched low over the saddle, the Blood Wyrm twisting and diving with practiced arrogance. He’s fast. Always has been.

You let him win. Vermithor flies like the world turns—slow, inevitable, too large to rush. You lean into the saddle, fingers brushing along the warm curve of his neck. “Let him show off,” you murmur, and Vermithor rumbles, content to bide his time. Caraxes pulls farther ahead, vanishing for a moment behind a curtain of cloud, then reappearing with a triumphant shriek. He circles back, looking for you, expecting a chase. You raise your hand in a lazy wave.

Daemon doesn’t wave back. He pulls hard on the reins instead, banking Caraxes into a sharp arc and flying straight toward you. The message is clear. Catch up or get out of the sky.

You smile, then nudge Vermithor into a steep climb. He obeys without question, wings slicing through the air as he rises higher, cresting the upper winds. The dive is sudden. Not an attack—just a wide, deliberate sweep that carves through the sky and sends a gust tearing across Caraxes’s path.

The red dragon shrieks in protest, thrown just slightly off balance. Not hurt. Just insulted.

You laugh, the sound stolen by the wind. Below, Caraxes recovers quickly, but he’s furious now. His flightline sharpens, his tail lashes, and Daemon is shouting something you can’t quite hear. Vermithor doesn’t react. He just glides, massive and unhurried. Caraxes barrels up beside you, neck stretched forward, nostrils flaring. Daemon’s face is flushed from wind and frustration.

Caraxes pulls ahead early, all teeth and fury, wings slicing through the sky in sharp, erratic bursts. He’s faster, more agile, and Daemon rides him like a blade—leaned low, daring the wind to keep up. You don’t bother chasing. Vermithor flies steady and slow, a force of nature that doesn’t need to prove himself. You lean into the saddle, smiling as you watch Caraxes twist and roar ahead. He’s already looking back, waiting for a race you won’t give him. You raise a hand lazily in response, not even pretending to try.

Vermithor keeps his path, climbing higher through the clouds before angling into a long, deliberate dive that sends a gust slicing across Caraxes’s flightline. The red dragon shrieks in protest, thrown slightly off course. You don’t laugh, but your grin sharpens. Eventually, Daemon pulls Caraxes into a broad circle and slows his pace, letting the blood dragon drop back alongside you. He doesn’t speak, and neither do you—not until the dragons land.

The dragons land hard, wings folding with slow finality, their breath rising in steaming clouds. Vermithor settles like a mountain returning to sleep, utterly indifferent. Caraxes paces for a moment, tail flicking, wings half-spread as if still arguing. He doesn’t like to lose, even when no one’s keeping score.

You slide from the saddle, boots hitting the stone with a solid thud. Daemon’s already there, waiting. His hair’s wind-swept, his tunic askew from the flight, but his eyes are sharp as ever.

“You enjoy pushing him,” he says. It’s not a question.

You shrug. “He makes it so easy.”

“I meant me.”

That gets a smile out of you—sharp, satisfied. “Even easier.”

He steps closer, close enough that you can smell the leather of his riding gear and the faint metallic tang of dragonfire that always clings to him. “You keep poking at things that bite.”

You tilt your head. “Then maybe you should bite first.”

His eyes flick down to your mouth. Brief. Hungry. Then back up.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “You don’t want to start something you can’t finish.”

“I never start anything I don’t plan to finish.”

Daemon laughs once, low in his chest, but it doesn’t soften him. If anything, it makes the tension between you snap tighter. His hand comes up, not touching—almost. Fingers hovering at your jaw, the heat of him bleeding into your skin. You don’t move. You don’t blink.

“You really think you can handle me?” he asks, voice quiet, sharp around the edges.

You lean in just enough to feel the words as you speak them. “I think you’ve been waiting for me to try.”

And that’s it. That’s the moment it tips. Whatever line was between you—age, blood, propriety—it doesn’t exist here, not with the dragons behind you and fire still in your lungs

But he doesn’t. Instead, he steps back. Just enough. The heat doesn’t leave his eyes, but the moment passes. Not broken, just banked, like coals under ash.

You don’t speak again until later.

The sun has long since gone down, and most of the keep has gone quiet. The kind of quiet that presses in around the edges, soft and heavy. You find yourselves in one of the smaller rooms off the old wing. It’s warmer here, tucked away from the wind that rushes through the high halls. A single candle flickers near the window, the flame bending with every gust that slips through the stone.

Daemon stands near the hearth, back half-turned, eyes fixed on the fire like he’s trying to lose himself in it. You’re seated across from him, curled into a worn chair that probably hasn’t seen use in years. The wine between you has barely been touched.

“You didn’t let him win,” he says after a long stretch of silence.

You glance up. “Who?”

“Me.”

You smile slowly. “I don’t let anyone win.”

He turns at that, but doesn’t move closer. Just studies you, like he’s still trying to decide what you’re doing here. What he’s doing here.

“I used to think you were just a little reckless,” he says.

You arch a brow. “And now?”

“Now I think you know exactly what you’re doing.”

You let the quiet hang for a moment. “Would that bother you?”

His expression shifts. Something caught between a smirk and a warning. “It should.”

You rise from the chair, slowly, and walk to where he’s standing. The firelight moves across his face, catching the edge of something that might be restraint. Or regret. Or want.

You stop in front of him. Not close. Not touching.

“You keep looking at me like you want to say something,” you murmur. “But all you ever do is wait.”

He doesn’t move.

So you press, soft but certain. “Is that what you want? For me to keep pushing until you break?”

There’s a beat of silence. His eyes drop to your mouth again, then back up.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he says.

“So stop me.”

His eyes darken. For a heartbeat, you think he might actually walk away. But when he moves, it's toward you, not away.

"Is that what you want?" His voice is low, rough at the edges. "For me to stop you?"

You don't retreat. You never do. "I want you to stop pretending."

His hand comes up, fingers ghosting along your jaw, not quite touching. Just like before. Testing. Waiting. "And what am I pretending?"

"That you don't think about this." You lean into his touch, closing the distance he won't. "That you don't want this."

His thumb traces your lower lip, feather-light. "Wanting is dangerous."

"So is flying," you whisper against his skin.

Something shifts in Daemon's eyes—a decision made, a threshold crossed. His fingers slide into your hair, grip tightening just enough to hold you still as he studies your face one last time.

"Tell me to stop," he murmurs, giving you one final chance.

You smile, slow and deliberate. "I'd sooner tell Vermithor to fly backward."

That does it. Daemon closes the distance in a single fluid motion, his mouth finding yours with the same precision he wields Dark Sister. The kiss isn't gentle. It's hunger and frustration and years of circling each other like dragons before a storm. His hand at your neck, yours fisting in his tunic, pulling him closer with the same urgency that drives you in the sky. He tastes like smoke and bitter wine. Like danger. Like inevitability.When you finally break apart, breath ragged, his fingers still tangled in your hair, you find yourself smiling against his mouth.

"You call that biting?" you whisper.

Daemon's laugh is dark and promising as he presses you back against the stone wall. "Don't tempt me."

"That's exactly what I'm doing."

His eyes flash, and this time when he kisses you, there's teeth—a sharp nip at your lower lip that makes you gasp. His body presses against yours, all heat and barely restrained violence. You can feel the controlled power in him, the same coiled tension you see in Caraxes before he strikes.

"Do you have any idea," he breathes against your neck, "how long I've wanted to shut you up like this?"

You arch into him, hands sliding beneath his tunic to find warm skin. "I have some idea," you murmur, pulling him closer, "but I'd rather you show me."

His fingers tighten on your hips, bruising. "Always so demanding."

"You like it," you challenge.

Daemon's smile is sharp enough to cut. "I like putting you in your place more."

There's a moment—brief, electric—where neither of you moves. Just breath against breath, the firelight casting shadows across his face, making him look more dangerous than ever. Then he's lifting you, hands rough under your thighs as he carries you across the room. Not to the bed. To the table against the wall, scattering papers and sending an inkwell crashing to the floor. Black liquid seeps across stone like blood.

"Careful," you tease, breathless, as he sets you down. "Someone might hear."

"Let them," he growls, hands already working at the laces of your clothes. His mouth finds yours again, hungry and relentless, swallowing whatever retort you might have offered. You pull at his tunic, impatient, fingers fumbling with clasps and ties until he growls against your mouth and tears it off himself.

The candlelight catches on scars you've never seen before—thin silver lines across his chest, a deeper mark along his ribs. You trace them with your fingers, then your mouth, learning him by touch. His hands tangle in your hair, guiding you where he wants you, a low sound escaping him when your teeth graze his collarbone.

"You've thought about this," you murmur against his skin. Not a question.

His laugh is dark, breathless. "More than I should have."

"Show me how."

The words hang between you for a heartbeat before Daemon's control finally breaks. In one swift movement, he tears at the remaining fabric between you, his hands rough and demanding against your skin. You match his urgency, fingers digging into his shoulders, pulling him closer until there's nothing left between you but heat and hunger.

"Tell me you want this," he demands, voice ragged against your ear.

You bite at his jaw, defiant even now. "I wouldn't be here if I didn't."

"Say it," he growls, holding back, his body tense with restraint. "I need to hear you say it."

You look him directly in the eyes, your voice steady despite the fire burning through your veins. "I want this. I want you. I've always wanted you."

A cascade of emotions—a whirlwind of relief, triumph, carnal desperation—sweeps over his face. His eyes, wild with raw desire, lock onto yours as he draws you into his fervent embrace, leaving no space between your bodies. The wooden table creaks beneath you, legs trembling with each of his fervent thrusts, the entire world shaking along with you. Breath hot, uneven, desperate, fights its way from his lips as he moves against and inside you, all-consuming in its recklessness. You feel every primal urge obliterating all thoughts but this moment, this wild and frenetic now. One hand braces beside your head, fingers flexing against the surface as if searching for some kind of control amid the chaos, while the other clutches your hip with a possessive intensity that promises to leave a lingering imprint on your skin. Your own fingers dig deep into the sinewed expanse of his back, coaxing him deeper, harder, savouring every ripple of muscle beneath his skin as boundaries and restraint disintegrate.

The room vibrates with the symphony of passionate gasps and moans, echoed in the silence of the stones and off the walls, loud as dragonfire. The thud of papers tumbling to the floor goes unnoticed, the world outside this fervid moment dissolving into utter insignificance as you collide again and again. The fire crackles in the hearth, casting a seductive dance of shadows all around, and the candlelight flickers across the room, but even these fade into obscurity, leaving only the two of you ensnared in a wild, consuming blaze of desire. Each movement is a promise of more, of everything, more ardent than any oath sworn in blood and fire.

You can see the battle within him, the effort it takes to slow down, the tension in his shoulders as he fights to maintain control. His breath is hot on your lips, coming in uneven gasps. "Look at me," he demands, his voice raw and strained. "I want to see you."

His lips find yours again, capturing your cries as the pleasure coils tighter within you, building to a feverish intensity. Your nails rake down his back, leaving trails of red, each mark a vivid testament to the passion shared, as he leaves his own imprint on your skin. His rhythm falters briefly, a tremor coursing through him, signaling that he's as close to the edge as you are. He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, violent, violent storm meeting innocent, lilac hues.

Time vanishes between breaths, until each gasp expands to fill entire seasons. His desire is suffocating, intoxicating, wrapping around each rise and fall of your body until you are breathless with it. He pulls you nearer. Pulls you under. Pulls you in with every reckless, unrelenting thrust. His body, his breath, his wild eyes never let up, never let you go, never let anything except the need to have and hold exist. Intensity spirals tighter and tighter between you as the table shudders beneath, the room alive with your shared abandon. You drown in it willingly, eagerly, the same way you dive from the skies, never caring if you land. The candle gutters out, unnoticed. The fire burns down to coals. Only you and Daemon remain, trapped in this wild orbit of want, until even that is too vast and it all collapses to a single point, where he is within you and around you and there is nothing else but him suffusing everything. Even the void.

And then it all explodes, and you come apart like creation.

You find your breath first. Heart still pounding, body still humming with the aftermath, you shift beneath him and feel the full weight of him settle against you. He doesn’t move. His face stays buried in the curve of your neck, breath warm and uneven against your skin. The silence stretches, long and unbroken, save for the quiet rasp of your breathing and the distant roar of the sea far below.

When you finally speak, your voice is rough. “Well. That’s one way to end an argument.”

Daemon’s laugh is low and quiet, more felt than heard. His lips brush your neck, then his teeth. Not playful. Just there. He lifts his head, slowly, and meets your gaze. There’s no smirk this time. No bite. Just something steady. Possessive. Irrevocable.

“Is that what that was?” he asks. “An argument?”

You hold his stare. “You tell me.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just studies you, like he’s seeing something he can’t quite unsee now.

You reach up, fingers drifting across the back of his neck, slow and certain. “I’d call it a decision.”

His brow lifts, but he doesn’t challenge it. Doesn’t retreat.

“A permanent one?”

“You knew it would be.”

He exhales, long and quiet, and shifts to lean on one elbow. The weight of him doesn’t lift. He’s still pressed against you, all heat and tension and something that feels dangerously like permanence.

“I should’ve stopped this,” he says.

“But you didn’t.”

He watches you. There’s no heat in it now. No banter. Just truth. And then his hand lifts to your face, fingers brushing your cheek like a vow. You don’t flinch. You don’t look away.

Whatever this is, it’s done now. Chosen. Sealed. And neither of you speaks again. Not for a long time.

172 notes · View notes